‘I paid £6.50 for a coffee,” an acquaintance who will remain anonymous, so he doesn’t lose his Yorkshireman card, whispered in hushed horror the other day. He then compounded his confession by admitting this oligarch-priced beverage was so delicious, he did it two days running. There was an explanation about co-fermentation influencing the raspberry-forward flavour profile or something, but my ears were buzzing too loudly with indignation to hear it.
We have long passed peak coffee, but no one has told coffee nerds that: a recent Financial Times coffee guide included an involved glossary and kit that looks better suited to sequencing DNA than making a drink. My home town of York – a city where someone once carefully warned my husband that an espresso is “very small” – is now overrun with serious men weighing and tamping agonisingly slowly before handing over artisanal pottery beakers of acidic – sorry, “fruity” – brews.
