These days, as I’ve been discussing the flavors of various coffees with online friends, I can’t help but recall the bitterest coffee in my memory: the homemade coffee I drank at my grandma’s house when I was three years old.
It was the late Cultural Revolution, and the streets were filled with a somber, oppressive atmosphere. One Sunday, as usual, our family went to the city to visit my grandparents. My aunts and uncles were there too, the whole family gathered together. But this time was special. Somehow, Grandma had gotten hold of a small bag filled with hemispherical beans. The adults told us kids that these were coffee beans. So, coffee was brown — no wonder brown was called “coffee color.” My cousin and I whispered to each other, wondering how our family came to have coffee, something associated in the movies with “bourgeois stinking ideology.”
In the kitchen, my aunts busied themselves, skillfully placing the beans into a small device and grinding them with a clattering sound. So, this was the legendary coffee grinder! We were amazed to learn that Grandma’s house had been hiding such a thing. Her home had been ransacked before, but it seemed the rebels didn’t know what this tool was and left it behind.
Then my aunts began brewing the coffee, and a fragrance gradually filled the air. The longer it brewed, the more aromatic it became. By then, we kids had forgotten all about “stinking ideology” — this was clearly delightful! We were practically drooling, eagerly waiting for the adults to share this intoxicatingly fragrant drink with us. In those bleak, cold times, what a warm and comforting feeling that steaming, rich aroma brought.
Finally, the coffee was ready, and each of us got a small cup. The kids couldn’t wait a moment longer and excitedly took a sip. Instantly, my siblings, cousins, and I grimaced. It was so bitter! Bitter enough to bring tears to our eyes!
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Mom kept adding sugar to my cup, but it couldn’t mask the bitterness. Back then, we didn’t have milk at home, and that intense, piercing bitterness refused to soften no matter how much sugar was added. Besides, sugar was rationed, so Mom only added a tiny bit each time. Even though she added it multiple times, it didn’t amount to much. In the end, I gave up. But such a rare treat couldn’t be wasted, so Mom drank my coffee for me, her expression like she was swallowing medicine.
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A lasting memory
That first experience of drinking coffee left me with the memory of both the most fragrant and the most bitter drink. For many years afterward, I didn’t dare touch coffee again.
In the 1980s, Nestlé coffee advertisements appeared on Chinese television, and we learned that coffee was supposed to be made smooth with a coffee creamer.
My uncles and aunts, however, were as excited as kids, telling us teenagers, “The milk we drank as children came from those cans with a little bird’s nest on them!” They seemed to rediscover the joy of their childhood. Meanwhile, we teenagers were all frustrated. What? Weren’t we “the flowers of the motherland”? Weren’t we “living a happy life after being liberated by the Communist Party”? So why did we only have watery porridge to eat as kids, with no milk or coffee, while our parents’ generation had them in their childhood? Back then, no matter how much money you had, you couldn’t buy Nestlé coffee! In 1980s China, you still couldn’t find the Nestlé milk powder our parents once drank. And by then, we already knew our grandparents weren’t some “exploiting class” but just salaried workers who earned a living through their own intelligence and hard work.
Later, in China, I faced political persecution for speaking the truth and endured many hardships before arriving in the free and peaceful Canada. Living in Canada, coffee is a daily routine, something you can whip up with ease. But I no longer hear the clattering sound of hand-grinding coffee, nor do I experience the gradual buildup of aroma during brewing, or the joy of waiting and sharing with so many loved ones.
However, Canadian milk is all free of hormones and antibiotics. Sick cows are removed, their milk discarded, and they can only return to the farm once their antibiotic levels are normal. The difference between organic and non-organic milk lies only in whether the cow’s feed contains chemicals. The wildflower honey here is a gift from nature, collected by bees from fields free of fertilizers and pesticides. With high-quality milk and thick raw honey, the bitterness of coffee is neutralized or masked, leaving only a rich aroma and a pure, back-to-nature simplicity. How could you not enjoy such coffee every day?
I once read an article called “Mr. Coffee,” which said that coffee’s rich fragrance comes from the many hardships it holds within, refined through grinding and roasting. Without such suffering, there would be no such aroma. Perhaps, that’s true!
By Li Qingcheng
