I was sitting in a café not long since, sitting in a companionable silence with my friend Bernard. Old hostilities were forgotten, but not to worry, there were new hostilities about to break out. Our drinks arrived. Mine, a flat white. Bernard’s, a pot of tea.
We drank. I pulled a face and complained that my coffee was badly extracted and had an unpleasant hollowness that shone through despite the milk, which had been a little over-heated in the steaming. Also, the latte-art on the top of it was lopsided.
