Not another background question

Overheard in the elevator: “...Proust was basically a food blogger!”

“Hey, what’s your background?”

The first time I gave the wrong answer to the background question (yes, you can answer wrong) was during a video call. I thought they were asking because I was sitting in a crowded environment, so I turned around to check. Luckily, it all resulted in a laugh. I pretended I knew exactly what they meant and that I was being funny.

It probably didn’t work.

Collective Social Media delusion

The second time was during a workshop when people noticed my accent. Asking directly is considered impolite here, so people often opt for ‘Where is the accent from?’, but not that day. There I was, pretty confident in answering that I had a background in philosophical studies, when all they wanted to know was what flavour of European I was: vodka, butter, or olive oil.

Of course, there had to be a third time when I made a fool out of myself at a small cafe with the boyfriend and one of his mates. One of those entrepreneur Chads. In my defence, we were already on the topic of careers and travels, mostly the Chad’s, so this time it was nearly impossible to understand what he wanted to know, from the context. When the question came, I attempted a different approach and asked: “That’s always a hard question. Are you asking because of my accent, or would you like to know about my education or work?”

I was quickly interrupted by this wannabe Alpha male, treating the wobbly table like his podcast set: “Yeh, nah, I don’t really want to know about your diploma, I don’t care about that stuff. I was just asking. Anyway, …” (And resumed talking to the boyfriend about his gym routine or whatever.)

First of all, I had a double degree, and second, it seemed a good time to zone out and let the boyfriend converse with we-have-Andrew-Tate-at-home. As I was nestling a very underwhelming cup of matcha latte in my hands, I had a thought. Even better: an epiphany.

In search of loose tea: Remembrance of things past

Much like Proust’s madeleine experience, a nice cup of matcha latte has always had the magic power to make me feel calm and satisfied. But it had to be good-quality matcha. What I was drinking was just sad and made me feel out of place and far from home.

Actually, that was a lie.

Matcha hasn’t always had such power because the first time I tasted it, I was visiting Japan in my 20s. I walked into a touristy coffee shop and thought I was ordering a misspelled mocha, which I thought was a normal coffee, made with a misspelled moka machine.

I didn’t want to look bad, or to make a figuraccia, so I drank the green liquid and loved it.

Whereas Proust unlocked a forgotten memory of his childhood through familiar food, it was the exotic and unfamiliar food that unlocked a certain gastronomical curiosity in me. On that same trip, I had bubble tea and frappuccino for the first time. But I wasn’t absolutely new to Asian food. For example, I did have sushi before: on a school trip to Prague. Obviously. My bestie and I, along with our teachers, abandoned the group to their Czech pizzas, and ventured to a Japanese restaurant outside the city centre. And the first time I had chicken feet was in London, during yum-cha. I couldn’t understand why someone offered me chicken fish, but I had some and it tasted great. By the time I realised what it was, it was too late.

I usually bite off some meat so that I am left holding a chicken foot showing a middle-finger and take silly photos to entertain my contacts.

I also distinctly remember the first time I had a chai latte. I was studying in England, and when the first sunny day came, in late April, we all flocked to the riverside coffee shops for a cheeky pastry and a drink. I didn’t have classes that day and my full brainpower wasn’t needed, so the barista recommended their new iced chai latte.

To this day, I don’t drink coffee on holiday or weekends. If I am not paid to bring my A game, I will watch from the sidelines. I am way less combative decaffeinated.

Again, back in Italy, I could only find spicy chai mix for winter teas, and my auntie had fancy matcha powder in her herbal shop, but it wasn’t the same. My mountain village offered no bubble tea, no sweet chilly sauce, no late-night Pringles, hell, not even madeleines!

My lifestyle was unsustainable in those conditions. I knew I had to leave.

I liked matcha before it was popular. Courtesy of Canva PRO.

I didn’t envision Melbourne being such a melting pot of cultures and cuisines, but suddenly I had access to very high-quality coffee, almost on par with Italian bars, and unlimited matcha and chai.

But at what cost?

Maslow’s Pyramid, also known as the Barbs’ Hierarchy of Drinks

That day, looking down at the green reflux they dared to sell me as matcha, I scientifically reassessed the state of my needs. I didn’t move to the other side of the world for subpar beverages!

• Postulate 1:

When in need of tea, matcha would be my preferred choice, both hot and cold, but only when prepared authentically. Nothing coming in syrup or a sachet.

• Postulate 2:

Chai latte was always good to my untrained palate. It could come from a hole in the ground, and I would still enjoy the cinnamon and vanilla notes. I’d admit, though, it was much better served hot.

• Theorem:

I should order matcha from any reputable cafe. But I should stick to chai latte from dodgy cafes.

• Proof:

The stuff I was sipping could have been a perfectly decent chai latte.

• Corollary:

Coffee was, of course, the mandatory foundation for this whole beverage hierarchy. In Melbourne, people didn’t meet at the water cooler; they went for a coffee. And coffee was always good. Yes, even from a hole in the ground. The only fault in our bars was that cafes closed before 3, and, unfortunately, that was when I needed coffee the most.

Talking about social lubricant, let me open a small parenthesis for Spritz.

Spritz in Italy:

PRO

• costs less than Eu5

• comes with finger food

• not even considered alcohol

• can replace a meal if you call it ‘apericena’

• it’s healthy because of that slice of orange

Spritz in Melbourne:

CON

• $24 AUD (=15 USD, 14 EU, 12 GBP)

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Directly from the archives, please enjoy this authentic photographic evidence dated back to 2016, when these events took place:

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Linguistic homesickness

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Thanks for reading. We should keep in touch!