Coffee on a Copper Tray

Sarajevo, Dec 2024

The wet chill of the morning quickly dissipated as I entered Andar Cafe, nestled in the heart of Sarajevo. I had heard about Maida, the cafe’s owner, and her legendary Bosnian coffee. Today, I was finally here to experience it for myself.

I could tell who she was as soon as I entered, the woman sitting comfortably in the corner working on some piece of art that resembled a woven tapestry, with a half-full porcelain mug next to her. Maida greeted me with a warm smile, her eyes sparkling with the kind of energy that makes you feel immediately at home. “Welcome,” she said, standing to make her way to the coffee bar.

“Hi! I hear you offer a coffee-brewing tutorial sometimes?” I asked hopefully.

She wasted no time, pulling out a copper tray prepped with a delicate dzezva and a two jars of coffee grounds nearby on the counter. “This is the traditional way,” she explained. “You can use regular coffee grounds from the machine, or these, the dibek coffee grounds,” she pointed at the second jar and I could tell from her intonation that this was the good stuff.

“We’ll use dibek, it’s much better,” she continued. “These are ground the traditional way, by hand, so they are the most fresh and they brew so very nicely.”

I smelled the two for comparison, and agreed that the dibek’s aroma was superior–rich and earthy, radiating the same warmth as a sunlit flower field. We got started with the process, and I took as many mental notes as possible.

Making Bosnian Coffee: A Step-by-Step Guide

• Heat the Water: Start by heating a small amount of water.
• Add Coffee: Pour the hot water over two-three spoonfuls of finely ground coffee in the dzezva (coffee pot), but don’t fill it all the way.
• First Boil: Place the dzezva over a flame. As the coffee begins to boil and froth, remove it from the heat.
• Add More Water: Add a bit more hot water to the pot to top it off.
• Mix and Foam: mix the top layer gently. Spoon the foam, or kajmak, into your fildzan (coffee cup).
• Pour: Carefully pour the coffee into the cup, aiming for a nice layer of foam on top.

“You know, in our culture they say that if a woman can make Bosnian coffee with a good kajmak, that’s when she’s ready to marry,” Maida teased as I concentrated on the delicate process.

“I’ll remember that!” I laughed, carefully following along. The ritual felt both mesmerizing and intimate, a dance of technique that connected me to the culture. “How about you?” I asked, intrigued. “Is your coffee-making perfect?”

“Maybe one day,” she laughed, her demeanor turning soft as she brought our coffee from the bar to a table on its gleaming copper tray, complete with a dish of rahat lokum—sweet, pastel-colored confections that seemed to invite indulgence. These too were a custom to serve with Bosnian coffee, either of the local vanilla or rose varieties.

“That’s it for brewing, but the drinking has it’s own technique, too,” Maida said, handing me my fildzan filled with the rich, aromatic coffee. “Now, for the sugar.”

I followed her lead, dipping a sugar cube into the coffee, stirring it around, biting it, and then sipping the coffee. The contrast of bitter and sweet was exquisite.

“You see why I insist on sugar cubes?” Maida asked with a grin. “If it’s not served with a cube, I take it without any sugar at all.”

After our lesson, Maida told me the most important thing is to enjoy and drink the coffee slowly. Bosnians don’t sit down for coffee unless they have at least an hour to spend with it. She went back to her corner, but I felt inspired—I asked if I could sit and talk with her a while more. She seemed slightly surprised, but glad for the boldness. As we savoured our coffee together, Maida began to share stories of her grandmother, whose presence seemed to linger in every corner of the cafe.

“She would read the coffee grounds to make predictions about life,” Maida explained. “Whenever I had a new crush in high school, I’d rush to her for a coffee reading. I’d always make sure to leave a thumbprint in the cup—that’s how she’d predict when something would happen.”

I smiled, imagining young Maida eagerly awaiting her grandmother’s insights. “Do you still do it?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” Maida admitted. “It’s comforting, like a connection to her.”

Next, I asked her about her artwork. She called it Goblen, and asked if I wanted to try. She showed me how to insert the needle on a diagonal and string it through the canvas. The photo printed on the canvas was a regal woman with reddish-brown hair reading a book; essentially, it was colour-by-number, but with yarn.

We worked side by side, weaving threads and sharing stories. I managed to complete another small section of the image, and Maida congratulated me with genuine warmth. The whole affair, despite being a new and unique experience, felt so full of nostalgia, like the pages of an old book steeped in time as she invited me into her history. 

“At this rate,” she joked, “I’ll be lucky to finish it before spring. My grandmother used to make this type of art too, but she’d just start with a blank white background and have to copy the design from a photograph of a painting on the side. So I’m taking the easy way, really.”

Eventually, it was time to continue on with the day, although I so loved the feeling of this unexpected morning being something outside of time. I thanked Maida for the company and the inspiration. She smiled, handing me a small packet of coffee grounds. “Take these home. When you make your own Bosnian coffee you’ll think of us. And you should come back through if you want, before you leave Sarajevo. I’ll be here.” And I knew that she meant it.