first cups

I’ve been drinking decaf lately but the cafetière à piston, the French press pot, seems to ease and squeeze the flavor out of the ground beans just fine. Periodically, we contemplate the goodness of the brew. We try different brands, think back to a particular cup we had in a particular place, a roasterie in a particular city, like Seattle, still America’s coffee capital. Then there’s Paris.

Reading the book, Voice Over by Céline Curiol, the story of a woman who announces the trains in Paris’ gare du Nord station. Curiol’s writing feels like a lens affixed in the present tense. There are a few small memories but the story moves like a handheld camera next to the main character, the unnamed woman, the announcer.

She drinks coffee. A great deal of it. And she eats close to nothing. She almost made a mushroom omelette, but she burned it while on the phone with her best friend’s husband trying to see if he would meet her on the sly to attend a play. She sips wine. But she consumes a record amount of coffee. So, I’ll review from where I am in the book and count these cups, then read on and track this caffeine intake.