Black gold, they used to call them. The humble coffee bean that enraptured the craze at the dawn of colonialism, sought after and acquired only the privileged few, and sparked trade wars waged under the demand of the zealous. In the modern times, though, that is a different story – chain stores popping up on every street, concern for quality watered down and neglected. Coffee is better likened to game tokens at a corny amusement park – cheap entertainment just because the circus is in your neighbourhood, and you have nothing else to do on a Saturday evening.
But then, every now and then, surprise discoveries of the Cirque du Soleil of coffee do remind you of the attention to detail and refined taste buds that are committed to this, as some may consider, artform.
Convenience at a nearby Starbucks or Tim Horton’s may be the craved quencher, yet Canadians have not forgotten what it means to polish their palates with outstanding coffee. Throughout my journey across the second largest country in the world, surely I’d have stumbled across a few cafes worthy of merit? I have indeed – and so I shall showcase my favourite coffee joints in Canada, how they escaped the commercialistic zest for mediocrity and filled my cup with splendour.
But, more importantly, it’s also about the stories behind these episodes of debauchery.
Medina Cafe (556 Beatty Street, Vancouver)
Credit where credit’s due, I owe this one to Sonu Purhar from Tourism Vancouver for taking me to this establishment for breakfast – first-ever breakfast in Canada in fact. Amidst our animated conversation – five minutes into our initial meeting – I was caught off-guard by the waitress taking drinks orders when I hadn’t even glimpsed into the menu. Sonu came to the rescue with a suggestion.
I doubted from the second I uttered the words till the moment the cup plunged onto my table. I gazed into my latest culinary experiment: a lavender latte.
The hefty sweetness of the syrup masked much of the coffee’s flavours; but it was swiftly forgiven for binding both coffee and lavender – just as the floral fragrance gushed up my nostrils. Then it lingered, from merely one sip, as the combined earthy and flowery tastes wiped clean of any distaste for flavoured coffee and smeared a permanent mark in my palatal memory.
Throughout my time in Vancouver it gradually evolved into an addiction.
Medina Cafe’s breakfast menu delivers hearty dishes served in skillets in a cliche-phobic manner. To opt for a less substantial first-meal-of-the-day go for their waffles, freshly made before your eyes and voted some of the best in the city; in light of my worshipping all lavender-spiked good I shall recommend smothering your waffles with the signature white chocolate rose water lavender sauce.
Sense Appeal Coffee Roasters (96 Spadina Avenue, Toronto)
Confession: I ate and drank my way around Toronto by abiding to my friend Natalie’s restaurants and bars guide – with almost a religious fervent.
In her very own words, Natalie cited that Sense Appeal is her “favourite coffee shop in the city”. So heavily had I staked my contentment on her blog post that I slithered up Spadina Avenue, with decaffeination in need of remedy.
I was smitten simultaneously with awe and confusion as I gawked at what should more appropriately be described as a catalogue – as though I wasn’t flustered enough by options of brewing methods, being asked what type of coffee beans catapulted my indecisiveness beyond the cashier. At least the barista was sympathetic; not all customers are fanatical aficionados, she reassured me.
Yet, before I could drain the content of the paper cup, I had already slipped into an artisan hypnotism sheerly from the aroma. When it did reach my tongue the coffee was beyond rich, caressing with earthiness that boldly strokes like Salvador Dali’s paintbrush.
Needless to say, the latte passed the taste test with colours soaring into the heavens.
I went back again, this time with Natalie, and instead ordered a Malaysian iced coffee – authentically executed with condensed milk and touch of syrup – a commodity rekindling the hibernating Asian roots in me.
Olive et Gourmando (351 Rue Saint-Paul O, Montreal)
Disappointment flooded Andrea‘s facial expressions when, strolling down Old Montreal, we were greeted by the deadened cafe. I must go there whilst I’m in Montreal, she insisted – I diligently followed her advice and went back to Rue Saint-Paul in her absence. In the stead of lifeless tranquility, Olive et Gourmondo was a venue flocked by lunch-goers.
I returned soon later, stomach replenished and torrential rain dodged – the place was as packed as how I had left it several hours ago.
Mental preparation was almost mandatory as I anticipated my latte from the window seat. In midst of my gazing at tourists and locals alike scurrying along cobble-stone streets, it arrived. Before me, my latest culinary experiment.
Before me, the testimony to Andrea’s claims – the coffee was majestic.
Creaminess delivered the soft punch and, as the knuckle exploded upon impact, the wonderful medley of coffee and milk blended seamlessly in an ethereal equilibrium; then the power struggle, where both the lovely bitterness seized the centre stage and delivered the final speech, leaving behind an after-taste that seemed to linger for decades.
For a beverage like latte, the coup d’etat of milk over coffee frequently tenders bland, dismal beverages. What Olive & Gourmando had put in my cup instead was, quite simply put, glorious.
Le Nektar (235 Rue Saint-Joseph Est, Quebec City)
in spite of my suspicions of bias, I went along with her. But then, just because Djany’s offering me a couch during my stay in Quebec City didn’t mean I was to commit the culinary crime of obligatory compliance?
Again, she insisted that Le Nektar was the best cafe in the whole of Ville de Quebec – jokingly, I riposted by shooting her the unfazed look.
Much of that banter later, the ceramic cup was placed in front of me. Warily I took a sip. Djany bustled around behind the counter – but she was firing glimpses, nervously awaiting a verdict.
At first taste it seemed like a grave disappointment: the latte was condemned by the milk’s intrusive flavours. But then, just as I had set down the cup, it took place; as though overthrowing the suppression savours of the coffee rose up and occupied the cavity, counter-attacked the lactose with a passionate surge of bitterness. All of a sudden, the initial impression vanished and was replaced by admiration; the enjoyment was almost operatic in structure – flimsy and lacklustre to begin with, prior to a conclusion dominated by a cacophonous chorus.
The pleasure no longer lied with the sip, but the way the after-taste delicately and elegantly manifested and mesmerised my palates.
I may continue to question any titular claims, yet I had little doubt remaining of the troupe’s excelling pursuit to the ultimate coffee when, on my day of departure, Djany whipped up for me the top of Le Nektar’s rage – the premium filtered coffee, left to brew for at least five minutes much like tea-making. If anything, departing Quebec City may have been a separation from my summer love.
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