Familiar

It’s nice when you walk into a shop and the proprietress knows exactly what you want: in my case, 200g of coffee grounds. This shop, permeated by that dark, enchanting, lively redolence, only sells coffee beans. A large green copper roaster sits in the middle of the floor between the paper-strewn desk and the large tins of coffee. It must have once been a subcomponent of some ancient steam locomotive.

Kyoto has many shops that only sell one thing, like coffee beans or distinctly shaped candles, or only things made out of a single material, like bamboo. The lack of choice expedites your purchase: what possibly could you be after except for coffee? What you get to savor is the preparation process: the beans are carefully scooped out and measured; you always ask for 200 grams but you usually get a little bit more; into the grinder they go, churned and then poured into a bag that you can hold to your nose on your way home.