I grew up in a culture where people indulged in coffee in winter. Pretty much like wearing monkey caps or eating nolen gur (liquid palm jaggery) infused desserts. Rare luxuries. Rest of the 10 months tea ruled the world of Calcuttans. Can’t really remember how I permanently switched to coffee. Must be during those times when all-night studying required extra power. I had started my coffee journey with the classic hand beaten coffee. Mom used to excel in that and she would just use a teaspoon to beat the coffee powder with sugar and a touch of warm milk-water. Not an easy task. It required skills and precision. Besides, Nescafe in those days yielded better taste and aroma than the weak liquid it produces these days. Gradually I parted with milk or creamer in my coffee and started having it black. The taste became refined over the years keeping pace with my lifestyle choices. Now I prefer my coffee (medium-dark roasted beans) black with a sensory stimulating aroma and a strong body with a façade of a fine crema. Less voluminous but not a nude espresso shot. Americano is what they call it, though I upgrade it to long black wherever possible.
I had passed by Macazzo at least a few hundred times since its inception in September 2016, but never made it inside till a few weeks back. It was partly because of the lack of meat-loving company and partly because of the wrought iron furniture that I could see through the glass door. I do not regard wrought iron furniture as very ergonomic. Nevertheless, the good reviews I had been receiving from trusted food enthusiasts, had made me decide to visit the restaurant. The opportunity came all of a sudden one evening, when an adda at Macazzo was hurriedly planned.
It was mid-2012 and I was going through some major changes in my life. I moved to a new job in the city and left behind a 5-year job that involved taking care of four villages. Those villagers had become an extended family. I also moved to my own apartment embracing solo living and left behind my 100 year old ancestral house by the southern avenue lakes where I created 34 years of memories. Adjusting to the new life was not easy and my bipolar heart was on a roller coaster ride.
I had taken up a job with the local branch of Hope Foundation, an Irleand based non-profit organization that was committed to the street children of Kolkata. It funded many projects across Kolkata and one such project was Hope Café. And it was here, my heart found warmth and solace.
The name of the café is…well, Café. If you are getting ready for a review of an upscale café, then it’s my duty to warn you that this café is everything that is not modern. In fact, time here didn’t advance much beyond the 70s.