Good coffee is one of the delights of my life

My first memory of coffee were the coffee merchants in England. They contained rows of large hessian sacks full of beans which I could plunge my arms into and scoop up a handful. I liked the feel and the smell of the beans. My father often took me to coffee merchant on his forays to restock this essential supply. As a child, I never liked the taste of coffee, but I always loved the smell.

I remember grinding the beans in a device with a curved metal arm which sat on top of a wooden base. As one endlessly turned the arm the beans were ground exceedingly slowly and eventually produced a conical pile of coffee in a small wooden draw at the base of the grinder.

I start the day in front of the espresso machine, check there is enough water and beans. My gleaming stainless steel masterpiece is aptly named Cafe del Opera. Made it Italy of course. Once the power in on, it slowly groans into life as the boiler heats up and the copper pipes expand.