Turkish Coffee

Turkish coffee is slow. Preparing it takes care. My Turkish friend showed me how one lazy afternoon in Istanbul He measured the grounds and water with careful precision into well-worn copper cup with a long wooden handle. He added two sugar cubes and mixed it well with a fork, then turned the electric range to low heat and placed the cup on the faintly red coils. He motioned me closer to the stove, and we stood hunched over the glimmering cup until the coffee began to slowly simmer. His practiced eyes immediately spotted the little bit of foam that bubbled up and he quickly intercepted it with a spoon and dumped it into tiny mugs which reminded me of stuffed animal tea parties. After two or three minutes of frothing, he took the cup off the heat and let the froth settle.

Finally, I thought, excited to taste my first homemade cup of Turkish coffee. He gently stirred the coffee with a fork to make sure the sugar cubes had dissolved. Then, he placed the cup back on the stove top. “You have to do it twice to make it really good,” he said.

After the simmering and foaming cycle was completed for a second time, he carefully poured the coffee, grounds and all, into the tiny mugs, taking care preserve the froth he'd already deposited. We let the coffee sit for a few minutes to let the grounds settle, and drank it slowly—it's heavy texture, dark taste, and risk of grounds-ingestion demanded care.

When food and drink are slow, so is everything else. Conversations take time and silences are natural, not awkward. Meals take hours and the service doesn't bring your bill until you ask for it. Mustachioed old men spend half the day in cafes drinking tea and playing backgammon. Bus schedules are never guaranteed. Employees in shops are more often seen drinking tea and people-watching than actually working. The hour-and-a-half process of making and drinking Turkish coffee was the perfect embodiment of this slower culture so different from my everyday American life.