Baklava Meets Java, Part 2

The Java part of this blog pays homage to one of my favorite beverages, to which I have been cheerfully addicted since I was eight years old, the age at which I started stealing sips of my mother's coffee. Coffee has been the guiding force in my life's journey to becoming a sane, functioning member of society in the style of Jeffrey Lebowski the Smaller (who once remarked so memorably upon being shoved into a car, "Hey, careful, man, there's a beverage here!") What White Russians made him, coffee has made me. It has also been the secret behind my burgeoning intelligence, as one can deduce just from looking at the photo to the right. Were I to stop partaking of the morning cup, I would probably end up as Charlie did in "Flowers For Algernon."

Although my love of coffee was self driven, my knowledge of coffee I owe to the years I spent slurping and spitting for Starbucks in Seattle. I enjoyed them very much, partially because I was paid to start every work day tasting numerous coffees--some good, many bad, a few absolutely fantastic. I was also blessed to work with some talented, passionate and extraordinarily funny people. The tasting skills I learned there carried over into the rest of my life. I couldn't just eat a fish taco from a roach coach any more--I had to analyze the salsa and the masa (to the ongoing annoyance of my wife, who just wants me to enjoy the meal and be quiet about it).

There has been a lot of rhapsodizing about coffee, much of it of dubious value. It can be identified by its purple prose and in the way it flings weighty descriptors such as "redolent", "luminous" and "supple" around with abandon. I promise never to stoop so low in this blog. The poems have been particularly egregious. Agatha Christie penned a decent murder mystery drama about poisoned coffee. J.S. Bach wrote his cringe worthy Coffee Cantata in the 1730s, though who knows if it has been performed since. Worst of all, a century's worth of coffee advertising has heaped an enormous amount of effusive praise on crappy brown water whose origins hailed from a can.

There is something both foolproof and fragile about coffee. It is foolproof in that hot water and coffee grounds will devolve into a hot brown liquid that can wash down any parched dessert. The fragile part is in making coffee that is as delicate and delicious as the dessert it is paired with. (In this case, baklava). There are two schools of thought: brew a straightforward dark roast to contrast with the sweet baklava, or brew something with flavors similar to the baklava. The former is fail safe; the latter could either succeed beautifully or clash disappointingly.

I ascribe to the "black tie" philosophy of dessert coffee. Just as an elegant black tuxedo complements a colorful ballroom gown, a crisp roasty cup of coffee showcases a beautiful dessert better than a fussy, foppish brew. Baklava is the fragrant beauty in her ball gown. The coffee is her beau, there to guide her around the dance floor, temper her sweetness and highlight her deliciousness. In other words, baklava is the work of art; coffee is the picture frame. Okay. Enough rhapsodizing. Now for some practical brewing stuff.

To start with the simple, coarsely grind one measuring cup of coffee beans, preferably a dark roast like Italian or French roast. Put in the carafe of a clean "12-cup" coffee press. Bring fresh cold water to a boil. Let it sit for a ten-count to let the temperature drop from boiling to a little below. Pour 50 fluid ounces over the grounds to fill the carafe. Let it extract for about four minutes, then place the plunger on top and press it down. There you have it: easy, perfect coffee.

Espresso is more complicated. Without getting into the complexities of choosing an espresso blend, grinding, tamping, adjusting water temperature and pressure, which are covered in exquisite detail by other blogs and websites (such as http://www.coffeegeek.com/), brew a doppio shot of high quality espresso and serve immediately with the baklava. Once could add a little frothy steamed milk to make a macchiato without incurring the wrath of any beverage gods. Lastly, wrap your hands around your favorite mug. Inhale the supple aroma, redolent with campfire smoke, and allow the luminous flavors of caramel and treacle wash over your tongue.... Crap. Nevermind....