I was
eighteen years old when I tried espresso for the first time. Coffee was nothing
new to me. I come from a Mexican household where cafecito con leche was a daily ritual since I was about twelve.
Espresso, on the other hand, was an unexplored world of coffee that I only saw
twenty-somethings on tv drinking as they prepared for meetings with high
profile clients. It was a bit of a step up from the Folgers world that I was
accustomed to.
I remember
hanging out in the University coffee shop during the first semester of my
freshman year. It was a rainy fall afternoon. I was alone, as I often was in
college. My friends were either in class or had gone home. I hadn’t met any new
friends because meeting new people because I suffer from a rare case of
awkward-moment-syndrome. On this particular afternoon I thought I would be
daring and try something new. Isn’t that what college was supposed to be for?
I’m pretty sure people have a different meaning when they talk about
experimenting during college, but for me a new type of coffee was equivalent to
losing my inhibitions.
I nervously
approached the barista and ordered a double espresso as if I knew what I was
talking about. She read right through me. “Espresso for Cesar!” they shouted as
my drink was ready. Great, now everyone knew that I was a tool. I picked up the
cup and noticed that it felt empty. I looked inside, only to find about two
ounces of black sludge at the bottom. Surely there had been a mistake, but it
was too late to turn back. I hunched my way into a corner with my experimental
drink. It was time. Passed the lips and through the gums. And almost back from
whence it came. The bitterness made my face convulse. In a scientific anomaly
my face cringed and expanded at the same time. I forced the sludge down. I
decided to stick with my standard cafecito.
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