One of the things that remind me of my childhood is the scent of coffee. I’d wake up to get ready for school and my father would be there in the kitchen, newspaper in one hand and a cup of hot coffee in the other. He loved it fresh, loved to look for beans wherever in the world his job took him, and he loved to brew it. The best place for me as a child was there in the kitchen, with him.

As I grew older, it was inevitable that I loved coffee as well. My college friends gently poked at my perceived snootiness (I always said “no thanks” to instant) but quickly learned the error of their ways when I showed them what real coffee tasted like, how the complex flavors played out over tongue and palette. We became coffee aficionados, always looking for the best cup in town. Along the way, we tasted innumerable cups, cups which became witness to many things we did: I met friends and lovers, made business contacts and watched the city grow from the vantage point of various cafes and restaurants. And of course, we all grew as well, from students to ad men, business folk, entrepreneurs, NGO workers and professionals in law, medicine and architecture.

But what gets us together (and a large part of what keep us together) is our common love for coffee. Hot or cold, in a tall glass or demitasse, flavored or black as devil’s kiss – if it’s good, we’re there.

All thanks to my dad.

He’s much older now, and his days of traveling the world are pretty much done with. But whenever I bring him beans to roast, I see his eye light up. And there, in the same kitchen I grew up in, I watch him make coffee in his special manner.

When he’s done, he pours me a cup and we talk, father and son, enveloped in the scent of coffee.