No free refills

The first time I moved to Dublin, it was to get my Master's Degree at Trinity College. This was over 12 years ago and Dublin at that time was a very, very different place. There were less cars on the roads, not a new building in site, Playboy magazine was disallowed in the local newsagents by virtue of the Irish Government a.k.a the Catholic Church. Divorce was a no-no and bans on movies like The Life of Brian had almost just been begrudgingly lifted, so when I tell you that you could not - I mean, not for love nor money - get a decent cup of coffee in this town, it should come as no surprise. Some hot water and a teaspoon of nescafe and they sent you on your way.

Irish cuisine back 12 years ago had not gone through the ultra-chic transformation that it has now. A couple of years back, anyone in Ireland who was even thinking about becoming a professional chef was shipped off to somewhere else - the continent, the States, wherever, thank Christ. There they learned that there were other ways to turn food from raw to cooked other than putting it in a pot and boiling the shite out of it. They also were forced to take courses such as "Spices: a world beyond Salt" and "The Potato - its ok to let go". While these new Irish chefs were cutting it up in the Cordon Bleu, they learned a thing or two about coffee...sort of.

Now in Ireland, coffee is all over the place - in gas stations, in pubs, all of that. And they've gone one better. Coffee doesn't come out of pregnant pots that are sitting on semi-hot electric burners all day. It isn't dripped through a filter, percolated or pressed. Instead, most coffee is espresso, made in a $67,000 machine by some surly, pimpled girl from the Czech republic. All coffees are only available with their Italian names and all come with an optional shot of flavoring that violates the sanctity and purity of the bean. There is no "cup o' Joe". There is no bottomless mug. No free refills. The Irish learned a thing or two about coffee but they totally missed the point of it.

Picture this ...
Bitter, black coffee and cigarettes in an empty diner at 3am with jazz in the background. Lies have been told, hearts have been broken, there are decisions to make and a train headed for Chicago due out in about a half an hour. The waitress is heading towards you with a freshly made pot. Her smile is wistful and you can see the resignation in her eyes...

Where does skinny latte with soya milk fit into scene?

If you want anything remotely resembling a normal cup of coffee, you have to order the espresso with hot water which is supposed to make a regular cup of filtered coffee. It doesn't, but I appreciate the effort. This concoction is known as an "Americano".

I guess there are more than me out there who are still going through separation anxiety.