Ode to Turkish Coffee

Today's post is half-and-half: one part serious, the other not so much. I'm not sure myself how seriously it should be taken, so - sensitive or snobbish? delicate or dorky? You be the judge. (Oh, and it'll morph like a Wikipedia entry, so mind the timestamp when you cite me for your term paper.)

I want to make a case for the supremacy of Turkish coffee; I'll do this by way of analysis of the idea of civilization. If there ever was a pretentious-sounding word, it's "civilized." With that one word (or its negation) you can piss on anything you want, verbally speaking:

"He doesn't wash his hands? How uncivilized."

"Oh, you can't eat with utensils - use your fingers, like civilized people."

I'm no sociologist, but it seems to me that civilization is marked by at least two things: gratuitous objects and exercise of self-control. And I want to say that it's not merely a matter of one or the other, but the instances of both occurring in an object - something you lovingly devote a fair amount of effort to, even though it serves no purpose beyond its own existence. When, say, you start playing with the decor just because you can, that strikes me as one of those things: there's no reason to move the furniture around except to stave off boredom. But see? you can afford to be bored by the decor.

Let me take coffee as one of those indexes of civilization. If I'm right about all this, the highest form would be Turkish coffee.

Think about it: you don't need coffee to begin with, but there it is, waiting for you to cradle in your hands. Doesn't that feel nice? There's no nutritional value in coffee; we got along just fine without it. So right there we've got something totally useless. "But I need it to stay awake!" you protest. Fine, have a Red Bull then. Mmmm, cough syrup with a kick. And you can chug it.

Too much Red Bull?

We like fast. (How else can you justify the fast food feed bag, even as a joke?) Now you can run by a Starbucks for a triple-shot skim-milk cappuccino - wet or dry - or you can go in some drive-thru joint and grab a paper cuppa. And it's all fast. But a Turkish coffee can't be made fast. You could easily automate it, but you can't speed it up much: its essence is precisely the process of slowly heating up the brew, stopping just short of a full boil - three times. To make good Turkish coffee, you have to be patient.

And even when you get it in your hands, you have to be patient. First you wait - some more - to let the fine coffee silt settle. Then when you do drink the coffee, you can't just swill it down: it's one sip at a time. At best you can hasten slowly. But why would anyone want to hurry down a cup of this deep, rich, gratuitous drink?

This sort of patience is an exercise in delayed gratification - or, put another way, self-control. Little kids think that way: more is better, so a lot more must be a lot better. Faster is better here, so it must be better everywhere, and the faster the better.

Self-control seems generally to be considered the path to quality. Ask any artist or athlete, they'll tell you it takes a lot of work and discipline to make it. You've heard it all before: "Talent will only take you so far; to go that extra mile, you gotta work."

Have I learned this valuable lesson? Not fully, I have to confess; there are plenty of times I've gone for the quick-and-easy way out. I need more practice. Hmmm. Think I'll have me another Turkish coffee. It's good practice.

(Images perilously purloined from http://www.flickr.com/photos/blhphotography/501306828/ and http://www.troys-drums.com/archive/2006_10_01_troys-drums.htm)