Good coffee

It is somewhat inevitable that a blog tinged with espresso ought to at least once advocate a coffee.

My drink of choice is a 4-shot espresso. With a drip of milk. You might shout "Machiato" at me, but really, the objective of the milk is to curdle and hence, with it's sacrifice, show that the coffee is indeed of a strength to be walked across. In this sense, I'm not so much asking for milk, rather I'm asking for a sacrificial latte-canary to send down the caffeine mine-shaft.

My coffee demands:

• strong. I enter your shop in the "I haven't slept for three days, and am not sure which way is up" state. I want to get to "I'm ready to roll and sign contracts" state, and I do not wish to spend time passing through the "ye gods, is that me in the mirror?" phase.
  
• fast. I care not for banter (witty or otherwise)
  
• excellent taste. I may asleep for the first shot, but I can still taste it.
• smiles. I am bleary. Make my day better. Do you know my name? Good. Remind me. But for God's sake, don't try to engage me in conversation. By definition, I haven't had my coffee yet!
  

I have found the best coffee producing shop ever, by my standards (poorly defined as they may be), called Group 7, on London circuit. It helps a lot that I work in the building directly above them, but frankly I'd walk a fair way to get to them. They use their own coffee, rather than a mass-consumer brand. Obviously the coffee wasn't grown here.

The staff (which seem to change a lot - do they burn out after a while, or are they on rotation?) are friendly, and know me by name. Not completely unexpected since I'm there 2-3 times per day, asking for a four shot espresso. The barrista, who I have been told is also the owner doesn't waste time discussing the finer points of where he bought his coffee - he looks up at the list of coffees to create, makes mine, and gets on with it. He may deign to nod at me. I nod back. He knows what he's got. Enough said.

My typical coffee purchase: I enter at about 8:30 or so. The sun outside is a pasty white egg, and the wind-chill 50 gale is trying to shred me. Welcome to Canberra winter. I get in. The shop is warm. There are two coffee machines running full tilt and about 25 people waiting for coffee. I look at the cashier, she nods, writes my name and four crosses on the A4 page of all the coffees awaiting order. I wander aimlessly away or perhaps I stare haplessly out the windows.

A few minutes later I have my cup, holding it in both hands, I sip, and I am alive.