Discriminating Coffee Taste

Now, I would say that my tongue, the beautiful instrument that it is, knows good coffee from better coffee. That it dances with pure delight when it samples the delectable flavors of a robust Kenya AA or even better yet the rare Cubita. And yes I scoff at idiots who choose to fornicate their coffee with lurid cream flavors made from edible oil products (EOP) and pretend that that fetid concoction tastes good – or worse insist that this beverage still bears the moniker ‘coffee’. I of course have the right, the freedom, and I might add substantial published credentials to back up my overbearing analysis of other's coffee blunders.
Arrogance you say? Me?
Well, it is definitely not arrogance. My knowledge and more importantly my exquisitely sensitive palate is keenly honed in the classic barista tradition. There may also be some accounting in the fact that instead of being breast fed I was given the berries’ nectar as an infant.
Now as one might assume because of my gorgeously accurate taster, there are strict considerations before any coffee receives even token analysis by my unprotected and unprepared tongue. Considerations of method: temperature of the water 208F, 2mil. course grind of coffee ideal for, French press steeping and, plunging after precisely 4 minutes. Then of course there is the coffee’s origin and appropriate roasting considerations. And there is the reputation of the firm whose skills extract the bountiful flavor under submission to the flames of the roaster.
Now you can imagine my dismay the woman who shall remain nameless save to mention that her personal label begins with “R” and ends with “uth” co-conspired to decieve me. This woman, who every morning offers a sub-grade liquid (She calls coffee) which I shock treat my mouth with each morning in the office, decides to ‘brew’ and I use that term loosely a pot of NABOB poo. Her co-workers challenged her to do this believing that I would not be able to tell the difference.
And in honesty I could not tell the difference much in the same way one cannot tell the difference between male and female or white and black or vegetables and socks.
Many of you will not realize the time and energy it took to rehabilitate my entire mouth after but one sip of that putrid filth. But suffice to say that I am currently on a waiting list for an entire transplant of the lining of my mouth.
Usually, when I attend someone else’s home or drink what other establishments call coffee, I prepare myself not just for the disappointment in flavor but for the assault, engendered by a careless approach to the bean, on the common sensibilities in rational tasting expectations . Thus prepared I am actually able to swallow this liquid and over years I’ve learned to smile and nod and even (gulp) ask for another cup.
But when ambushed as was the case in this instance…
Why the fury and rage that welled up in my breast was unbearable! (and my breasts are larger than most men's)
Yes friends I trust you can see how precious coffee is to me. How the pursuit of the perfect cup is ever on my mind. I trust that you will recognize my deep abhorrence for behavior as I have described above and not insult both your own reputation in my eyes or my sensibilities to not open a can of whoop a… on you.
In other words try that and you will reap the full measure of my unrestrained wrath.
May good coffee come your way today!
out