My sister hates coffee. My addiction to this beverage mystifies her.
“How do you drink this nasty stuff?” she asks.
Today, she called me from Paris.
“You won’t believe this,” she announced, “but it turns out that I love coffee. I discovered that what we get served in North America under the name of coffee is nothing of the kind. The real coffee, though, rocks.”
I remember when I got back to Montreal from Portugal (the place where they make the best coffee in the world), I couldn’t look at the huge basins of strange brownish stuff we got served as coffee.
And don’t even get me started on tea. If you want actual tea on this continent, you have to brew it yourself. Otherwise, you’ll end up with a chemically tasting stuff from a soggy bag.
When I travel to London in May, I’m planning to find out whether they serve real tea at five o’clock.
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