The Cappaccino, or America is Different to Home

Fairhaven - suburb of Bellingham, Washington State, USA.

The café has wooden tables and is called ‘Tony’s Coffee’, so I assume they can make a cappuccino. They call my order. I return to the counter and collect. There is a very foamy looking drink on the counter next to what could only be described as a booth of drink accessories. I can’t imagine what any of the bottles are beyond the sugar and the paddlepop sticks so I take my drink to my window seat. They know how to do deep woden window bench tables in Washington. I need a spoon. I search around the cafe and find some cutlery set aside for the adjacent restaurant. I get a spoon and return to the fluffy drink. It’s bald. I need chocolate powdery stuff on the top. I return to the booth. Amongst the apothecary there are 3 shakers, for ‘cocoa’, ‘cinnamon’ and ‘nutmeg’. I have a go with the cocoa, and then decide to lash out a bit and have a shake of the nutmeg as well.

When I drink a cappuccino each time is special. I love the ritual of gently paring away the thick milky froth from the cup’s edges, folding inwards, like folding egg-white into a heavier cake batter, like my mother taught with a smooth, gentle, yet brave motion – ‘careful, don’t mix it, keep the air it!’ I attempt this beloved maneuver on my drink. The foam appear to be about one third of the cup deep. A remarkable chemical reaction is triggered as the foam combines with the liquid. Large bubbles start forming - or is it that large bubbles are uncovered? Deciphering what process is occurring is difficult. Undoubtedly, as I begin to stir the drink, the foam is rapidly evaporating as the large bubbles eppervesce into nothing but coffee-smelling vapour. Finally,a creamy film is all that remains of the foam layer, a mere memory of the thick, air-filled splendour, the crown of my cappuccino.

Once the wonder and surprise of the exciting chemical reaction has passed, I look at my two-thirds of a cup of what seems to be filtered coffee with a film of creamy surface residue, and am disappointed. I crane a look back at the counter to confirm that yes, there is indeed a large shiny expresso machine at the command of two Tony’s Coffee employees, one of which at this minute is announcing, ‘Large Skinny Mocha’, and I catch myself for the umpteenth time in the last two days with my home-minded prejudice off the leash and running frantically and aggressively towards the strange looking, totally defenceless thing that is different from the equivalent thing at home. ‘Hey Prejudice!’ I shout, ‘Come back here!’, and in my head I lecture my prejudice that I won’t take it out if it keeps behaving like this. I certainly won’t take it to the other side of the world and let it run free in Seattle, Bellingham, and certainly not Juneau, Alaska. Because prejudice is usually quite useful and good fun to have around, but only when it behaves. I have to keen an eye on it.

Prejudice heels, and I finish the drink. It wasn’t a cappuccino, but I’m not in Italy. It was a yankaccinno. Now I know. America is different to home.