WhatFinger


Beneath the various forms of frothy and briny brew, political undertones lurk, as they do in most murky environments

Perchance to caffeinate



My dear mother has long had the habit of absentmindedly leaving sips of lukewarm coffee in a variety of colourful mugs around an otherwise spotless house. It is a dark day for whoever has the gall to toss the remnants of powder and water down the drain – only she may determine when the miniscule servings of Nescafe she serves herself are simply beyond the hour of tasteful consumption. My beloved girlfriend, the other woman in my life, has a similar eccentricity for caffeine in its hottest form. She allows herself the soothing relief, like mom, amidst her grueling workdays, or falls victim to a bitter, yet sugary darkness when exams come creeping.

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I, a sober male who resigns himself to water and pulpy OJ, am perturbed by the power that a glorified ground up vegetable has over my loved ones. However, such a tendency should not come as surprise to me, for the mortal desire to be energized, to be chic, has gripped the world for an eternity, or at least, since 15th century Suffi shrines played host to the coffee-loving, God-fearing Yemenis. The perpetual search for an overpowering brew once condemned thousands of bone-thin Haitian fingers to tear and bleed, while contemporary production squabbles result in gunfights and land grabs perpetrated by Colombian narcos, fighting over the fields with a vigor that black bodies once had when they struggled to escape them. Indeed, Java, the mature brother and amalgamator of cacao and sugar, has conjured more victims than addicts, forever accompanying the tobacco monkey that so many fail to shake from their backs. Beneath the various forms of frothy and briny brew, political undertones lurk, as they do in most murky environments. It would be naïve to label coffee as solely decadently pleasurable, and equally simplistic to deem it a necessary commodity. The early morning industrialized cup o’ joe has largely given way to effeminacy; its grim, rudimentary, drowsy brininess washed away by tides of earthy tones, delicate bodies and subtle flavors. New, more petty conflicts have ensued in Western contexts: Starbucks vs. Dunkin Doughnuts, fair trade vs. free trade, latte-sipping liberals vs. strong and robust conservatives, organic hippies vs. taxpayers – the list of petty, unexplored rivalries is endless. Coffee is now painted as part of the feminine experience, held up as the Gatorade of feminist misandry. Some poor souls still cling to the raw state of consuming fermented beans, sipping away from the unflattering lighting in metallic cafes and oaky bistros. Others embrace the newfound femininity that encompasses a warm mocha on a chilly day – and who, after all, is one to deny a woman womanly things? I myself prefer staying above the fray – I am, in fact, a form of coffee snob myself by shunning coffee and pontificating on the state of coffee drinkers. Regardless of one’s feelings on the subject, acrid beverage choices across the spectrum must be tolerated, if only out of respect for the free market and individual rights. En fin, there is little choice than to simply survive the smoldering smell of starbuckian sludge, otherwise, as is so very human, some other craving, perhaps one more sinister, would take its place.


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Avik Jain -- Bio and Archives

Avik Jain is a student of History at McGill University. He loves running, shooting hoops, and reading. Aspiration: Speechwriter


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