Because the distractions, or should I say attractions, of home prove just too tempting, I'm writing this at a coffee shop an appropriate distance away from our house. The voluntary commute does me good; to the coffee shop to set me in a working mood, and away from it enough of a task that I'm driven to spend at least a couple of fruitful hours.
I've picked a place in Pasadena that goes by the name Intelligentsia.
It is everything the moniker suggests —industrial-chic decor with exposed piping; bare brickwork here, a deep blue wall there, dark wood everywhere, all of it reclaimed from something grand and imposing.
There are those underpowered tungsten bulbs that are all the rage — filaments barely aglow. Water is stored in laboratory glassware, an aesthetic that extends to the coffee-making, which is done the "cupping" way, or the manner in which coffee experts taste the product.
A paper filter in a funnel standing over a beaker gets swirled with hot water to wash away residues and warm everything that will come in contact with the coffee. The beans are ground to order, added to the filter and hot water at a precise temperature is poured over the grounds.
As the mixture foams, the pourer waits, and then pours the water in circular patterns first one way then another. The entire apparatus sits on a digital scale to ensure she always pours the identical volume of water each time.
The resultant coffee tastes very little like coffee. Well, at least the coffee I know. First of all, it's not particularly hot, and apparently that's intentional. Rather than being the dark tasting, largely chocolaty drink I'm used to, this coffee is startlingly complex, with some darker tones, but is mainly bright and fruity, even tangy. For the first time, I thought of coffee as a berry drink, and not as a roasted seed drink.
I'm not sure I liked it.
But it wasn't my first time there and this isn't a cheap cup of coffee, so was I merely here to disprove any suggestion that the name of the shop reflected the kind of people who patronised it? Not really. A few days ago, I read an article about one of the suppliers to the chain, a Salvadoran coffee producer who goes through extraordinary lengths to ensure that her coffee beans are world class.
It takes manic obsessiveness, a lot of learning, as well as a lot of hard work, so I thought I owed it to her to go back to Intelligentsia and sample, if not her coffee, at least someone's epicurean version of the stuff.
According to Intelligentsia , the coffee I chose is from a mid-sized family farm in Columbia called La Loma. Apparently, the cup I'm drinking can be described thus: "Bursting with red fruits, La Loma greets you with red raspberry, cranberry cocktail and notes of sherbet. The acidity of citrus fruit is in perfect balance with the juicy mouthfeel. The finish brings a pleasant tanginess and notes of creme brulee."
Writing alongside this performance in a cup, it struck me that the requirements of a good beverage were similar to the demands of, say a good novel; that there be sufficient complexity within, with smooth segues from one idea (or flavour) to another, and that there be an overarching theme and sense of journey.
If each sip was a scene, the cooling cup was becoming a different scene every minute. The tanginess was now dangerously close to sourness and I think the show was over.
I'm still not sure I liked it.
Gautam Raja is a journalist based in the US.
