<p>It was my second day in office after being transferred to Chennai in the early 1990s when the boss instructed me over the intercom to arrange for two cups of “degree filtered coffee” within the next 10 minutes for an important guest. After an uncooperative peon excused himself citing ill-health, I decided to get coffee from the hotel.</p>.<p>It surprised me that only meals were available and not coffee. The man at the counter nonchalantly pointed at the ‘meals ready’ board hung prominently and remarked rather sarcastically if I was new to place because at meals time coffee would not be prepared.</p>.<p>My visit to almost half-a-dozen hotels did not bear fruit. A new fear engulfed me. Half an hour had passed since I left office and still no coffee. I never imagined the complications in acquiring the beverage in Chennai. </p>.<p>I relished the frothy brown aromatic and tasty ‘Cothas’ which my mother gave me with love and affection every morning and evening. All I have seen was her skilfully mixing boiling milk with decoction in a stainless steel tumbler and ‘<span class="italic">dabrah’</span>. Sensing my stress the driver, Rajan drove the car to the end of the street and asked me to wait. He jumped a broken wall with the flask and returned after 5-7 minutes. Coffee was served.</p>.<p>The boss called me to his room. Wondering if there was some problem I gingerly entered with all sorts of negative thoughts-- did the coffee have some foreign particle like a dead fly or mosquito? Was my career finished just because of a coffee?</p>.<p>The senior government officer from the elite services --who was with the boss--profusely thanked me and remarked, “I have never tasted such quality degree coffee in my life. What great taste and aroma! It’s good you could manage, it isn’t available at this point of time”. The boss added, “Yes, this resourceful fellow must have surely used his influence with the sales girls of the five-star hotel opposite to this office.” </p>.<p>I sipped some leftover coffee in the flask and it really tasted great. Rajan later said he had got the coffee from a roadside stall behind the dead-end street. However, he took extra care to ensure the filter coffee decoction was fresh and the milk was less diluted. The unknown roadside man, whose coffee, like my mother’s was made with love and affection, saved my day, several years ago. This incident is still fresh in my memory, every time I drink coffee.</p>
<p>It was my second day in office after being transferred to Chennai in the early 1990s when the boss instructed me over the intercom to arrange for two cups of “degree filtered coffee” within the next 10 minutes for an important guest. After an uncooperative peon excused himself citing ill-health, I decided to get coffee from the hotel.</p>.<p>It surprised me that only meals were available and not coffee. The man at the counter nonchalantly pointed at the ‘meals ready’ board hung prominently and remarked rather sarcastically if I was new to place because at meals time coffee would not be prepared.</p>.<p>My visit to almost half-a-dozen hotels did not bear fruit. A new fear engulfed me. Half an hour had passed since I left office and still no coffee. I never imagined the complications in acquiring the beverage in Chennai. </p>.<p>I relished the frothy brown aromatic and tasty ‘Cothas’ which my mother gave me with love and affection every morning and evening. All I have seen was her skilfully mixing boiling milk with decoction in a stainless steel tumbler and ‘<span class="italic">dabrah’</span>. Sensing my stress the driver, Rajan drove the car to the end of the street and asked me to wait. He jumped a broken wall with the flask and returned after 5-7 minutes. Coffee was served.</p>.<p>The boss called me to his room. Wondering if there was some problem I gingerly entered with all sorts of negative thoughts-- did the coffee have some foreign particle like a dead fly or mosquito? Was my career finished just because of a coffee?</p>.<p>The senior government officer from the elite services --who was with the boss--profusely thanked me and remarked, “I have never tasted such quality degree coffee in my life. What great taste and aroma! It’s good you could manage, it isn’t available at this point of time”. The boss added, “Yes, this resourceful fellow must have surely used his influence with the sales girls of the five-star hotel opposite to this office.” </p>.<p>I sipped some leftover coffee in the flask and it really tasted great. Rajan later said he had got the coffee from a roadside stall behind the dead-end street. However, he took extra care to ensure the filter coffee decoction was fresh and the milk was less diluted. The unknown roadside man, whose coffee, like my mother’s was made with love and affection, saved my day, several years ago. This incident is still fresh in my memory, every time I drink coffee.</p>