No, it is definitely not Starbucks

You probably have heard of the Ethiopian coffee ceremony; it’s one of the best-known aspects of the culture, and for good reason. I experienced my first one when Tenaw, the assistant dean at the graduate school, invited me and my fellow American professor Peter out to his house for a mid-day meal one Sunday.

He lives with his charming family – wife Emebet, an elementary school teacher; and children Yordanos, Zelalem and Tsion – in a somewhat rural setting in the foothills. You can see Addis proper, but you are well removed from its pollution and congestion, and the fields are dotted with grazing cattle, goats and donkeys. (And also dotted with new houses rising that will inevitably change the rural nature in a few years.) Tenaw has a commute of more than an hour each way, but it is obviously worth it to him, and you can see why when you walk around his little neighborhood, where he knows everyone, the air is fresh, and his kids can walk through the fields to get to school.

The meal was what Theresa and I came to expect when we were invited to people’s homes in Uganda: gracious hospitality, wide-eyed children (especially in the neighborhood; Tenaw’s kids are more used to ferenji -- foreigners) – and delicious food served in WAY too generous quantities. After having three helpings of six different dishes thrust upon us – and I am not exaggerating here – we finally were able to take a break, take a walk … and prepare for the coffee ceremony.

It took place out in the lovely little garden in front of the house. Emebet had changed into a traditional white cotton dress and shawl, and laid out the setting: broad grass leaves spread on the dirt; a tiny table on top of them, with a tiny tray and six espresso-size coffee cups. On the side, a porcelain milk pitcher and sugar bowl, a black narrow-necked ceramic pitcher, and a small charcoal stove. In front, a small incense stick.

As we relaxed and appreciated the scene from the porch, she first placed a handful of coffee beans in a rounded metal plate atop the small charcoal stove, and stirred them as they roasted. A fragrant smoke rose, and when she judged the beans done, Emebet brought the plate over to let us see and smell close up. Mmmmm. Delectable.

Then she went back to her station, putting the beans in a pestle and crushing them with a long heavy mortar. After brewing in the ceramic pitcher over the charcoal, she served us in the small cups – black, with sugar. And it was unlike any coffee I’ve tasted, with a fresh and fruity flavor that just makes you savor it in your mouth.

Over the course of the next hour or so, tradition dictates that you get three different servings of coffee. Sometimes it was in the small cups, sometimes in larger cups with warmed milk. (“Natural milk,” Tenaw said proudly. We had talked earlier about how so much of the milk sold in supermarkets here is not milk at all – “Ethiopian milk is just water!” he complained.) Macchiato, they call it – one more relic of the Italian past and present connection here.

I asked Tenaw how often they have a coffee ceremony, assuming this is something you do mostly for guests. “Oh, we do this almost every day,” he said. Sometimes people do it in the morning and again in the evening, but he and his wife both work, the kids have to go to school, and there is not time in the morning.

But almost every evening, he said, they gather as a family and have their coffee ceremony. The kids don’t have any coffee – usually they start in high school, he said – but it is a time for the family to be together, to make plans, to talk. Not really a “ceremony,” in any ceremonial sense. But what a lovely daily tradition. It was well worth the fact that I couldn’t fall asleep until after midnight!