JOE, JAVA, MAMA ROSA

Some Americans affectionately call it 'Joe', to Brits of a certain age and background it is 'java'. I'm talking coffee. Not the dishwater coloured stuff with no taste served in the majority of English restaurants and coffee shops, nor the bewildering array of Starbuck beverages; I'm talking COFFEE. The delicious, full-bodied Turkish type preferably made and served from a jezva with rahat lokum on the side.

Twenty plus years ago, I had the pleasure of living and working in Albania for quite a long period and it was tough at that time even though Enver Hoxha was not on the scene. My interpreter was a wonderful elderly man who showed me the ‘real’ Albania and it is something I shall never forget. We went all over from north to south, from the coast to the mountains. And it was during one part of the journey that he introduced me to Mama Rosa. Even then she was an elderly lady – no old is better – with one tooth and a wooden shack far inland from Gjirocastra, the stone city.

Running past her shack was a stream of the purest water imaginable. My interpreter took me there with one aim in mind; to introduce me to (what he called) the most perfect coffee you will EVER drink. Making it was an art form. No boiling water for her; her method was to heat small round pebbles (like peas) from the riverbed, then pour them slowly and carefully into the jesva, and allow them to heat the coffee. Never have I seen this done, before or since and I often wonder how she came upon this magic mix; the taste – magnificent; the aroma – breathtaking; the memory – still living. Java will never be the same again.

I guess by now she is keeping St. Peter very happy making his coffee in the same way!

Until next time,

P.S.