guilty pleasure (mono monday challenge)
I like coffee. There I’ve said it.
I’ve never been a caffeine junkie - always kept to just a couple of cups a day - and never after lunch.
I fell in love with coffee (black of course) in the summer of 1967 when a group of friends drove an old van down through France to the Spanish coast for a camping holiday. We’d driven through the night and emerged into the early morning sunlight, down a dusty, tree-lined road in to a small French Town. (Many years later, travelling along the same road, I recognised the town as Cahors).
It was about half-past six and we stopped at a small cafe where the owner was setting out tables at the side of the road. He bought us a basket of freshly made croissants and bread and steaming black coffee - in bowls.
It blew my head off, but I’d been reading a lot of Hemingway at the time and ‘real’ men took their coffee black and strong. So I persevered and by the time the holiday was over, milk and sugar were history.
As we were leaving I said, in school-boy French - “tres bonne” - to which the owner replied “James Bond”.