Turkish Coffee
If you’ve read earlier blogs of mine re: my apartment building, you’ll remember that there are Armenians taking over the common areas. They’re mostly friendly and don’t bite but they sure as hell make their presence known.
In recent months, an older woman who lives across the way, who I’ve since come to find out is named Nora, has become very interested in me and Brad. She’s taken to bringing us “Armenian” candies and cookies. Usually the candy she forces on us is a small rectangular chocolate looking thing that is in a yellow wrapper.
Unsuspectingly Brad and I eagerly shoved the 2 inch morsels in our pie holes and realized it’s some sort of chocolate and pineapple atrocity. I’m sorry but chocolate should not include fruit flavors that are not of the berry variety. It’s just wrong. Those of you out there that like chocolate and orange are just plain out of your minds! Yuck!
The other day, Nora approaches me on the balcony and asks me if I am moving. This involves a lot of hand gestures and mumbled syllables as she barely speaks English and my collegiate Russian is failing me. When I finally understand her question, I tell her that I am not moving and what makes her think such a thing? (Where else am I going to find a cheap rent controlled apartment with tons of closet space that is this central and this spacious? I mean, come on!) She says she noticed a lot of boxes in my dining room, stacked up to the ceiling.
Did I mention how nosy my neighbors are? No? My neighbors are the Armenian Big Brother, if you will. (It’s actually something I like about living here, believe it or not. I am never afraid of break-ins or other such things as I know they’re always in the common areas and always giving all unrecognized faces the evil eye, Armenian style.)
Keep in mind that my blinds have been closed since I bought my new computer last spring - so as not to entice potential thieves - Armenian evil eye or not.
I explain to Nora that I just have a lot of boxes because I mail stuff to people and because …
She must realize how inappropriate we whiteys find their spying ways and responds with, “You like the coffee? I go make you the coffee. Good coffee. Turkish coffee. Like Armenian coffee. Turkish coffee. Same.”
I start sweating a little, thinking, “How closely is she watching me? How does she know that the venti vanilla latté Brad brought me a few hours ago is already wearing off?! Either she’s really spying or I’m more obsessed/addicted than I thought! Am I developing a coffee withdrawal twitch?!”
(For all the coffee I drink lately, I really should just invest the $400 in an amazing espresso machine with frother and some vanilla syrup. Add to that expense whatever it costs to bribe a barista to come teach me how to use the machine. Ella, how much would you charge me to teach me a lesson? I am addicted to Starbucks Vanilla Lattés - it should be illegal. And I know, I know - I’ve always been anti-Starbucks & anti-huge establishment but ever since Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf did away with the pink punch cards, there’s just no point in driving the extra mile when there’s a Starbucks on every corner! I miss that little surge of energy of getting that $4 free coffee every time I’ve paid for 12. Although, sometimes when I go to the Starbucks on Ventura and Louise in Sherman Oaks, Ella is working and I get an extra shot of espresso or even a free coffee! But I digress…)
Not only do I really want some coffee but I’m always refusing whatever it is she’s trying to give me (afraid of the chocolate pineapple crap.) So I decide to take her up on the offer. Maybe she’s just trying to poison me so she can come in and steal all the empty boxes she’s got her eye on. But I throw caution into the wind - she’s offering me coffee for Chrissakes.
She goes into her apartment and I’m left standing there on the balcony like an ass. I start to feel bad. Here’s a woman living in an apartment with 3 generations of people that she cooks and cleans for day and night and now she’s in there making me special coffee.
Then she comes out with a demitasse of tar. She smiles at me as if to say, “Go ahead. Make my day.” *Gulp.
But I don’t want to be rude, so I drink the thick black so-called coffee. “Mmmmm…” I say as she starts to put chocolate pineapple crap on the saucer along with another Armenian ‘treat’ in shiny silver and blue foil with the words “The Lazy Bear” printed on it and a picture of the aforementioned mammal. I cringe.
She finally walks away only to return with another plate loaded with funny looking Armenian cookies that have rye seeds in them and sesame seeds on top of some brown (caramelized sugar?) paste. Greeeeeaaaaaat.
I have to admit, although I end up throwing out the cookies and chocolate pineapple crap, The Lazy Bear is excellent.
