The coffee reminded me of a few things:
The taste of Laphroig whiskey.
The smell of dry caked mud on football boots.
A pint of beamish in a plastic glass, sitting in the sun at a summer music festival while you’re wasted with your wife’s cousin and you sip slowly while he makes a tight little roll up and you both wait for the next band to come on.
The love heart patter on top of the coffee looks like Julie Christie’s lips.
They didn’t have bacon sandwich so I had a Danish pastry instead.