I met a man who takes coffee to a religious level. Calling him a Barista would elevate the commercial coffee complex to a level not worthy of its product. I met this coffee guru in the most unlikeliest of places, St. Louis. St. Louis is not known for being at the forefront of culinary evolution. And being from St. Louis I am not open to trying new things. Which explains a lot about why
you don't go there for new cuisine. My wife had to drag me to meet my new guru.
It all started when we came to St. Louis for Christmas. We were here for a few days when the coffee jones set in and retail coffee was not an option. Mass-produced, chemically cured beans require over-roasting to mask the metallic taste. Recently I have become a fan of pour-over coffee shops. They make one-cup-at-a-time coffee to order, using single estate bean, produced in small quantities to maximize the quality of the product. So the jones was for pour-over. My wife Cynthia, who uses "those internets" to perfection, was able to find a place that fit our need. "Cool, where is it?" I asked, thinking that this new hip coffee shop would be in U-City or Clayton. U-City is as close to bohemian as you can get in St. Louis. And Clayton is the center for all government and business for the county. Wrong. "It's located in South City." I immediately blew it off thinking nothing good comes from there. This is the neighborhood I grew up in. I had moved on and already accepted Kaldi's poor excuse for pour-over.
She decided to go to yoga, again in the same neighborhood, me still scratching my head wondering who would put a yoga studio in that neighborhood. And of course she went up there on her own, even though she had all of the Wilkins clan advising her to not go to South City by herself. She did, and discovered a true artist.
His name is Scott. His coffee shop is named Sump. He's a lawyer by trade who left it all to pursue his passion: coffee and motorcycles. He spent ten minutes describing the bean, roast and brewing method to my wife, who was bringing me a cup to "show me" (because I'm from Missouri) that you can't judge a neighborhood by its crack houses alone. After a fifteen minute ride in the car, the coffee she brought was just on the cool side, reducing optimal flavor potential. I anticipated a poor representation. Taking a sip, I realized she found a true artist. It was clean and offered several notes of flavor before finishing off with a big smooth nut accent. There was no aftertaste, so its proper roast left no room for acidity to spoil the last nut-filled flavor note. I looked at her and said, "Take me to this coffee guru."
The next day was awesome. We went to Sump to meet the man and get more of that sweet black gold. As we discussed the coffee, its origin and roast, I thought about the baristas in most coffee shops (save for the few in the Twin Cities that rise above the standard) who serve me coffee. I thought about how it it made and served, whether it is drip, bar drink or pour-over... it is always the same, thoughtlessly grinding, pouring and serving in the exact manner provided in the manual they were given. The goal is to make the product to specification and serve the next customer. That's fine if you are heading to work and need a caffeine dose for the morning pick me up. But if I'm going to take the time to enjoy a cup of coffee, the last place I'm going to stop is Starbucks.
This genius autodidact Barista gave us a poetic recital of the journey the bean took from it's origins of a bud growing in its humid climate, offered by a single estate grower, to a roaster who appreciated the improbability of its existence. How rain as a delivery mechanism carrying enough nitrogen released by lightning created an exchange of a simple sweet kiss of sucrose to the humus the coffee plant lives in. How said roaster proceeded to roast the bean to enhance the complexity of flavors, finally making its way to his door. How the Barista weighed the bean, set the grinder for the method of brew and the delivery of the perfect temperature water, resembling a shaman ritual of counter clockwise concentric circles... all faded from our attention as we became entranced by his knowledge and absolute love of his work. I can't wait until our next trip to St. Louis.
It's that time of year when we open our wallets or purses and give to those who are less fortunate than us. Soon we won't have to worry about giving, as the government will properly allocate all of our money to the best recipients, but until then, we need to give.
