Somewhere along the way, I became the kind of person who can no longer drink instant coffee. It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t set out to become a coffee connoisseur – there was no solemn oath over a French press. It just happened gradually : a single-origin here, a pour-over there, a detour into freshly ground beans with tasting notes like “caramel with a whisper of citrus.”
Now, when someone cheerfully asks, “Tea or coffee?” I am trapped. I want to ask, “What kind of coffee?” but I know the risk. If they say “Nescafé” and I pause- just for a second – I may look like a snob. So I smile and say, “Tea, please,” as though that was my plan all along. Inside, a small part of me weeps for the espresso it might have been.
This is an eternal dilemma: how do you appreciate quality without looking like a snob ? I guess true connoisseurship should be about joy and curiosity, not making other people feel like they’ve failed a test.
The trick, I’ve learned, is to avoid interrogating anyone’s pantry. If you must decline, do it with warmth, not with a lecture on Arabica versus Robusta. Compliment what is on offer – or, in my case, wax poetic about the tea while my inner coffee snob sulks in silence.
Perhaps, in the end, a real connoisseur isn’t defined by what they refuse to eat or drink. They’re defined by their ability to enjoy what’s in front of them. It can be tricky applying this rule to conversations of course – but let’s visit that theme some other time. It is complicated.
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An ordinary life 
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