The Smackdown: sundry tangents (4)

Hereafter you'll find what newspapermen call "color." Profoundly candid close-ups. Startlingly oddball compositions. Endlessly inventive camera angles -- you know the kind.
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Sarkis examines the up-and-under of his naked portafilter. (Did it himself, I hear. Not with a computer-coordinated CNC vertical lathe like some of us, but what do you expect from a faux finisher of hardwood urbanist interior furnishings?)

One of the Cypriot's many astounding hobbies that, er, augmented the main event. I kid you not. Silkworms. "I brought dem from California in a feelm canister," said he. Rumor has it, he rolls 'em and smokes 'em between weekend Cubans.

My Yemen Mokha on three days' rest. Brewed though a denuded portafilter and into the Bodum double-walled shot glass, it might as well be puffed air on air! No wonder we were high.

Now THAT's appetizing. Nothing like lip marks, milk crust and some barista fingerprints to mar such a spectacle. I do apologize. Musta grabbed the nearest empty receptacle in a panic after throwing the lever. A victim of my own concentration and timing.

The ladies and the offspring involved. Even they were agog ... at the ruckus, anyway (they chose semi-parallel pursuits in the next room. As in, "YOUR husband does weird dances in front of his e61 too?!").

An end product. Nate took this pic. A bit yellow, but not entirely besmirching of the marvel before him. This is a Bodum tumbler -- a bigger version of the shot glasses shown above.

We about died. Sarkis, thoroughly exasperated with us for dumping what he thought were perfectly drinkable shots, insists on using one of them to demonstrate for us his morning routine. Instructions: Pull a shot, shielding face from errant channeling. Pour milk into tiniest frothing pitcher known to man. Rudely blast with over-torqued steam arm until the pinkie finger elegantly (!) affixed to the bottom of the pitcher can't take it any more. Dump into shot glass. Then ...

Swirl madly with the business end of a thermometer. Call it "latte art."

Stars. I forget where my laughter turned to croaking. Jake busted a neck vein. And Sarkis, frankly, downed the thing like he was shooting a Baby Guinness. Hysterical, that Cypriot. Note, again, the pinkie.