The Shared Table

The shared table – it’s a powerful image, a symbolic motif, which exists in many cultures and has persisted through time. It speaks of welcome, generosity, camaraderie, peace and plenty – a veritable wealth of ‘feel good’ qualities. Depicted in paintings (Bruegel’s ‘The Peasant Wedding’ or Renoir’s ‘Luncheon of the Boating Party’), or described in meticulous detail (who can forget ‘An Unexpected Party’ that opens the narrative of Tolkein’s ‘The Hobbit’?), even celebrated as an exemplar of community building through the current trend for ‘long table’ events to reunite disparate, though neighbouring, resident groups and reinvigorate urban streetscapes – increasingly abandoned in this era of online shopping and virtual social interaction.

But where, in truth, does the power of this image reside? Is it in the table itself (an inanimate, utilitarian item of furniture); or the assembled company of family and friends (or foes); or is it perhaps in the arrayed food and drink (especially the drink!); the particular environs (a private home, a village longhouse, a city laneway, an outback campfire); the overlapping, interwoven or contradictory topics of conversation (or argument); or perhaps all of these and more, in combination – the whole being far greater than the sum of its parts? Maybe it is the very notion of ‘the shared table’; the idea itself, particularly in the afterglow of a full stomach and an alcohol hazed mind or the special, elevated glory of reminiscence?

Surely the mere table seems barely worthy of serious consideration? In 1963 my family arrived in Australia as ‘Ten Pound Poms’ under a government immigration scheme. After a short interval in a hostel and some rental properties we moved into our newly constructed project home in the suburbs and the very first item of furniture my father made was a simple, small, circular, Formica-covered, kitchen-come-dining table. For the ensuing fifteen-plus years the vast majority of our family meals (breakfast, lunch and dinner) were consumed around this unremarkable creation. Initially we sat upon some of the upturned plywood tea-chests that had carried our worldly goods on the ship from England. These were replaced in time with a vinyl-upholstered banquette and three of the ubiquitous 1960s, mustard-coloured plastic Sebel stacking chairs. The food was common fare – Corn Flakes or Weet Bix breakfasts, sandwich or soup lunches, meat and three veg or Friday treats of take-away fish and chips for dinner – but always eaten together and pretty much always accompanied by chat, banter, discussion, debate, questions, answers, laughter or perhaps even occasional tears? Still, nothing remarkable, just a stereotypical mid-century picture of nuclear family ‘normality’.

So should we look next at the gathered diners? In a world which has increasingly embraced the notion of the supremacy and inviolate sanctity of the individual, it is only too easy to lose sight of the simple reality that we all, the entire human species, owe the greater part of our success (if indeed our current global predicaments can be classed as success?) to collaborative and cooperative behaviours. Is it this union of effort that we unwittingly evoke on those occasions we come together to dine? A raising of glasses and tearing of loaves to celebrate our combined, continued survival in ever-changing circumstances? WS Gilbert (of Gilbert and Sullivan fame) is oft quoted as uttering ‘it isn’t so much what’s on the table that matters, as what’s on the chairs’, though it remains unclear if his praise is for the individuals or the group. A less generous observer, with a Darwinian bent, would suggest we are simply happy if the company is comprised at least in part of one or more of our subsequent generations – children and grandchildren successfully carrying our genetic makeup into an unknown future.

Moving on to the, hopefully, bounteous feast piled upon platters and spilling from jugs (and therefore disregarding Gilbert’s contemptuous dismissal of the victuals as contributing true significance), any contemporary observer would be forgiven for thinking we seem currently to have a preoccupation with food bordering on obsession. Our popular media (be it film, television, books, newspapers and periodicals, or the truly immense online universe of blogs, archives or ‘foodie’ sharing sites) is full to bursting with recipes, reviews, recommendations and constant reminders that delicious food can be delivered to our door in minutes at the mere tap of an icon. Certainly, a delectable offering can provide its own myriad delights but for many of my personal recollections of joyous occasions around a laden table, the food has been relatively plain fare – simple sausages and salads, beer and bread. These are not the kind of dishes one imagines would elevate the repast, imbuing it with beneficent significance or indelibly imprinting a memory.

So perhaps we should consider the environs? Foundational to Maslow’s hierarchy of human needs are both food and shelter, so clearly a conducive environment, a welcoming space, can contribute significantly to our comfort and happiness. But is it the critical element that converts simple consumption and chat into community and human flourishing – the ‘eudaimonia’ of the ancient Greeks? That we still recall with fondness, gatherings hampered by such as the draughtiness of a large wedding reception marquee; the relentless burning sun of a summer afternoon’s beach-side barbecue; the assault of sound within a busy trattoria or the too-small-to-swing-a-cat confines of a share-house eat-in kitchen, suggests that we can overlook most inconveniences in the right circumstances. So pleasant environs seem perhaps more desirable, than critical?

Which finally brings us to examine the conversation. David Greenberger proposes (Smith Journal, Volume 12) ‘the purpose of most conversation is to allow two people to be in the same place and time together’ which suggests that discussion is merely the glue for the assembled company. A proposition reinforced by Roman Krznaric’s observations (The Wonderbox) that conversation ‘is the unseen thread that binds [communities] together and it is time we took it more seriously.’ It is ‘a dialogue that creates mutual understanding’ and ‘has the potential … to inspire new ways of thinking and living together.’ Heady and, yes, empowering stuff but permission, binding, dialogue, and inspiration do not exist in glorious isolation but act as agents upon the participants. Participants, no less, that are relieved from immediate concerns of hunger and whose minds and tongues are relaxed perhaps with alcohol. So then maybe it is indeed the aggregate of diners, feast, comfort and conversation that creates the magic?

But here’s the thing – being in the kitchen, the centre of the home, our family table was also utilised for so many other activities; communal stirrings of the Christmas puddings; cranking the spirit-printer handle for each year’s ‘Newsletter’ to relatives in England; sitting reading with head enshrouded by the plastic bonnet of the Sunbeam hairdryer. Also, I was not a particularly voracious eater as a child and my parents insisted that our plates be scraped clean before we might leave the dinner table. Many an evening I waited, pushing the food dispiritedly around the plate until all the other family members had grown weary of my tardiness and departed to other activities (homework perhaps or the lure of the television) –  only then to move, quietly and unobserved, to open the cupboard under the kitchen sink and deposit any unwanted morsels in the bin. So the table had, for me, both positive and negative associations.

And then, just yesterday, my mother decided that after over fifty years of continued daily use, she no longer had need of this table in her recently acquired, retirement village, one-bedroom apartment. ‘Could you please take it away and either sell it for cash or donate it to charity?’ Could I? In truth, I could not. I dismantled and removed it but, despite having no immediate use for it at all and little space to store it, I have it stashed in a corner of the garage – awaiting who knows what future fate? To simply dispose of it seems somehow a betrayal or denial of all that has occurred upon and around its silent surface.

Because you see, a table is an anchor; a point of insensate stability around which all the other elements, participants and activities can find calm waters and a secure mooring. It is the enabler; it carries the trenchers of food and forgives the spills of liquor; it places the diners in visual, verbal and physical proximity whilst providing a rest for their elbows (or foreheads!); it proudly proclaims the purpose of the space it occupies, be it small suburban room, grand municipal hall or the infinite besparkled dome of the heavens; it passes no judgement on all that might be said – good or bad, calm or heated, reflective or inspirational; it is the facilitator of all that occurs in its small realm of influence. The table, in essence, embodies the very notion of sharing. It is the idea. For all its apparent simplicity, we should respect and celebrate its power and significance in our lives. I propose a toast – ‘To the shared table!’

Finalist for New Philosopher Writers’ Award XVI: Food

True Time Travel

I have a time machine. It’s a true joy to possess and I daily delight in the extraordinary wonders it allows me to experience. I suspect it would be judged by some as less stylish than Marty McFly’s gullwing-doored DeLorean, or less beautiful than HG Wells’ time traveller’s machine of nickel, ivory and crystal but it is perhaps somewhat easier to maintain and pilot than either of those. But before I go into detail on its composition and the glories its possession has revealed, maybe I should tell you a little about myself and my more prosaic adventures in the quotidian world?

I have spent the greater part of my half-century and more of life fascinated by, learning about, practicing and teaching the discipline of design. Specifically, the branch of design concerned with conceiving and configuring human environments: domestic interiors, theatre stages, cultural exhibitions, exterior landscapes and such. Creating spaces if you like, and space, as any schoolchild learns, we describe in terms of the three dimensions of width, height and depth.

In the simplest terms, to design a room, the measure of its width, height and depth are determined by the placement of floor, walls and ceiling. Any moderately competent designer can select dimensions for these which would result in a ‘well proportioned’ room but it was Paul Jaques Grillo, in his book Form, Function & Design, who first made me aware of the invaluable importance of another consideration, sometimes overlooked, which is essential to embrace if we wish to truly design for people. He states, ‘No design is done strictly to be looked at. It has to be lived with, and there is no life without motion.’ He is speaking of course about our movement within such built environments; our travel through the three spatial dimensions – entering a wide front door, walking the length of a hall, climbing to the highest stair. However, it was due to my prolonged pondering upon this statement that I was made forcibly aware of another movement inherent in all this spatial activity, but which is frequently unseen or disregarded, and this is our concurrent travel through time – the fourth, temporal, dimension.

In physics, they speak of a mathematical model wherein space and time are combined into a single idea, the space-time continuum, comprised of these four dimensions, but what is perhaps not commonly observed is the curious nature of our travel through these dimensions. For whilst we can move, or not, more or less at will through each of the three spatial dimensions in isolation – forward or back, but not up or down; side to side, or remaining still – none of them are possible without, and indeed we can never halt, our also travelling through time.

We think and speak of time’s inexorable progress with terms that draw attention to change – the passing of the hours, the cycle of the seasons, the aging of our bodies – and it is this very notion of change which I believe lies at the heart of true time travel. Change, it has frequently been ironically observed, is the only constant – all else is in flux – but it is this very quality, it’s all-pervasive constancy, which makes it so very suitable a force to empower time travel. My time machine thrives on the ceaseless inevitability of change. For my time machine is me, my body and my mind. It is from within this imperfect body and with a curious mind that I take very real pleasure in quietly observing the hourly, daily or yearly evidences of change. Is this, my revelation, perhaps an anti-climax? I hope not, for change, whilst frequently seen as being a negative force, I believe can be pregnant with promise; I believe that to truly witness and accept change can be both joyous and enriching. Indeed I believe that it is only through truly embracing change, rather than struggling forever against it, that we all are able to genuinely delight in our journeys through life.

I am not of course the first to make this observation or come to this conclusion, and I make no claims of independent discovery. Many and wiser souls have preceded me and for their insights I am indeed indebted. And their secret, if such it can be called when it is wholly on display, though perhaps seldom recognised, is the seemingly simple act of assuming stillness in the three spatial dimensions. As delightful as movement can be, it all too easily promotes an overload of perceptual stimuli – sights, sounds, smells, constantly assault our senses – and we come to associate our comprehension of the changing environment with our spatial movement alone. Our simultaneous movement through time – signposted with changes perhaps more subtle, yet equally laden with the potential for delight – can become reduced to the point of imperceptibility.

Stillness is essential for the true wonders of change to reveal themselves, for temporal travel to assume its perhaps superior position to that of mere spatial travel. As Henry David Thoreau observed in Walden, ‘It is a soothing employment, on one of those fine days in the fall when all the warmth of the sun is fully appreciated, to sit on a stump on such a height as this, overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling circles which are incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible surface amid the reflected skies and trees.’ And Pico Iyer, in The Art of Stillness, suggests ‘Going nowhere … isn’t about turning your back on the world; it’s about stepping away now and then so that you can see the world more clearly and love it more deeply.’ Being still; being in the moment; it is this which enhances our awareness of the passage of time, and which likewise permits a joyous embracing of the changes which such passing engenders – watching with pride as our children grow and mature; observing the wonder of seeds planted in our gardens producing plants laden with beautiful flowers and bountiful fruits; or even those changes which occur on a somewhat more grand timescale, such as an occasional fall of rock from an eroding coastal cliff or the changing course of a small stream - prompted by a period of prolonged rainfall.

To fully immerse oneself in the present permits a serenity and freedom all to infrequently encountered in our modern ‘constantly-connected’ world. We seem to be overly prone to falling prey to concerns about our future or regrets about our past – both of which in truth we are actually powerless to address except when they are (or were) our present. Spanning the ages, Augustine, in the fifteenth century text City of God, promotes the practice of ‘forgetting what is behind, not wasted and scattered on things which are to come and things which will pass away … and contemplate thy delight which is neither coming nor passing.’ Whilst in 2014, in the unassuming and insightful journal Assemble Papers, Australian teacher, poet, builder and musician Dominic Bourke is quoted as uttering the poignant and simple statement ‘I lose time sitting at this desk and it’s a sweet, relaxing loss.’ His loss, it seems, is also his gain, and so it can be for us all. It requires no effort and that is, irrationally, precisely why we find it so hard. We have come to believe that we are judged by others - and indeed we have learned to value our own worth - upon our ‘worldliness’; knowledge and experience gained by our globe-trotting excursions. We have bought into the modern obsession with travel in the spatial realm; flying to holiday in exotic locales; partaking in history tours visiting sites of cultural significance; joining throngs of devotees on spiritual pilgrimages, yet remaining largely ignorant of the manifold delights which already surround our every waking moment if we only stopped for long enough to notice them.

Perhaps we all should spend a great deal more of our time (and a great deal less of our money) traveling, with stillness, through time alone. Our carbon footprints could become reduced to the scale of those of a mouse, whilst our serenity and joy might grow to the size of the mammoths of ages past? Time travel is possible. It’s real and it’s tangible and it’s available to us all, at no cost beyond a willingness to be still and embrace its wonders. A daily minute of remaining motionless and observing the small changes within a favourite vista, or a weekly half-hour of quiet reflection on your children’s achievements. Perhaps simply an annual delight in the growth of the plants in your garden.

When next you consider some travel, consider this – would you perhaps enjoy life’s journey more if you simply set aside some time to stay, perceptually alert yet bodily at ease, right where you already are?

• Finalist in New Philosopher Writers’ Award VIII: Travel

Today ...

Today you feel the need for some fresh air and cool shade and decide to sit calmly, pensively, on the bed of pale-brown fallen needles under the majestic spires of your favourite grove of Casuarina, atop the headland. The summer afternoon sea-breeze is cresting the cliff-top and whistling, sighing almost mournfully through the branches overhead. You let your gaze wander as it will across the broad vista, resting for a while as it encounters various objects, occurrences, or even absences, in the familiar scape. A small yacht under spinnaker cleaves with ease the gentle ocean swell on its journey south, perhaps heading to the safety of the harbor for the approaching evening – reminding you of the joys of piloting just such a small craft across the numerous bays, inlets and open reaches of your childhood adventures. A bright scar on the adjacent headland’s precipitous vertical face encourages your gaze to explore the sands and lapping waves at its foot – confirming your suspicions when you spot the scattering of sharp-edged boulders – a rock-fall overnight occasioned perhaps by the previous week’s heavy rains. A familiar cackle of bird-call from behind makes you turn with care to glimpse the mottled breast and yellow cheeks of a wattle bird, regarding you with cocked head from a low branch, just beyond arm’s reach. And it is only now, your gaze brought to this new viewpoint, that you notice, almost hidden in the shadow of one of the larger tree-trunks, a small and delicate tower of smooth and rounded pebbles of diminishing size. Someone has brought them here, most likely selected with care from among the multitude in the shore-break below, and with a focused mind and a steady hand, arranged them with precision and simple beauty on the rich, damp humus – there to remain, or not, at the mercy of the wind, rain and passing creatures. With a soft smile and a lifted spirit, you stand and retrace your steps to the pathway leading home …

Today you sit in your home studio, a gloriously blank and stark white sheet of paper on the drawing table and a favourite soft black pencil in your hand. With, at first, a little hesitation – an almost tentative gesture – and then with increasing assurance, you lightly commence describing some outlines, nascent forms, across the paper’s receptive face. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the skeletal strokes gain flesh – surface, contour, texture, outline and shadow – they gain, almost, life. A creature, unnamed and perhaps unnamable, mystical and unknowable, has been born on the page and seems alert – poised to leap from its two-dimensional realm and scurry across the table to the freedom of the open window. You gently lay the drawing aside and commence anew. As the clock’s hands silently describe circle after circle, in mimicry of the sun tracing across the vault of clear blue autumnal sky outside, you continue to give birth to numerous such beasts and beauties – a veritable menagerie of wonderful yet previously unseen expressions of an almost impossible diversity of life-forms. Almost impossible. The thought crosses your mind that given sufficient time and circumstances, the blind and stumbling beasts of genetic mutation and natural selection could easily make any number of your speculative critters flesh and blood – or indeed, perhaps they already did …

Today you are wearing thin the polish on the kitchen floorboards, describing numerous paths between and around the various benches, sink, fridge, oven, cupboards, pantry – as you prepare a range of dishes for your guests. You have set a menu that includes many of your own favourite foods but which is therefore time-consuming to prepare. Hence the pre-dawn start and your welcoming of the warmth provided by the oven to offset the chill winter’s-morning air. The bread will need time to prove so you start with the flour, yeast, salt, water – precisely measured and gently combined in your best, bright, shining, hemispherical stainless-steel bowl. You scrape the sticky mass onto the cool marble slab and commence the lift, slap, fold – lift, slap, fold – lift, slap, fold. Working the dough and building the air and texture into the embryonic loaf. You enjoy the sound and rhythm, the almost pungent smell of the yeast and the perceptibly changing texture of the mass in your hands as the gluten develops and builds plasticity and silkiness – until, sensing it to be just right, you stretch, fold, press and caress to craft a small and soft dome – returned to its bowl to rest under a flour-dusted cloth. You next consider crafting an haloumi cheese – you delight in its tart saltiness and the almost comical squeak as you bite into the firm and hot, pan-crusted fried slices but decide instead upon the simplicity of a ricotta. Having put the milk on the stove to heat – lumps of cream floating in lazy circles and slowly transforming into bright yellow droplets across the surface – you reach instinctively at first for the vinegar but then a glance outside to the as-yet dimly lit garden confirms your thought that perhaps there’s a lemon or two on the tree and you decide to use their bright acid juice instead to commence the chemical magic of transforming the milk into the curds and whey. As it always does, the Little Miss Muffet nursery rhyme of your childhood drifts into your conscious mind from some remote corner of your brain – numerous neurons firing their electro-chemical messages across countless synapses to bring you this small recollection of simpler times. A bright, diagonal, tangerine beam of dawn sunlight suddenly bisects the kitchen work-top and you look up sharply – not wishing to miss this most glorious heralding of a new day – to catch sight of the solar orb rising with silent majesty from the cold grey mass of the ocean’s horizon …

Today you feel almost ablaze with energy and instinctively know that only a solid hour or more of pleasant physical activity is going to be adequate to the task of restoring your usual serenity. It’s almost noon but the sun’s heat is yet to penetrate the vibrant, new, spring growth crowning all the ash trees which fringe the bicycle path. The mobile phone in your back pocket has vibrated and warbled a number of times since you sent the text messages prior to leaving home, so you are confident that at least some of the usual Saturday crowd will be gathering at the café for their weekly lunchtime catch-up over fruit juice and fat, toasted sandwiches, strong coffee and buttery cakes. You anticipate with joy the various junctions along the path where they might be waiting to join the slowly growing ‘caravan’ of bikes and riders – wending their way collectively to the centre of town like the traders of old returning from their arduous journeys along the silk-road. It is the simple commonality that you all seem to enjoy – different occupations, diverse families, varying politics, faiths, wealth and sexuality; none of it matters – the shared passion for cycling and the shared table and conversation is what unifies you. All are welcome. All are generous. All are shown respect. All relax in this brief hour of ‘community.’ All are refreshed and renewed upon departing again to return home. You are proud and honoured to belong to this casual and ever-changing family of friends. It has confirmed your belief in yourself, and in the choices that have brought you to be alive, here, now …

Today you …

Self

In considering the self – from  a western, individualistic perspective – all too frequently we consider ‘our’ self, and we think of our self in isolation rather than, as is actually the case, as members of a community, a culture, a country and ultimately, a cosmos.

The inherent flaw in this mindset has increasingly led – within many western, first world societies – to a misunderstanding of our respective roles within our societies and an imbalance in our assumptions around personal rights versus personal responsibilities.

Counter-intuitively, for an individual to have rights they must first accept a position within a community, for rights can only be conferred upon a person by an external entity. You may have life or your life may cease, but any right to life or its manifold qualities exists only within an external construct or framework – a community who collectively agree to endow its members with such qualities or such rights.

Conversely responsibility, which at first glance would seem to imply a necessity for an ‘other’ – someone for whom you might assume a responsibility for, or toward – is in fact entirely possible in isolation. The brash or assertive statements ‘I can take care of myself’ or ‘I am in search of my true self’, which might suggest a stance of responsibility within a broader community, are in reality announcements of having adopted a position of self gratification or even self aggrandisement – positions that are entirely conceivable in isolation. And therefore, a denial of the reality of our existence within a community.

So how might we better consider our ‘self’? How might we envision a picture of reality wherein the apparent contradictions of personal rights and community responsibilities become void? Is this seeming contradiction actually born of our misperception of our ‘self’ being apart from, rather than a part of, a greater whole?

In truth, the quest for self, in isolation, is the pursuit of a phantom. ‘Self’ exists only as the corollary of ‘other’. As night is to day, hard to soft, high to low – self is to community. The one is only possible in the context, the presence of, the other. And it is only in combination that they become ‘whole’. Unity, though it is linguistically derived from unit, or one, is not a condition of isolation or individuality but is the unity of collectiveness – the warm and strong embrace of community. So a true search for self cannot be a search solely for personal goals and gains but should, or indeed can only, be a search for how we might best contribute to, and become a valued part of, a greater whole – an aggregate of unique and uniquely skilled, experienced, knowledgeable and collaboratively minded contributors to a collectively empowered society.

This is essentially a Daoist perspective and it highlights the principle distinction between traditional notions of Western versus Eastern modes of thought or philosophy and their apparent preferences for, respectively, language versus action as defining realisations of their ‘contrary’ positions. The Western search for self or meaning is famously fond of convoluted language, discourse and argument – whereas Daoist thought, though often recorded in written form, is equally notorious for its mistrust of language and prefers instead an immersion in the moment or ‘being in flow’. Action as a statement of belief and action as an indication, to others, of our individual worth.

Before we can speak of and demand rights, we must therefore first become a valued member of a community by demonstrating our worth through our responsible actions. Through a heartfelt embracing of our communal responsibilities, we become respected as contributors to a greater and better unified whole and thereby deserving recipients of conferred rights. A righteous community is indeed principally comprised of an aggregation of its collective individuals’ assumption of, in the first instance, personal responsibility.

Moreover, this is a notion with ‘scalability’. As an individual gains rights and respect through their responsible contributions to their community or society, so that community likewise gains recognition and respect through their responsible contributions to their state or nation – and nations through their responsible contributions to international or global concerns and needs.

We none of us exist in isolation. Through apparently ‘self’-less assumption of responsibilities to a greater ‘whole’ we in reality benefit immeasurably as individuals via the collective conferring of rights and privileges by the manifold communities we inhabit. Through knowing our value as contributors we gain an understanding of our worth as individuals and truly come to know our ‘self’.

Coffee

What counts for greatness? By what measure do we decide which is best?

A friend of mine runs a food blog (Simon Food Favourites) that is currently ranked by Urbanspoon as the #1 Sydney food blog. He mentioned to me recently that another ranking site, Beanhunter – ‘Find the best places for great coffee’ – had similarly ranked as the #1 Café in Sydney a little place in my home suburb of Mona Vale by the name of Coffee Brothers. Mona Vale is quite a drive from Simon’s usual stomping grounds so, knowing I was fond of a nice coffee, he suggested I might like to drop by and sample their product sometime. Perhaps if I was impressed he would schedule a trip north into his seemingly endless rounds of culinary explorations.

Suffice to say I was curious. I had seen the café in my local travels but never taken the opportunity to stop in for a cup. But #1 Top Café in Sydney! That must be worth a try surely? So I dropped by one weekend, ordered a ‘double ristretto of your best coffee please,’ (Their special that day was a Sumatran Sidalogan Honey-Processed, roasted in Manly Vale) and was browsing the store portion of the establishment when I was approached by one of the owners, ‘Anthony Macri: Brother’ as it says on his business card. I recognised his face from somewhere (We worked out eventually that we saw each other at the beach every morning but had never actually said Hi!) and we got to talking, so I mentioned my blogging friend’s comments. Tony invited me to spend some time with him one day to sample some coffee and hear the Coffee Brothers’ story, so we made a date for an early morning rendezvous the following week.

Now, I’m no ‘foodie’ blogger and as much as I like a good coffee, I’m no connoisseur. I confessed as much to Tony as soon as I arrived on the appointed day and told him with some little embarrassment that at home, whilst I do daily use a counter-top espresso machine, it’s not what you could call a top-of-the-line model. Plus I buy my coffee ready ground in vacuum-sealed foil packs at the supermarket along with all my other weekly groceries. It’s a 100% Arabica bean variety, the strongest blend available from this particular company and is marketed as ‘Strong & Intense’, ‘For those who love the pleasure of a genuine Italian espresso.’ And I normally have a double shot espresso to start my day – so I’m no stranger to strong or intense. To be honest though, part of it’s appeal is the simple convenience and the fact that it seems to be the perfect grind for my machine, but there are certainly times when this is not the case – when it is too fine and creates pressure problems – or worse, when the roast has clearly gone too long or too high and the flavour is burnt. But I figure ‘swings & roundabouts!’

But back to Coffee Brothers and back to Tony (who’s still standing patiently with me as I ramble on) who tells me I don’t need a big expensive electric grinder to enjoy the extra flavour of freshly ground beans because it’s possible to buy nifty little one or two cup hand-grinders that will get you going with a minimum of time or effort. At this point I make confession number two, that I have a sweet tooth and have over the years adulterated my morning brew with just about everything from leatherwood honey through to Demerara sugar (my latest fancy is granulated panela, with its soft caramel flavour). Though to be honest, part of the attraction of sugaring my coffee is less about the sweetness than it is about the silky smooth texture it imparts. To my surprise, Tony doesn’t condemn this practice either but simply suggests that everyone has their own preferences.

So what are Tony’s preferences? He has now started to gather together onto a large table toward the rear of the café (scattered with newspapers, decorated with coffee ‘fact sheets’, and shared with some other happy customers enjoying their morning brew), the various tools to brew the particular coffee he’d like to enjoy with me today – Coffee Brothers ‘Vanuatu Gold’, their house roast. He places a small cup onto some electronic scales and measures a precise 20g of fresh grounds which he tips into the paper filter cone sitting atop a Chemex Classic Series borosilicate glass coffeemaker. He then uses a kettle with equally precise digital temperature settings to bring 200ml of water to 98°C before gently pouring about a quarter of it onto the grounds in a slow spiral pattern and leaves the grounds to steep for about 45 seconds before continuing in a similar fashion with the rest of the softly steaming water, which soon drips down into the bottom of the crystal-clear ‘flask’. Written in this fashion, it all sounds a bit fiddly, confusing or even pretentious, but it’s actually very simple and straight-forward – certainly no more involved than making a good cup of tea! And then he pours and proffers a cup to me.

So what does it taste like? This is the first ‘drip-brewed’ coffee I’ve had in the many years since the counter-top home espresso machine supplanted the earlier incarnations of instant coffee, stove-top percolators, Breville drip brewers or Pyrex plungers in many Australian homes. So I’m in no hurry – I start with a long and deep inhalation of the aroma before I take my first tentative sip. Well? This is not espresso! This is not the strong, almost aggressive, punch of flavour I’ve become accustomed to in recent times. This needs a different mindset. This is not ‘good coffee’ (to mis-quote that dreadful Al Pacino advertisement for another coffee brand), this is great coffee. Why? Because it still has all the elements you look for in coffee – aroma, texture, flavour, warmth – but they have a crispness and clarity I’m not expecting. This is strangely ‘light’ in the mouth, but with all the strength and character you want. All the elements seem to have been separated and given the opportunity to stand, and be judged, on their own terms. It’s quite a revelation. Not what I remember ‘drip-brew’ to be. Certainly nothing like the ‘bottomless cup’ of drip or percolated available in every American diner.

More importantly though, it’s not actually the coffee that I’m most interested in just now. Because as we’ve been preparing and savouring the brew, Tony has been filling me in on the Coffee Brothers’ story and it also is not at all what I expected. My assumption was that the Brothers were siblings and that the café was simply another attempt at making a buck in a highly competitive market in difficult financial times. Nothing could be further from the truth. For these ‘Brothers’ (a little like ‘The Blues Brothers’ perhaps) are on a mission, or several missions in fact. Tony already has another job and I’m pretty sure his business partner Mark does too. So why are they putting so much time and effort into Coffee Brothers? It’s simple. Passion. Belief. A genuine desire to ‘make a difference’. That’s why.

You see, Tony is passionate about coffee and he wants to make the best coffee he possibly can to share with his customers. But he also wants them to be able to make the best coffee they possibly can at home too. But then, he also wants to do those things in a way that’s ‘right’ … Ethically, environmentally, socially. So he thinks it’s right to fly to Vanuatu and meet the coffee growers, promise them a good working relationship … Quality beans for a fair price. Supporting the growers and their families in attaining a quality of life. He thinks it’s right to use the Flagstaff Group in Wollongong to roast his Vanuatu Gold, not just because they roast great coffee but because they employ people with disabilities to handle all their packaging … Great coffee and a social conscience. Supporting a marginalised, even almost invisible, sector of our society in likewise attaining a quality of life. He thinks it’s right to spend most of his morning with me, not because I can offer him anything in exchange for his valuable time, knowledge and passion but because he believes in something called community … People from all walks of life sitting, talking, drinking great coffee, sharing and supporting each other. It really is quite a mission (or three) that the Brothers have set themselves but I think their passion is equal to the task. I think they are starting to succeed in their missions.

Back to the coffee once more, Tony is excited by my enthusiastic response to the Vanuatu Gold and instantly starts to prepare a second brew – this time a roast of ‘Tercio Wood Fired’ Brazilian beans. Whilst steeping, its aroma has a distinct similarity to the delightful smell of freshly sawn hardwood (perhaps a Honduras mahogany?) which matures in the cup to a bright, warm caramel nose. The taste, whilst rich with flavours, is almost ‘leafy’ or ‘green’ (Tony suggests the roast is perhaps too young) but soon mellows to a fuller flavour with a crispness and dryness that lends a clarity but is still soft on the tongue. Again, totally unlike my usual espresso, but extraordinary for just that reason. What value exists in each new day if our experience of it is simply a repetition of those that came before? My interest and enthusiasm for savouring ALL the many possibilities that coffee can offer has been awakened. These are, I can see now, just the first steps on a new journey of discovery and I think I shall enjoy each and every new vista.

And where to tread next? Well there’s plenty on offer in this store … café … ‘temple’ to coffee that the Brotherhood have created, even if you are not a coffee drinker: There’s equipment like kettles, espresso machines (including ‘Otto’, the new and improved ‘Atomic’ stove-top espresso maker), scales, cups and glasses, teapots and milk jugs; there’s filter papers, special barista cloth sets, cleaning tablets and beans, beans and more beans; and there’s Prana Chai Masala Blend in 1 kilo. packs, Koko Deluxe drinking chocolate or Cascara organic coffee fruit tea, made from the husk of the coffee berries. Wow, I just have to try that!

So, what counts for greatness? By what measure do we decide which is best? I believe it is passion. And I believe it is a genuine desire to share that passion with a community. (A real community, not some on-line virtual substitute.) And these guys, the Brothers … the Coffee Brothers, have both these things in bucketloads. That, quite aside from the great coffee, makes these guys great. It does indeed make this café the best. Number 1! Seriously … visit Coffee Brothers. Try their coffee. Talk to them. Share their passion. You will not regret it.

http://coffeebros.com.au/Home.php

Music

I have allowed myself of late to become enmeshed in the 'world of dust', with familial and work commitments over the festive season and the commencement of the new business year – so it's been some time since I last published to this journal. However the recent rain drove me once again to the bus and my iPad, whence I discovered anew an almost completed musing on music. Here's the finished piece:

Some years back the Sydney Opera House advertised a forthcoming concert simply as 'The Philip Glass Ensemble'. Being 'in the know' and not wanting to miss an opportunity to see one of my favourite composers and performers live on stage, I snapped up my ticket and eagerly awaited the day. Come the night, after making my way to the Opera House, milling about in the foyer, shuffling up the stairs under the grand concrete sails and finally taking my seat in the centre of the concert hall, I took the opportunity (as many do) to look around at what I initially assumed to be my fellow enthusiasts, only to be somewhat surprised at the apparent diversity of the make-up of the crowd. Certainly many music genres appeal to a wide cross-section of the community - but I was a little suprised at the number of seemingly conservative elderly couples in attendance. I formulated a theory (later borne out by a significant reduction in audience numbers after intermission) that these were people unfamiliar with Philip Glass, who had purchased tickets (or perhaps were season ticket holders) based on the strength of the word 'ensemble' and its conotations of some small orchestral instrument group playing popular classics. Nor was this assumption necessarily contradicted by the appearance of the stage - a formal arrangement of some high music stands, a keyboard of some description, an air of order and restraint. Even the entry of the musicians did little to dismiss such notions as they were, all four, similarly attired in traditional black and white with neat ties as they took their bow of acknowledgement of the applause from the auditorium and sat with quiet solemnity at their respective stations.

The house lights dimmed, the audience hushed, a brief anticipatory pause elapsed - and then, like some apocolyptic onslaught, this vast, dense wall of greatly amplified sound rushed from the speakers, engulfing the audience as it advanced at speed across the ranked seats in a giant wave that crashed against the rear wall of the hall, almost threatening to blast it from the foundations and send it crashing into the waters of Sydney Harbour beyond. My sigh of contentment and sly smile of joy as I slowly slid down into my seat, letting my eyelids drift closed as the music filtered through every fibre of my being was countered only by the sharp intakes of breath by the mature couple to my immediate right, who seemed to tense every muscle in their bodies in inverse proportion to my own relaxation.

To be honest, I forget exactly which piece of music the concert commenced with, but in my recollection I like to think it was one of the more dynamic passages from his soundtrack for the wonderful film by Godfrey Reggio, 'Koyaanisqatsi' (the first of a trilogy for which Glass contributed the music and perhaps my favourite film of all time). What I most recall are both my sheer pleasure in immersing myself in the rushing, rolling, pulsating rhythms, melodies and syncopations of the piece, and my surprise (and delight) that my immediate neighbours, after their initial shock, settled into this new musical experience and were not among those that abandoned the building at the first opportunity.

I consider myself to have a reasonably broad musical taste, ranging from some of the better known popular classics, through the greats of the early R&B days and 1960s rock and roll. I was not a big fan of disco come the seventies but certainly attended my fair share of early electronica, new wave and punk (or what passed for punk at that time in the Sydney pub and club scene). In my early twenties I had a disposable income that saw me buying one or two albums every week - often based on little more than the sleeve artwork and a quick listen to a couple of tracks picked at random in the store. In this way I discovered (among many, many other fine recording artists) the likes of XTC, Ultravox, OMD, Grace Jones, Gary Numan, Kraftwerk and other exponents of the pared back sound and unique soundscapes possible with new musical technologies. A friend one night challenged me to stay awake through the entirety of Brian Eno's first Ambient album 'Music for Airports' and a whole new world of aural possibility started to open in my head. I still remember where I was sitting, listening to my work radio (tuned to Sydney's Triple J - as it always was) when I heard for the very first time Laurie Anderson's 'O Superman' - I was astonished, convinced I'd head the future of music.

My partner (not yet met in those distant days) was deeply entrenched in the local Sydney pub-band culture, and to this day, still an avid JJJ listener, keeps me abreast of the contemporary music scene, which I would otherwise miss in my almost single-minded preoccupation with my small collection of favourites. Thus the family collection has the entire suite of JJJ Hottest 100 compilations and a diverse range of contemporary pop/rock the likes of Muse, Eminem, Gotye, Daft Punk, Birds of Tokyo, Simian Mobile Disco, Yuksek, etc. Plus I'm a sucker for any truly astounding voice, so I love my small horde of Bjork, Jeff Buckley, Sigur Ros, Regina Spektor, Florence and the Machine, Katie Noonan, Sarah Blasko, et al.

But, despite all that, I keep returning to my handful of favourites - Philip Glass, Brian Eno, Michael Nyman, Eric Satie, JS Bach ... Their compositions share something that I respond to - be they big, bold, brash, dense, cacophonies that wash over you or small, quiet and simple melodic threads that weave their way through your mind and heart - they all have the power to soothe. Srangely, even those building crescendos of rushing sound that accompany the destructive footage in Koyaanisqatsi actually have a calming influence on me. Is it simply the freedom they give you to become so totally absorbed in their sounds that lets you relegate other concerns to the rearmost sections of your mind? I'm not a big fan of music simply filling the background - I feel if it's playing I should listen. Indeed I get annoyed with myself if I become preoccupied with another task and fail to hear favourite passages through inattention. So much do I enjoy actively listening to music that I've always been a little disappointed that no-one other than Brian Eno (to my knowledge - which is admittedly quite scant) has truly explored the region of music deliberately composed for playing at almost sub-audible levels. His ‘Discreet Music’ is a favourite still with its insistence that you tun the volume way down – and really pay attention. Likewise, one of my true musical delights is the experience, only occasionally happened upon, of being somehwere (preferably outdoors) and hearing, oh so faintly, a gentle whisper of sound emanating from some nearby performance. Just light, drifting snatches of gentle melodies, wending across the landscape to my ear - painting pictures in my head of the event for which they are properly intended but from which I have stolen some pleasure for myself.

And, if I might be permitted a little hypocrisy (when I repeatedly advocate being fully present in the reality of the moment) my latest guilty pleasure, one that I seemingly share with an ever growing majority of my fellow beings since the first introduction of the Sony Walkman compact cassette player all those years ago, is to 'plug myself in' to my iPad with a suitably moody piece playing through my ear buds (perhaps Philip Glass's 'Mad Rush') as I wander through the city streets between bus-stop and office. I find such moments can transform my experience of 'now' from a simple journey through the sights, sounds and smells, hustle and bustle of early morning commuter crowds and angular modernist structures, to an almost cinematic experience wherein I deliberately bring my attention to a considered focus on compositions of forms and light and textures and motion - creating the 'movie' for which I already have the soundtrack cascading through my conciousness. I'm genuinely not sure if this is an escape from the now or a heightened perception of, and presence within it?

I sometimes promise myself that one day I'll bring a video camera along with me and capture these moments to share with others, creating mini sound and vision compilations of simplicity and beauty and quietude. But to do so would simply dilute their worth by removing them from their prime strength - being there to experience the moment in person. If you don't already do similarly yourself, I highly recommend it!

Water

There's a light spatter of rain in the city at the end of the working day and everyone is ducking about with umbrellas and rain jackets and newspapers held over their heads. I'm just in my jeans and T shirt, come from the warmth of the office, and strolling leisurely toward the bus stop with my hands in my pockets and my eyes intermittently closed as I lift my face to the sky to feel the drops on my skin. I'm unavoidably reminded of a very memorable passage, read many years ago, from Tom Robbins' 'Another Roadside Attraction' describing exactly this behaviour by the protagonists of his narrative, and realise this is the inspiration for my own action. 'It's only water' I say in my head, 'I’m pretty sure I won't shrink.’

As a child, I was not fond of water. I was happy enough sitting in a nice warm bath but if it was hair washing night, my Mum or Dad would insist on rinsing the shampoo from my scalp by turning on the taps and ducking my head under the flow, with my eyes squeezed shut to avoid the chemical sting. But so often, the water would run hot and the instinctual jerk of my head from the scalding stream would bring the back of my skull a mighty whack against the spout. Showers I was OK with and, like many a young teen, would happily have run the tank dry languishing in the rush and steam as the bathroom mirror fogged beyond redemption.

But at the local swimming pool I was terrified. The sheer scale of the body of water and my almost complete incompetence with swimming meant I would, at most, gingerly lower myself down the ladder at the shallowest corner of the pool and stand there immobile, clinging to the edge tiles. And the beach, on those days the family would make the long trek to join our friends for a day spent idling at Northern Sydney's Whale Beach, was little short of terrifying. I recall hours of playing on the sand or among the rock pools, but the mere thought of entering the surf among the crashing waves scared the daylights out of me.

Somehow, all that eventually changed. After I left home and moved to the inner city, my spare time was frequently spent at whichever public pool was most close – Prince Alfred Park when I lived in Surry Hills; Ashfield Pool during my time at Burwood and Victoria Park when I was sharing a house in Annandale. For a few years, Andrew 'Boy' Charlton Pool became almost a second home - the venue for my daily pilgrimage, making sure to avoid the early morning or lunchtime crowds of 'lappers', I would cycle there each day for a couple of hours spent slowly breast-stroking my twenty lengths of the main pool, or lazing in the sun, or gazing over the perimeter wall at the naval ships at Garden Island, or simply enjoying watching my fellow idlers - all tan and lithe and slothful in their skimpy briefs and sunglasses. All of us simultaneously parading our own bodies whilst wistfully admiring everyone else's.

So swimming pools became somewhere I felt happy and safe and relaxed. Even when my partner and I bought our first home in Thirroul on the South Coast, it was rarely we swam in the surf, preferring instead the security of the beachside seawater pool. But then, one day, we acquired some cheap body-boards and she took me down to the beach to try them out in the small shore break. I still recall to this day the thrill of joy when I experienced for the very first time in my life the lift and push and fall and rush of catching a wave, surrounded by foam and the press of water, all the way to the crunch of the sand.

All these years later, water now has this amazing pull on my psyche and my soul. We are extraordinarily privileged to live near the beach and my every morning is begun with an almost compulsive desire to simply be near the water. I don't even necessarily have to get wet - I just need to feel the presence of the ocean. I love to stroll along the sand and watch the waves roll in, rushing up the sand and over my bare feet. Or simply stand and stare at the rising sun over the gently undulating expanse, perhaps to glimpse a pod of dolphins playing as they glide past. Or wander across the rock platform to witness the swell crashing against the edge, throwing plumes of pure white to the sky.

Now, as I sit on the bus home, the rain streams down from the low grey sky and there's a quiet solemnity to the world beyond the window. I'm reminded of the Japanese expression 'mono no aware' (moh-noh noh ah-wah-ray) which approximately translates as 'a melancholy awareness of the transient beauty of nature'. It is indeed melancholy, yet transient, this day of rainy weather from which we all hide - scurrying from home to work and back; sheltering in our cars, busses and trains; cowering under our umbrellas; ducking from the shelter of one awning to the next; ultimately, on gaining the security of our homes and families, shutting and locking the doors behind us and retreating to the false warmth of the glowing television or snuggled under our doonas with a good book to read. But it's beautiful too - the rain, in all it's natural inevitability and I suspect a part of that beauty is the simple reality of its being water. Water, in all its many impositions into our daily environments - rains, rivers, puddles, ponds and lakes, right through to the vast oceans that cover seventy percent of the surface of our planet - the blue planet, the water planet. Water has a special quality that seems to affect us all. Somehow there's a calmness to it that can rub off on those of us who embrace its beauty and solemnity and melancholy.

I revel in it! Be it a simple morning shower, or a relaxing bath after a day of labour, or a joyful splash with the friends or family in a backyard pool, or drifting downstream in a dinghy with a line dangling over the side to a baited hook, or watching the glassy surface of the ocean change through a spectrum of mauves, scarlets, oranges and palest lemon hues at sunrise, or best of all, sitting on my favourite surfboard 'Tigger', out the back of the swell at my local beach - gently rising and falling with the passing waves, soaking up the quiet morning ambience and most of all, simply being aware of the all encompassing 'presence' of the water. It lifts me, supports me, refreshes me, calms me, and then, with a rush, it pushes me shoreward with a thrill and an inner yelp of joy.

Jump in, the water’s nice!