I have travelled a lot in my life, primarily in and around Europe and have lived in three countries beyond my native UK and I have sampled coffee everywhere I have gone. Forget the English stereotype; the fact is that while I enjoy a decent cup of tea (with milk of course - and BTW only the English do it properly), I am primarily a coffee drinker and I tend to opt for milder concoctions. I am more a latte man and would choose it over an espresso and at home I am just as happy with some granulated Nescafe. This makes what I am about to write even more surprising.

Let me get on with it...

When I was living in Albania I was visiting a small village just outside the small town of Rreshen called Tarazh. The village was spread over two sides of a valley with a church, small shop and cafe (bufe) in the centre. All of this was dominated by an unfinished railway bridge that was being built during the communist era. It was never finished and no train has ever run over it.

Taken from Google maps (please forgive the crude cut and paste); notice the left side of the bridge, it is not connected and never has been. The larger building on the right is the school and the church is just behind it. The bufe, hardly visible) is the red roofed structure on the left below the larger white house.

I have mentioned Tarazh before - it was the place where I was in a car crash and I used my head to break the windscreen (and then the Toyota Hilux somewhat miraculously arrived). You may also recall that I mentioned Moza's family? She could speak a bit of English and they had a tractor that may or may not have helped, assuming her brother was at home. 

Well, it is time to revisit Moza. A few days ago I mentioned an absolutely remarkable woman who had come through the Warsaw Uprising as a small child. She was 87 and looked nowhere near her age and the same can be said about Moza's grandma. Here she is poised and ready to make coffee. As you can see she is about 983 years old! Joking apart she was ancient.

She lived together with her family in what can best be described as a hovel. Beyond the front door there was a hallway that had no solid floor, only dirt and to the left there was a room with a concrete floor and the same on the opposite side. The photo was taken of the room on the left. It had a very simple fire place and a couple of sofas and not much else in there. It was very humbling to see how they lived and how generous and hospitable they were.

Each time we arrived (and sometimes just me on my own) we were offered coffee. Grandma would then duly take a (presumably brass) cylinder and put some coffee beans in it and put it on the fire for several minutes. She would then take what could best be described as a jug with a long handle (or a ladle with a jug at the end rather than a rounded "scoop" typically used for soup) and she would boil up some water and add the sugar. Then she would draw her attention back to the cylinder and carefully remove it from the fire before attaching a small handle with which she would then grind up the coffee beans now freshly roasted. One time I offered to do the grinding and that was a mistake! She could probably do 60-80 rpm, or just over one revolution per second. I was lucky if I achieved 15 rpm and realistically it was probably more like 10 rpm. I have no idea how she did it.

She would then teaspoon the ground up coffee into the boiling sweetened water and again let it boil for just a few minutes before carefully pouring the contents into delicate little cups complete with saucers. It was of course Turkish style coffee and while it became a regular occurrence whenever I went to Moza's home it really was a one-off. Only she made coffee that way and it was the absolute best. Even, in her absence, her family couldn't make it the same way. It soon became a part of my regular Wednesday morning routine.

Of course I had to be careful not to take a sip to quickly as it was thick and sticky and could easily scald my lips. And of course it was gritty so there was a bit of a method to ensuring that I didn't inadvertantly consume any of the grit. This meant that a residue was left at the end. 

I have been to many private coffees shops and the big chains. Nero is pretty good, Costa not too bad, but Starbucks is disgusting, but even so they have nothing when compared to what I got frequently on my visit to Moza's home.

Life changing coffee!

As always stay safe and well my friends.