Coffee used to be such an uncomplicated affair. Growing up,
coffee was the grown-up’s drink. Hard and grunting in the office when black,
sweet and inviting when served to guests with sweet, sweet, sweetened condensed milk.
How many of you have fond memories as a kid of being served
coffee as a novice, by only being allowed to sip on it from a small
saucer? Coffee cups and coffee mugs were
only for those grown up and mature enough to handle a proper drink.
How many of us also remember trying out the tried and tested
method of burning the midnight oil when studying for your SPMs by crunching in
spoonfuls of Nescafe straight from the container to stay alert and awake for
that final cram? I sure do. It was cheaper, safer and much more legal than
syabu. And it works, too.
But coffee has changed now. He’s no longer a purposeful
chap. He’s lost his way somewhat. An identity in crisis and crying for help. I
don’t know him anymore. I still see him around, nearly everywhere I go, but he
seems like a distant stranger. Blending in, going both ways, upside and
downwards. He’s everywhere, but nowhere. Somewhere in between but lost at both
ends.
Coffee has become chic lit, Chanel sunglasses pushed up on
hair with blonde highlights. Coffee has become deep muses, buried under
netbooks and cigarettes. Coffee has become cold at heart, spun around high
speed blenders and Eurocentric. An African blended wolf in Italian clothing.
Who the hell are you and when did you get here?
Yet this stranger in our midst sits right at home. Nudging
himself in between our subcultures and pretentiousness. And he fits pretty well
too.
Little do we realise that there lies a richer, deeper
history of himself within our souls. From the days of our grandfather’s grandfather.
When times were either tough or joyous, we used to call it our own. A time when there was no grande or venti.
When equal portions were for everyone. When even two words from different worlds
collide and created a whole new universe. Malays and Hokkiens united in Kopi-tiam.
Our heritage, shared commonly and proudly as far as the regions of Malaysia,
Singapore and the Riau Island could see.
The places you’ve belonged to have been copyrighted and
trademarked, 53 different ways. The most
exotic ways to gain pleasure from you includes being excrementally produced by
a monkey-squirrel hybrid from the jungles of Bali. You’ve been manipulated and
fallen into the retro-chic faux pas. You are kampong-avant-garde,
privately-owned and literally in Bali, full of shit.
I despise you but need you. You’re the candy man in a
sickeningly lethargic urban jungle.
Here’s a toast to our Kekasih Gelapku, the humble yet
currently misguided frienemie, Mr. Kopi. Though we feel disgusted at the sight
of your slutty ice blended attire last night, we’ll still come knocking for
more first thing in the morning…
