Fancy a coffee?

Today I went to a barista jam in a café called the Grind.

It was all about milk.

So you rock up with your milk - rice, soy, organic, boggo blue-top - jump onto a coffee machine, get steaming and compare notes.

Organic is a tricky customer, especially if it's not homogenised (how silver-top used to be in the good old doorstep days). The fat molecules aren't incorporated into the protein, so it's hard to achieve a smooth texture. Often it's a rougher finish with more air bubbles. Though, texture aside, you can't beat it for creaminess and it comes from happy cows, let's not forget. Or so we like to believe.

Rice milk, another challenge. Low in fat, it froths up fast but collapses all too soon. Fat's handy for keeping things stable. Far from creamy, it's more like a sweetened cardboardy rice, like hot liquid Rice Krispies. If you're into that sort of thing.

Steam your milk to the right ratio of froth to liquid and you stand half a chance of pouring a good latté art - the pattern on top of a coffee. A good definition between creamy white milk and nutty-coloured crema creates the sharpest pattern.

The best baristas pour free-hand so there's no fiddly mucking around once the milk hits the cup. Once you start pouring, there's no going back.

Though you can always make another one.

One hardback meets another

There's nothing worse than sitting down to an eagerly awaited home-cooked dinner only for the phone to start ringing. Grrr. You know it's probably nothing that can't wait but you answer it, just in case.

If only it was just the phone ringing.

Here's a story:

The other night, just as I sat down to my weekly steak and fried potatoes I caught sight of something scuttling across the floor towards my bedroom. It didn't take me long to identify it as a cockroach. In 2002 I'd shared a hostel with other living examples of its kind on the West coast of Australia. My reflexes kicked in. I dived ahead of it and slammed my bedroom door shut in its face.

But no! my worst fears were realised... the two inch gap between door and carpet wasn't going to deter it. Moments later, it cleared it with ease and was through to the next round. My bedroom.

(There was a short interlude here of 10 minutes plus half an hour whilst I decided I may as well eat my dinner and watch the end of Hotel Babylon and plot my next move. The Dog was out and I didn't know what else to do.)

I'm pleased to say the cockroach was to come off worse. Fortified by a medium-bodied 2006 Marlborough Riesling (me that is), I found it sitting by the foot of my bed, whereupon I dropped a very large, very heavy National Geographic hardback on top of it when it wasn't looking. While I would like to say that I deeply regret my actions, I don't. It felt no pain and shall be missed by no one. Plus it meant I was able to sleep in my own bed that night.

It wasn't a pretty picture though.


The End

Lipstick to go?

There's nothing wrong with a bit of lippy on your lid. Just remember to reapply as soon as you've finished your coffee.

For a coffee to end up as a latté or whatever in a cup with the milk, the espresso has to be good enough in the first place. It's like the base of a recipe. If it's not up to scratch, the rest of the dish will suffer.

Unlike a chef, checking the seasoning on each dish before it goes out, we can't taste every coffee before handing it over to a waiting customer. If that was the case, today I would have tasted around 250. And shared every customer's coffee.

So instead, we have to be confident that each espresso that comes out of the machine is good enough to be sold. That's well-balanced - there's more to coffee than bitterness. A tiny 30ml (2 tablespoons) shot of espresso should also be be bursting with sweetness, acidity and body.

Often, the way it trickles out of the machine is a good indication as to what it might taste like. If it runs out too quickly, it's likely to be under-extracted and lacking in depth and flavour. Too slowly, and chances are you're looking at a syrupy, bitter offering that not even 200ml of steamed milk can disguise.

So sometimes we slurp a few shots during the day to make sure we're on the right track. It can get quite messy.

Wine bars and dancing shoes

It's a nice surprise to come home from a hard day behind an espresso machine and find your kitchen worktop covered in opened bottles of wine.

It's one of the perks of living with someone who works in a wine merchants. You'd think their shift was one big exercise in opening screw caps with the odd cork thrown in for old world measure.


Anyway, I'm not complaining.

Well, only I am because, after sampling a few, I took off in my tango shoes, tripped and ripped the left one at the toe.

And I wasn't even dancing.

I blame it on those wine drinkers.

Penguins and rabbits

Yesterday was Anzac Day in New Zealand. It commemorates the landing of their solidiers in Gallipoli. Nearly 3,000 were killed.

It was also World Penguin Day, as 25th April is the day the penguins in the Antarctic head up north. I didn't have any penguins to hand, nor a black and white suit (the day's required dress) in my wardrobe. Neither did I partake in the Anzac Day gunfire breakfast (coffee with rum) at dawn. Nevertheless, I marked both occasions with a latté and a freshly baked Anzac cookie at work later in the day.

I came home to an announcement in the letterbox that a rabbit had been found three times. I hadn't lost a rabbit so I didn't pursue it but it's nice to know some things are found alive and well.

Even if they've lost their owners.

Shots and chardonnay

I've just started a part-time photography course. My tutor's married to a radiologist. So he photographs people as he sees them and his wife takes care of the insides. Between them, they've got all angles covered.

My compact digital didn't cost a lot and has held out well over the past few months. It was dragged out here from the UK and, whether it likes it or not, spends most of its time at the bottom of my bag without any guarantee of sunlight or a glass of wine for days on end. Though it's seen some interesting things in its short life.

Since moving house last weekend I've discovered a potential diet tip: keep your fridge in the garage. Okay, so it's highly inconvenient - but that's the point! If retrieving a chilled bottle of chardonnay involves unlocking a door, descending five steps and repeating the process in reverse then it might make you think twice. Though, second thoughts, what's five steps and a door? And, besides, God didn't invent red wine for nothing. Nor peanut butter.

Who needs fridges or diets anyway...

Cake, wine and porky parcels

So - kitchen work. Fingers get cut and arms are burned.

And often they all belong to me.



Shifts might come with their hazards but I'm quite lucky really.

I get to scoff plates of staff food whipped up by five-star chefs as the first orders roll in for service and taste trays of freshly baked cakes (okay, so they're not necessarily created for me but quality control is a great thing). I sample wine off the shelf and top baristas put unbeatable cups of coffee down before my very eyes to knock back whilst scrubbing saucers.

And last night a friend, a Chinese barista and accountancy student, made me a hundred pork dumplings.

They weren't all for me, of course, though I did my best. Each was a prettily pinched parcel of minced pork and seasoning (soy sauce, rice vinegar and sugar), boiled in water until fat and puffy, then served in bowls with soy and chilli sauce and dark vinegar.

Chop sticks optional.

Depending on which part of China you're from, dumplings are eaten as a simple brunch or at special occasions.

In Auckland they're incredibly moreish anytime, but particularly on a dark, wet night.