A memorable cup of coffee

A remarkable difference between my life in the UK and here in New York is that when people ask to meet for a casual drink it is usually for coffee in a sleek cafe with sleek prices. The ambiance is elegant and demure and very conducive to meetings, networking and civilized conversation. New York runs on caffeine. I have come to depend on at least three cups of this dark brew a day and the variety makes it interesting - cappuccino, latte, espresso, macchiato, cortado, americano, french press - I love them all. New York offers variety in everything!

In London, (my daughter lives there full time so I know it is still true), the drink would consist of some alcoholic beverage consumed in a rather noisy, sombre-coloured, over-packed, trendy pub where conversations are often held in high-pitched tones to drown the neighbouring shrieks of collegial laughter and jokes. The "drink" is the winding down process for the day. Even if it is with work colleagues the drink serves to relax and let your hair down, which is anathema in the New York workplace.

Sharing a drink satisfies many of our social needs; for company, enjoyment and satisfaction. With this in mind, I was particularly drawn to one scene in the much vaulted and praise-deserving series on TV, The Pacific. In full cinematographic glory, Spielberg and Hanks bring to our television screens the grim brutality of the war fought between the US Marines and the Japanese. It is compelling, but in this one particular scene, a Guadalcanal war hero is offered a cup of coffee by the object of his affections, a pretty young mess sargeant. He remembers how good a cup of coffee tasted to him after his first major battle and near escape from death. This simple pleasure for him takes on a surreal dimension given the context it is set in. She, in turn, remembers that her best cup of coffee was offered to her in a cafe by her estranged father who by, adding just the right amount of sugar and milk for her, showed he was ready for reconciliation.

I, too, have an excellent recollection of my best cup of coffee and it is equally as "cheesy" as the Hollywood scene above. I was sitting at the terrace of my favourite cafe in Paris, Le Cafe de Flore, on a Spring morning in April ten years ago. I take solace in my solitude by basking in the sunshine and sipping my usual "grand creme" (French cappuccino). With this aura of contentment and pleasure I strike up a conversation with a lively group of people sitting on adjoining tables. Our serendipitous meeting is prolonged with a trip to the cinema and a farewell drink in a hotel lobby. Having spent the best part of this beautiful spring day in Paris chatting with one particular engaging gentleman in the group it is with no surprise that I hear from him again by phone and by emails from New York where he lives and works. Three years and countless transatlantic trips later, this gentleman becomes my husband and ten years later here we are sitting together enjoying a cup of coffee from our new espresso machine in our New York home, celebrating cafe culture.

Happiness is a cup of coffee.