We didn't meet — I saw a cup they made, and thought it was the most beautiful cup in the universe. It was delicate, almost see-through. If I only ever had one cup, that would be it.
Excuse me, I asked the shopkeeper, do you think it'll break if I pour espresso in it? I'm not sure, she said. This master strives to make the thinnest porcelain they can manage; it may be decorative. But it was time to leave, so we made a plan: I would buy it, and she would ask the master directly. It is called an espresso set, she said, looking at the till. Perhaps it would hold.
I returned home, made an espresso, drank it from that cup, and it felt divine. A few hours later, the master got back to us:
"…In theory they can have boiling water put in them but I would maybe put a small amount of milk or cold water in them first just to lessen the shock to the piece…"
In theory. (Cold water in my espresso?!)
In theory, this delicate, exquisite piece of work could indeed be used for its intended functional purpose. In theory, it could do more than sit on my shelf. I don't think they ever checked. They achieved the goal of creating a marvellous form of the most beautiful cup in the world.
But what good is a coffee cup without coffee?
