Chai.

There is something absolutely gorgeous called Iranian chai, which is found in old, slightly musty places with red checkered table cloths sandwiched between the table and the glass top. 

There is always the old man with a fur cap sitting at the entrance, his big yellowing eyes looking magnified from behind his thick glasses. The time stops and watches the world go by,  as the old man hits a little bell signalling over a hunched waiter. The waiter has a towel on his shoulder which he uses to mop tables even before the people vacate their chairs.

The tea is hot and sweet, with cardamom and only a whiff of ginger. The tea cups are non descript and shapeless, but it doesn't matter. The tea is best consumed on dark, rainy days when the sky looks particularly gloomy. 

The small, slightly burnt bun slathered with delicious blobs of butter, which accompanies the tea, becomes a part of your memories which remain untouched for a long time. 

Then many years later, when you walk past a defunct Iranian joint, you tell your friends how you once missed an English Literature lecture to have bun maska and chai for ten rupees.