The Coffees of the World, a Finnish Take — Chapter 458: Bosnia

I’m from Finland; we drink more coffee per person than anywhere else in the world, so I guess I’m a coffee addict by design. On my travels I keep running into situations where I encounter a serious mismatch between what I want, and what’s available. Coffee-wise. The further south I distance myself from Finland, the smaller the coffee cups get.

Bosnia-Herzegovina, July 2025.

Coffee. It’s difficult. It’s really hard to get coffee.

My first attempt, at a gas station this morning, failed completely. I tried twice. Back home, this is the easiest thing in the world; you walk into any gas station, and there’s a big pot of coffee already brewed and waiting. We even have coffee brewers that utilize 5, or even 10 liter containers with a faucet. You just pour yourself a huge cup and go. No ordering, no waiting. Just a lot of coffee right away on demand.

The next place was a tiny bakery I luckily spotted on the side of the road at the edge of a town near Neum. With all the language barriers and confusing technical issues, it took ten minutes to get that coffee. I asked for a big coffee with milk. Sure enough, I got a small espresso with sugar.

Well, it’s coffee. Moving on.

Later on the road, I turn up at a gas station again. There’s cigarette smoke inside, and it actually makes for a certain kind of nostalgia. The guy at the counter has a huge coffee maker, a proper multi-function café machine. He could do lattes, he could do this, he could do that. There are even big cups on top of it, next to the espresso cups. A machine like that always makes me hopeful of actually getting something even close to what I crave. I ask for a big coffee. He shows me an espresso cup. Unbelievable. “Can I have a big coffee?” I say, gesturing with my hands — big, big. Sure enough, I get the espresso.

Such is life. Adapt to it.

Over the years, I’ve had my share of these. Early on, I asked for a big coffee instead of an espresso, and got a question back: “A double?” Double. That had to mean big. “Yes, yes, a double!” I was excited. What I got was two espressos in one cup. Which again, in retrospect, is exactly what one should expect… It’s a double espresso.

At some point I figured I’d try to ask for a latte instead. That word usually gets through, at least conceptually. First, of course, I’m offered an espresso. “Do you have a latte?” “Ah, coffee with milk?” “Yes, yes, coffee with milk!” And what do I get? An espresso, with a little bit of milk on the side.

Romania. It’s my all-time favorite country, and during my travels I’ve spent more time there than anywhere else. So at some point I made the effort to learn the most important words in the world in Romanian: “cafea mare cu lapte”. Big coffee with milk. My frequent use of the phrase even garnered compliments from locals on my pronunciation.

The first time I put it to use, I was riding over a mountain pass with a few cafés and small food joints. At a little wooden coffee shack, I nervously tried it on the lady working there. “Cafea mare cu lapte.” She understood and smiled. She could obviously tell I was a foreigner, and my pronunciation wasn’t perfect yet, but a few words in the local language always go a long way. Okay, I thought. This is it. Now I’m going to score.

What I got was a small disposable paper cup, filled halfway with coffee. Sipping it amid the beautiful scenery, I double-checked my wording; yes, I had said it just right… At that point I kind of began to let go of the Coffee-Gate in my head and just appreciate what I get. I’m not going to allow this to ruin my days anymore.

Then again, sometimes the tables turn. I usually stay in cheap, modest places on my travels, and generally I’ll find some means of making coffee, and if not, I have my own coffee making gear on me at all times. But every now and then the accommodation will have a filter coffee machine, the kind we use in Finland to brew our large quantities. Each time I see one, I’m happy as a pig in mud; I know I’m going to get the kind of coffee I like.

Once, in Romania, I was just starting to fiddle with the filter machine in the kitchen of the place I was staying at when the host walked in. With the little English he knew, and a lot of gesturing, he stopped me: no, no, no, don’t bother with that machine, I’ll make you proper coffee, just a moment.

I panicked. What followed was a series of really weird excuses and hand waving, all to politely turn down a wonderful host who was only trying to be friendly and hospitable. I just wanted my precious filtered coffee. By the cupfuls.

I remember once wondering how the older men who sit at cafés in these countries talking to one another for hours on end survive on just a few tablespoons’ worth of coffee. Maybe they just wet their tongues with it, and that’s their way of enjoying it?

You know, all of this, it isn’t actually a complaint. Of course the issues I describe are rooted in cultural difference. I love these countries and hold their people in the highest regard. And how they choose to have their coffee is their choice, not something for this coffee police to judge. But it is something I make note of daily, because I grew up on something else. And I’m no coffee connoisseur, far from it. The people in these countries probably wouldn’t think much of Finnish filtered coffee. It’s just what I’m used to, that’s all.

On the bright side, being made to drink whatever coffee is on offer lets me explore a small niche: the coffees of the world. And that’s nice. Also, it puts me in my place – when in Rome…

Back to Bosnia. A couple of days later, I was in Lukomir, in an utterly beautiful old village. I was staying at a small, ramshackle place, the kind I absolutely love, with a lovely host and hostess. In the morning I asked for coffee and was treated to a “whole pot” of it. The pot was tiny, a traditional džezva, and held maybe two small espressos’ worth. But it was very good coffee, and I drank it on the terrace, looking at the gorgeous mountainside. A perfect moment.

It was kind of funny, though. In Finland, a whole pot of coffee in the morning might be close to a liter. In Bosnia, a whole pot of coffee is, well, small. But if I were having the coffee I’m used to, I’d more likely be shivering in the cold, looking at sleet and greyness. So there’s that.

So, to sum up:

Big means small, double… still small, latte means espresso with a splash of milk, and a whole pot means two sips. And yes, I’m aware I just wrote an entire chapter complaining about cup sizes.

Maybe all of this is just the universe telling me I should cut down on coffee?