My Grandfather’s Copper Dallah and the Smell of Cardamom

Some people inherit watches, or books, or old jackets.
I inherited a dallah—a long-spouted Arabic coffee pot—tarnished copper, blackened at the base, dented in quiet places.

It sits on a shelf in my kitchen, unused but undefeated.
Every time I look at it, I remember the smell of cardamom and coffee rising together in his tiny apartment in southern Tehran.

🔥 Ritual in a Tiny Kitchen

My grandfather wasn’t a barista. He didn’t own a scale or talk about flavor notes. But every Friday morning, he made gahwa the same way:

1. Water first, in the copper dallah.
2. A generous handful of ground coffee with husks.
3. A cracked green cardamom pod or two.
4. A low flame. No rush.

No milk. No sugar. Just heat, bitterness, spice, and patience.

☕ The Taste of His Hands

His hands shook a little near the end, but he never spilled a drop.
He poured with slow reverence into tiny porcelain finjān cups, lined with golden rims.
The coffee was muddy, bitter, perfumed, and strong enough to wake the walls.

I hated it at first. Then I grew into it—like growing into silence.

📿 More Than a Drink

For him, coffee wasn't about staying awake. It was about slowing down.

While it brewed, he’d do tasbih with his prayer beads.
While we sipped, he’d tell stories.
Always the same ones:
- The garden he lost in Abadan
- The time he met a lion cub in Khorramshahr
- The first radio he ever bought

The coffee was just a bridge—between then and now, between us.

🪶 Final Note

Every time I crush a cardamom pod into my brew, I hear his voice.

Soft Farsi.
Small stories.
Big heart.
Bitter coffee.

Some cups live forever, even if you stop drinking them.

— from the quiet shelf at Anteiku