SO MUCH MORE TO ENJOY

We sat across from one another, dark eyes transfixed and attentive to one another’s words, I to her native language, she to my adopted one. Twenty-five years later, with little contact and many countries in between, it was comforting, heartening, to be able to reconnect so effortlessly, as if our legs were just as toned as they had been back then, as if our skin were just as taught and smooth. As with our unadulterated appearances, we could be real with one another. In unhurried, timeless fashion, the themes and stories and details emerged with ease: no superficial, forced chitchat, no awkward silences.

The chorreadas and café brought to us were equal parts steamy and fresh. Their simplicity contrasted sharply with the accumulated complexities looming within each of us at this phase of a woman’s life: gratitude and pride yet uncertainty and exhaustion, readiness for something else but not yet clear as to what. The seemingly sudden arrival of this new era that finally affords us time to exhale, pause, and look around can, at the same time, numb and stall us. The words flowed back and forth over the plates and mugs below us as the steam rose from them between us.

I had enjoyed chorreadas before, but had clearly never eaten one across the table from someone who had grown up with the tradition, whose father grew the corn on their own land, whose mother ground it with the mortar and pestle before she combined the few, ancient ingredients, tended them over the fire, and dutifully, yet lovingly, served them to her family. I sipped my coffee, which had been planted and tended and grown and harvested and dried and roasted within walking distance of our heavy, hand-hewn chairs, then pulled my attention from the conversation to pick up my knife and fork, briefly contemplating my approach.

In my left hand I lifted the small ramekin of natilla (a thinner, darker, more sour cousin of the thick, white sour cream to the north) from atop the chorreada, poured some onto the warm chorreada, and used the knife to spread it over the golden, textured surface of the savory corn tortilla-like pancake as large as the plate. My North American muscle memory kicking in and transferring to my current circumstances, without much practical forethought, I proceeded to hold it in place with the fork in my left hand and cut it into strips, then smaller pieces, with the knife in my right hand. As the conversation progressed, the process beneath my hands unfolded in sloppy slow motion. While the delicious combination made it to my mouth, something about it all felt incredibly awkward.

As my old friend and colleague continued to share her story, I glanced up at her and was mesmerized as, in the smoothest of motions, she daintily tore off a piece of the chorreada with her fingers, dipped it into the ramekin of natilla, and gracefully put it directly in her mouth, hands then returning to the plate, with little fanfare, to grab another bite between words. The ramekin sat on top of the chorreada, directly in the center, exactly where the cook had placed it, and precisely where it had stayed on its journey to our table — it was all so very simple. In that moment, I saw the flash of everything else in my life I had been overcomplicating and felt a yearning for simplicity in it all, a yearning to confront and lose my attachments, a yearning to just make a damn decision.

Without saying a word, I put down my fork and knife, tore off a piece of my own chorreada, and followed suit. There was no need to clean our greasy fingers in between bites when there was still so much more to enjoy. The process of eating with our hands seemed to ground the conversation too, keep it real, maintain the focus on what really mattered, limit the distractions with no clinking and scratching of metal on porcelain. When her plate was nearly clear and the sheen from the oil on her fingers caught my eye, I stood up and grabbed a few napkins from the empty table next to us. Without speaking, I handed one to her: a silent gracias for the unspoken cultural lesson, for the reminder to not complicate things so much, for the nudge to not fall back on habitual ways of doing things without first pausing and feeling for a simpler way, for her unabashed vulnerability.

Before then, the connection and origin hadn’t dawned on me. Chorreada, the simple yet satisfying corn tortilla-like pancake, and chorreador, described in “Experience Costa Rican Coffee with the Chorreador” as the “humble yet iconic symbol of Costa Rican coffee culture, [which] epitomizes the essence of tradition and simplicity in coffee brewing. Rooted in the homes of Costa Rica, this rustic coffee maker, comprising a wooden stand and a cloth filter known as a ‘bolsa’, offers a unique approach to coffee preparation. By placing ground coffee in the bolsa and gently pouring hot water over it, the chorreador facilitates a slow, graceful drip of coffee into the cup below.” Chorreada translates to dripping, signifying the process of the corn batter dripping onto the hot pan. Similarly, chorreador embodies the simple tool that allows the brewing coffee to drip. Would all our choices, in word and deed, be so clear and direct.

Just as the chunky batter spreads wide and thin on the hot pan, and the smooth coffee drips from the bolsa to the cup, at major life transitions, our lives can feel like they’re slowly flowing away from us. But as the warmth of the pan solidifies the batter, and the heat of the water causes the dry coffee grounds to bloom and rise, the warmth of friendship can bind us together, and in doing so, bring us back to ourselves. Just as the cup below fills, drip by drip, these slow drips of reconnection can fill us up too. They can remind us who we were, show us who we have become, and extract the best of us, ready to be shared.

Work Cited

"Experience Authentic Costa Rican Coffee with the Chorreador." The Tico Times, 21 Nov. 2023, https://ticotimes.net/2023/11/21/experience-authentic-costa-rican-coffee-with-the-chorreador.

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