Sin Azucar

A cappuccino in California is often a frothy but singular moment of disappointment. We are creatures of efficiency, whizzing around in our cars with our non-fat, no-whip, double-shot lattes slopping against their no-spill lids inside recycled paper cups. We shout our orders out over the din of early morning breakfast-skippers, early power-lunchers, cell-phone conference calls, people meeting people. We don't entirely care how they taste.

A cappuccino prepared in the morning rush is a hasty pull of espresso, a dash of milk and foam piled on top in clumps. When I was a young Masala, in my early coffee-shop days, this was the cappuccino that I always had. Lusting for sophistication, I would order it and then gulp it down with four sugars, guilty that I didn't really like it.

It was only years later, when I saw a documentary on the drink itself, that I learned what a cappuccino truly could be. Glued to the TV screen, I watched as barristas in swanky urban coffee shops extracted the perfect shot of espresso from the machine. The stream of coffee as it comes from the filter, should resemble a mouse's tail (oh yes, tell me more). It should consist of three levels, the topmost having a caramel covered froth of its own. This is poured into a cup to wait for the milk. The milk in the pitcher should be no more and no less than what is necessary for a single serving. This is steamed to the perfect temperature. If the milk is scalded, it has to go. It must also be frothed.

All of this is good, I thought to myself. But where is the magic? Where is the trick that yields a heart at the top of the glass? A heart, you ask? The heart is the product of the perfect calibration of milk and coffee. After the milk was frothed, my TV barrista tilted both the cup and the milk pitcher and with quick flicks of his wrist, whipped the milk right into the coffee. The foam was not held back as in other cafes, only to be slopped on later. It was allowed to flow into the coffee with the milk. At the end, the barrista flicked his wrist once more and drew the last of the foam down the center of the cup leaving a brown and white striped trail on the surface of the coffee creating a heart. (Oh bliss) I had never had one of those.

Months later, I found myself in Europe. In Rome, after an evening of wandering to the Colosseum, the Spanish steps and the Trevi fountain and watching the advancing night cloak the buildings as they gave off their own effervescent glow, I found myself in a cafe. It was urban. It was chic. I thought nothing of it. It was the evening of the Australia-Brazil game during the World Cup semi-finals. I sat down with a smattering of friends from Down Under and ordered pasta with tomatoes. It came to me on a clear-glass plate swirled in to a disheveled cylinder. Somewhere between fancy footwork on the field and a mouthful of pasta, I realized that I was in Rome. In Rome, where I spoke Spanish because it was better than nothing, I ordered uno cappuccino.

It arrived, heart intact with a light dusting of chocolate on top. It was bliss and I savored it sin azucar.