Turkish Coffee Break
bit by bit, reconnecting with a part of my heritage
When I was young, I learned that I had a great aunt who read Turkish coffee grounds in Istanbul. Her readings were celebrated for their incredible accuracy, and because of this, she rarely offered them to her own family. My dad told me this story for the first time years ago, when he spent some time with this aunt. He was in his mid 30’s, just a bit older than I am now. They sat in her living room, and enjoyed a cup of Turkish coffee together. Somehow, in this visit, she agreed to read my dad’s fortune. This is baffling to me since my dad doesn’t particularly subscribe to mysticism or new age practices. But maybe an offered reading shouldn’t be turned down (?).
She looked into his finished cup, and proceeded to predict a lot about his life—good and bad—all of which came true within a couple of months, and completely changed the trajectory of his life. He tells this story to me when I ask to hear it, which is often, and I love knowing that this psychic ability exists in my bloodline.
A few weeks ago, I met a friend for lunch and she was wearing the most beautiful sweater dress. I complimented her on it, and she told me that she bought it at a Turkish festival that takes place yearly here in DC. I was shook. How did I not know about this market, and I’ve been living here for six years?(!?) We went on to excitedly talk about Turkish culture, and of course, I brought up my fascination and curiosity with Turkish coffee, and the art of coffee readings. I had recently discovered a coffee house in the DMV that specializes in Turkish coffee, and I go there often to daydream about what it will be like to one day retrace my family’s lineage in Istanbul, reconnecting with the history and magic that is waiting to be found there. My friend then shared a coffee reader she had met a while back who lives in the district. “A true psychic” she told me.
I am no stranger to mystical practices, and I often find myself being pulled aside to be granted a nugget of information that only could have come from spirit. I consult with psychics, healers, the stars, and tarot for guidance often along this journey earth-side. But something about Turkish coffee readings always felt incredibly personal—a little too close to home. Perhaps it’s the fact that my dad’s story, albeit super cool, frankly scares me a little, and although readings should always be consumed with an understanding that you can take and leave what you want, the accuracy of his reading made me wary to try it.
So, I always said, if it finds me, I’ll do it. My friend’s introduction felt kismet enough.
As the sun dipped below the horizon at 4:30, I met Kitty. Her eyes sparkled as she led me to her office. She introduced me to the different types of Turkish coffee—one with mastic gum from the region by the Aegean Sea, and one with notes of chocolate and nuts—this brew is loved by Americans. “Do you have time?” she asked me. I told her I had all the time in the world when it comes to coffee, so she led me to the office’s kitchen, and we brewed the coffee together using her special maker. The water should be cold—ice cold even, and always filtered. She poured the cold water into the back of the maker, along with a teaspoon (per cup) of coffee grounds. We waited as the machine made the first brew.
The thing I love most about coffee is how each person and community builds a ritual around it. The Guatemalans have their special painted stone wear to enjoy their locally grown beans in, and Italians regard the layer of foam in their espresso with high honor—a sign of good coffee beans. The Swedes have the fika, a whole word dedicated to the act of taking a coffee break. The Parisians drink their coffees sitting outwards, facing the streets, watching the pulse of the city go by. In Israel, it’s the foliage-canopied cafes that host comfy seating and hearty pastries to accompany their coffee selection. Cafe chachor, or black Turkish coffee and cafe afuch are the most popular offerings, best enjoyed with a cigarette (or my preference) friends, shoes left on the ground, and legs folded up underneath you. Even in America, we have a ritual. We like our coffees big—large enough to last for hours while we carry them around in a to go cup the length of our heads. There’s a coziness that comes with this action—a sign that we are still enjoying comfort despite the faster pace of our culture.
First up in the brewer was a Menengiç (pistachio) coffee, a type of coffee that became popular in the times of the Ottoman Empire in Southeast Turkey, when the Turkish people had trouble sourcing coffee beans. It had a milky, smooth, buttery texture, and beautifully rolled off the tongue. Afterwards, Kitty brewed me the cup that we would read from. I sipped the coffee slowly, and we chatted about many things—she shared a bit of the history of Turkey and coffee houses with me, giving me a small glimpse into a part of my heritage that I know very little about. We tried to play the connection game—perhaps I knew of the Jewish fashion designer from Istanbul? Perhaps they could be my relative?
In order for Turkish coffee to be Turkish, it has to be unfiltered. It also should have a layer of foam, similar to that of which tops a good quality espresso. That foam indicates a masterful cup of Turkish coffee, and thus, I’ve been making my Turkish coffee all wrong all along. Coffee became a popular past-time in the days of the Ottoman Empire. As noted before, coffee was not easy to find back then, so it was served at coffee houses, and was reserved for the most special guests. The small cups of coffee would be enjoyed with intention, and with copious layers of conversation to make the cup last longer. The air in the coffee house was filled with passed-down stories, and gossip from the town. Soon enough, coffee lovers began reading each other’s dregs, and with time this tradition evolved into a type of method of fortune telling that grew in popularity until modern day.
Earlier that day, I was invited to set an intention and to begin to call in the question I was seeking answers to. As I finished my last sip of coffee, I was encouraged to bring the query back into my mind’s eye. I was directed to take three deep breaths. I placed the saucer on top of the cup and held them together firmly between my hands. I swirled the cup and saucer slowly around in front of my heart, and Kitty softly spoke a prayerful invocation with each rotation. I was instructed to place a piece of jewelry on top of the flipped cup—an invitation to my energy to infuse with the dregs. We sat and chatted more as we waited for the the cup to cool down to room temperature.
The reading was done in private. It is said that every person has a unique destiny line, and to share that in public is inauspicious. As I settled back into her office, I was given a piece of chocolate, and a dash of rose water in my palms. I rubbed my hands together, bringing my cupped hands to my face and inhaled. Rose is an anointing flower often used in religious and spiritual ceremonies in the Middle East. It is known for its magical and protective properties. It was finally time. Kitty swiftly removed the cup from the saucer, revealing the telve or dregs left behind. I sat in astonishment as she proceeded to read me like an open book, seeing things that I had only just begun to acknowledge within myself. I studied the outlined shapes on the plate, and watched as she delicately dropped her finger into the grounds, rolling the wet dregs between her fingertips as she spoke. She pointed into the cup, inviting my eyes to acclimate to the shapes coming alive. There were mountains and clouds, and my human form bowing to the infinite. She told me things about myself so matter of fact that I had never said aloud to anyone. She saw my heart. We held eye contact at times, and I felt as though we weren’t just looking at each other’s eyes, but rather, into the depths of each other’s souls. She continued, returning back to the saucer, holding it at a vertical angle, allowing the wet telve to drip slowly back into the cup, revealing more messages for my journey. I was confirmed a deep knowing for what I should keep doing, and what I should change. Not only had I connected with myself, but I had also connected with a deep, ancestral lineage that felt sacred and initiating.
Just as the reading began, we ended the reading with water. I was directed to rinse the cup and saucer under the faucet, washing away all the remnants of the telve, and the destiny-filled story they formed to share with me that evening. I concentrated on what I’d like to embody from the reading, and blessed the last of the fine dregs as they swirled about towards the drain.