The Waiting Game

2842 - perhaps not the fastest way to the Super Bowl.

Somewhere along the line, I seem to have gone off and into the End Zone.

Years ago, I couldn't stand football, or "football" as we called it (don't ask). Then, around 2004, I secured season tickets and started going to the games. Back then, the Ravens just didn't fare too well and by 2006, I was so inundated with work I ended up only attending two games that year. Not good.

But for whatever reason, I've gotten back into Ravens Football again and decided that I should buy myself a PSL (personal seat license) for the right to buy season tickets. Even today (as in 1996 when it started), I still find it foolish for people to pay cold money for the "right" to buy tickets. It's really just absurd. But seeing that Fan is short for "fanatic" it makes sense. You have to be fanatical to spend that much money.

Prices for PSLs today have skyrocketed into the stratosphere. People are asking for twenty grand for centerfield seats. That's crazy.

With a fan base as crazy as the Ravens enjoy, PSLs have been sold out for years, but you can get a new one (or one that someone else has given up) by joining The Wait List.

The Wait List is a limited list of 3,000 people who pay fifty bucks to join, plus twenty-five dollars per year to maintain their position on The List. By the way, that price is per seat. So for a four seat position, one pays $200 upfront and $100 each year to maintain position. Of course, all the money you paid to the Ravens will be applied to your eventual purchase of the PSLs.

Signing the paperwork reminded me of a buddy in Northern Virginia. An American chap with a lifelong love for cricket. An avid player, he petitioned to join in his twenties and won his entry into the club almost ten years ago. He was on their wait list for thirty years.

Talking to my Ravens representative, who tried to steer me towards the PSL Marketplace to quickly (and expensively) purchase a PSL, told me that my wait time on the list would probably be fifteen years.

Guess that's better than thirty...

Bona Vita Electric Kettle

Starting off with cold water.

During last year's coffee industry trade show, I ran across a small booth with one guy. He was hawking a new drip coffee brewer that was supposed to deliver water at 200F - the ideal temperature for coffee brewing. We talked and I was very interested in bringing these brewers to our customers but they wouldn't be ready for a few months due to UL listing, importation and whatever ills plagues the import manufacturer.

Fast-foward to a couple of weeks ago and Todd finally made it out to see us with some gifts in tow: the aforementioned coffee brewer, along with their new electric water kettle. In case you haven't been following, hand pour water kettles have been all the rage in the barista ranks for the last few years. And while there are a few nice ones on the market, they're usually pretty pricey and are subject to thermal loss during use. HarioUSA has been threatening for a couple of years to import their electic Buono kettle but they've been lazy to do so, and it's such a pain in the butt to do business with Hario distributors that it's easier to just abandon their line altogether - especially when there are easier options available.

The Bona Vita Electric Kettle is one such option.

Manufactured in China, the BVEK features stainless steel construction, a nice tapered pouring nozzle, simple electronics and ease of use. The lid fits securely to the top and features pressure relief holes that can double as an orifice for your temperature probe.

The bottom of the kettle and the base are made from high-impact plastics and feature a switch, located beneath the handle, and a red indicator light to let you know when the thing is "on". Overall, construction is nice and it feels good, though the finger relief on the handle for ergonomics isn't as comfortable as you'd prefer.


Brewing a pour over with the Bona Vita.

Originally I thought I would conduct these tests in the real world of Spro, but it can be so darn busy in there that it's easier for me to take the unit elsewhere where I have the time and space to concentrate and give it a try.

The unit itself is compact and smart-looking. The design has just the right blend of stainless and black plastic, making it pleasing in the workspace. For the home user, it's absolutely brilliant. For the professional barista considering its deployment in a shop environment, there are a few things to consider.

First off, it's reasonably well-built and I do expect it to take a bit of a beating, and if you can avoid dropping the kettle, it should last quite some time. My concern lies with the number of cycles the unit is designed to take. If you're serving 100 cups per day and heating each batch of water to order (or reheating), you could be talking 75,000 cycles per year. It might take the home user a lifetime to reach that many cycles.

But that's not to discredit the Little Kettle That Can. In the few days that I've been playing with it, and the week prior being mauled by the Spro baristas, the BVEK seems like a winner. The construction is good, the design is pleasant and the price point blows even the regular Hario non-electric Buono Kettle away.

For the purposes of this test, I used the BVEK to heat 32 ounces of water from 60.7F to boiling point (212F) and the auto shut off of the unit. With an ambient temperature of 68F, the kettle started steaming (145F) around three minutes and reached 212F at 6 minutes 2 seconds. Not bad performance for a little 120volt kettle. Though, if you were using this in a professional environment, six minutes is quite a long stretch that could be mitigated by running multiple kettles constantly heating.

At Spro, we only serve 12 ounce brewed coffees. For these kinds of situations, how does the kettle perform with lower volumes of water? Typically, a 12 ounce coffee absorbs two ounces of water in the brew cycle. The next test involved heating 14 ounces of water (65.4F) to boiling, resulting in a time of two minutes and fifty-three seconds. Definitely this heating time is well within striking range of any brew cycle, roughly halving the 32 ounce time.

However, heating 14 ounces of water does not allow for cup preheating or hot rinsing of the paper filter. A twenty ounce sample of water (65.1F) took just under four minutes (3:57) to reach the boiling point.


The overall look of the handsome Bona Vita Kettle.

From an operational standpoint, there are a few more things to consider. If you're pulling your water from a hot water tank and using the kettle to stabilize temperature, then you'll experience much quicker heat times. Also, the test times here are run to the boiling point when the kettle's auto-shutoff feature kicks in. With a thermometer in hand, and the 200F goal, you should be able to shave off up to 30 seconds (or more) from the heat times.

While not as finely tapered as the Hario Buono kettle, the Bona Vita's taper provides for smooth pouring action, as well as fine stream control. Those of you used to the Buono will find the transition quite easy.

One concern that I do have with the Bona Vita is the bottom of the kettle and it's electrical contacts. Even though they are recessed and probably designed as best as possible to reduce shock, my concern is for use in wet and messy environments - especially those run by messy, disorganized baristas. Stray grounds may get into the contacts and muck things up, which is more reason for every barista to run a clean station.

Another potential problem, though a minor one, is the length of the electric cord. At 29 inches, it's plenty long for use on a kitchen counter or backbar, but if your electrical requirements require a bit of a run underneath the counter (as it is at Spro), you will need an extension cord.

In summary, the Bona Vita Electric Kettle is a winner. Either for the home user (excellent) or the professional coffee shop (very good). We will be stocking them at Spro and while they are simple on/off kettles, the next generation Todd promises me will have programmable temperature controls so that you can offer a variety of water temperatures for coffee or tea.

Autobahning

Just a leisurely cruise on the Autobahn.

It occurred to me a couple of days ago on the four hour drive from Bamberg to Berlin just what this trip was all about.

The night before, I made my way down to the Christmas Market in Bamberg and found an unlikely ally in the form of the roasted chestnut guy. Ended up hanging with him for most of the evening, talking story and learning the finer points of roasting chestnuts on an open fire. I had heard it before when he mentioned the Japanese and Chinese tourists who came to Germany.

Evidently, they come to Germany (and ostensibly the rest of Europe) on some sort of Power Tourist trip where they rush frantically across the nation in the span of four days, jump out at the tourist spots, snap photos of themselves at the spot, jump back on the bus and drive off to the next photo op.

I started thinking: am I one of these Power Tourists? I mean really, I'm only in each city a superficially short time. Yes, I'm visiting the places that I want to visit, but can I really get a feel for any place if I'm just jumping cities every night?

It wasn't until the next morning, about an hour up the A9 autobahn that I realized: this trip was never about going to any one city and soaking up the culture. This was about Auto Culture. This was about no holds barred driving pleasure, sprinkled with a nightly Christmas Market and auto manufacturer tour.


My favorite road sign.

I had rented a nice car, the BMW 118i, that could power down the autobahn easily at 180kph and hold pace at 210kph. I could roll with the larger cars on the autobahn. This was about pure driving pleasure.

I mean, where else in the world can you drive no holds barred? Germany is famed for its Autobahns. Hundreds of miles of unadulterated roadway spotted with runs marked by the white circle and three hash marks that means "all restrictions lifted" - it's automotive glory.

Naysayers (and probably my mom) will say that it's unsafe and dangerous to drive at those speeds. And certainly a crash at 130mph will do some serious damage to you, but these Germans have got everyone else beat.

I'll admit, when I first pulled onto the famed Autobahns, I was a bit scared. In America, the maximum speed limit is 75mph - and even then you're talking about potential fines and even arrest. I imagined that the Autobahns would be populated with crazy drivers bulletin past at insane speeds. That I would be blitzed by a constant procession of Ferraris, Lamborghinis and God knows what else. That my little BMW would be pushed to the side by a barrage of cars whizzing by at dizzying speeds and me fighting in their wake turbulence.

Truth be told, much of the Autobahn runs at 130kph or 80mph, it even drops down to 80kph in many places. So many of the legends of unadulterated speed were just that: legends. But when that white circle with the hash marks came up, oh boy!


Even the rain doesn't slow down the Autobahn.

It took me about an hour to get acclimated to cruising at 130kph. Then, with a little encouragement of some enthusiastic VW Golf drivers, we were suddenly pushing 180kph, then 190kph and then 200kph.

Before I knew it, that 130kph had transformed itself into 130mph.

At the car rental counter, the pretty agent told me that for 65 euros more she would rent me a BMW 650 convertible. Tempting. But I knew I would be visiting the center cities in Germany and a long, slender (and fast) car seemed impractical for street parking. The BMW 118i would suffice.

It's smart thinking for city commuting, but on the Autobahn you start to wonder what it would be like to boom past 200kph with a commanding roar of Bavarian power.

Past 180kph, the 118i pulled steadily to 200kph. But to push it up to 210kph took a bit longer, and then to push it past 210kph showed that it would take longer that I had steely nerve or available roadway.

Even at 200kph, the occasional Mercedes or Audi, or even Skoda, would blow by me with serious vengeance.

At a steady cruise at 200kph, I started to wonder: what are my tires rated? You hear stories of tire ratings and how tires can fail at prolonged high speeds. Could these sustained speeds cause the wear and destruction of my tires? What kind of injuries (or pernicious death) would I suffer with a blowout at 130mph?

I then started to wonder if I should have checked my tire pressure too before taking off today. Even as all these nervous thoughts filled my mind, I pushed them back with the notion that the engineers at BMW have anticipated all of this. They're used to driving at these speeds across their nation, they would have taken this into account and designed the car (and its tires) for just this kind of automotive exercise. I wonder just how much farther than 210kph I can take this...

The night before, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Wolfram's Audi S6 station wagon after a night of big, German beef and lovely wines. We were blasting along a two-lane divided highway, in the dense fog, at 250kph (that's about 155mph). I gripped the "Oh, Jesus" steps and feigned indifference.

During our conversation on that wild ride home, Wolfram related to me why this wasn't just okay but actually safe. Each highway side marker was spaced ten meters apart. Even in the dense fog, we could see five markers at a time, meaning that our visibility was 50 meters. Perfectly fine for our sustained speed.

He also explained the training involved in order to earn your German drivers license. Months of training and education, combined with a thorough understanding of the driving characteristics and physics of other road vehicles, such as trucks, busses and motorcycles. Add to that the insanely strict driving laws and very tough enforcement, which translates into Germany producing what is arguably the best and most disciplined drivers in the world.

For example, there's no passing on the right in Germany. Put the law aside, people go absolutely apeshit if you pass them on the right because it's insanely unsafe. And the speed limits are non-negotiable. As the limit drops, so do the drivers. 80kph means everyone is driving 80kph. A few kilometers over the speed limit can easily mean a 30-day license suspension. A few violations could mean revocation. The Germans are serious about their driving laws.


Pushing 210kph in the little BMW 118i.

In America, driving 130mph isn't inherently dangerous. In fact, I'm not worried about driving at speeds pushing 100mph. But what scares me at those speeds are the rest of the idiots on the road. Check out the jag-off in the left lane cruising at 55mph. He's there and he's going to stay there because, in America, driving is an entitlement.

Not to mention the driver in the right lane who's not paying attention and is not just going to move to the center lane, he's going all the way to the left without looking. It's his God-given right to do whatever he damn well pleases and when you crash into him at 95mph, you're dead.

In Germany, no one cruises in the left lane. Trucks, big vehicles and slow vehicles are required to remain in the right lane. Dudes who's cars can't get past 200kph stay in the center lane, and anyone who strays into the left lane knows to keep their eyes open on their rear and to get the hell out of the way.

On the Autobahn, you know that those vehicles are going to stay to the right. They're not moving left, and if they are, they're going to be looking for you. 200kph is no problem.

But it takes an enormous amount of focus and energy to drive at plus 200kph speeds. You've got to be on point and completely aware of everything and everyone around you. One wrong move and it's Game Over.

One might think that at 210kph, it'd be peachy keen in the left lane. Not so. At 210kph, you're still not the fastest vehicle on the Autobahn. Just outside of Hannover one night, I was passing on the left lane at about 200kph when I was blitzed from seemingly out of nowhere by a hyped up 5 Series BMW. He was coming at me so fast that I barely had time to process what I was seeing in the rearview mirror and move the hell out of his way.

Wolfram, who routinely cruises at dizzying speeds, agreed with me. It's fatiguing to drive at those speeds but, he noted, that at speeds above 240kph, you mainly focus on what's in front of you - because the cars cruising at plus 250kph are few and far between.

Needless to say, I didn't experience that on my trip.

5th Uganda Barista Championship

Barista Jonathan Ddumba presents to Head Judge Clare and sensory judges Miriam, Richard, Evelyn and Emma.

A few weeks ago, I received a call from David Roche of the Coffee Quality Institute. He was calling to ask me if I would be willing to go to Kampala again to be the head judge and trainer for their barista championship. He said they had been asking for me personally. An honor.

Not too long later, I found myself boarding yet another trans-Atlantic and trans-African flight to Uganda where we would be holding two days of barista workshops, one day of judges training and then three days of competition.


Surrounded by competitors for a "photo op."

Last year, I thought it was a bit odd to have a barista training literally hours before the competition. I mean, how much could the competitors digest, make changes and (perhaps) improve right before the championship. But I was tasked to do a job and I did what I could and shared as much information as possible on how to compete, methods of flow and even ways to improve your scores.

While I was at first a bit skeptical, I'm now a fan of. One of the greatest problems in barista competitions is the disconnect between competitor and judge. One person within the USBC once remarked that the WBC Rules and Regulations are the only training manual you would need, but the interpretation of those rules can vary wildly from judge to judge and competition to competition. Add to that the WBC's reluctance, or outright refusal, to provide materials and information to illuminate these areas and you've got a situation where only a small percentage of competitors have the ability to truly be competitive.


Joseph Kyeyune rocks it to the Finals.

Of course, the pundits will argue that it's a "level" playing field and that one doesn't need to have money to win. These are also the same people who never comment that those who win have also spent time training with the likes of World Barista Champion Fritz Storm - whose rates are in the thousands. So much for the average competitor...

Which is what the majority of the competing world is comprised of: average competitors trying to learn finer points of our craft and doing a better job in the world. Everyone wants to do well and win a trip to Vienna, but not everyone has the resources available to them. And that's what the barista workshops are designed to do: bring the information to the competitors before the competition when they will have some time to perhaps make changes and incorporate them into their performances.


Daphne awaiting lunch.

And that's what I see here in Kampala. Lots of passion. Lots of interest and the desire to do well and improve. So, after two days of instruction, we're off to the races.

The competition itself went very smoothly. With a resident WBC Certified Judge, the duties of Head Judge were split between myself and Clare - relieving me of the intensity that comes from Head Judging 26 competitors non-stop.

As with any competition, we want to judge the competitors on the same level at the rest of the world. Meaning that a score of "5" is equivalent to a "5" elsewhere in the world. What we don't want is a "5" in Uganda to mean a "3" at the World Championship. We want a realistic evaluation according to world standards, which is a difficult proposition when you're trying to wrangle local judges who've never seen competition before (or maybe never outside of their country).

In my world, there's a bit of pushing, prodding and even outright challenge to judges' evaluations. Scores go up, scores go down, but always with lots of information, discussion and detail as to why. The hardest part is getting the judges to write enough information on their sheets to be helpful to the competitor later.


Finalists Emma Katongole, defending champion Mark Okuta, two-time champion Roberts Mbabzi and Joseph Kyeyune.

As the competition winded down and the finalists announced, I looked over the scores compared to last years competition and was pleasantly surprised. The average scores had improved considerably. Only one disqualification this year compared to four in 2010. And the finalists all performed very strongly - one could easily see the improvements from the previous year.

When the Finals got rolling on the last day, the excitement was palpable. The Defending Champion Mark Okuta versus the former two-time champion and a slate of some very tough competitors. Quickly, four of the finalists pulled away from the field. Nearly 100 points would separate the fourth and fifth positions. While Simon's cultural smoked milk electrified the audience, Mark's tour of the coffee bean was fascinating and Salim's dazzling performance rocked, it was the former two-time champion, Roberts Mbabzi who came a calling to reclaim his title as Barista Champion of Uganda.


They said I was looking "smart" at the barista awards party.

Many hours later, after the partying was over, some of the competitors came to me to ask how they had done. What they really wanted to know is: how could they have lost? And: how did Roberts win again? I understood their question because it's common amongst those who don't take the title. There's always the wondering if the competition isn't somehow, fixed. Especially for someone who always seems to win.

I sat down with them and pulled up the electronic scoresheets that I keep on file as the Certifying Judge for a national championship. And I compared their scores. Even without the actual notes of the scoresheets, the scores tell a lot. The top four were very close. Each of them within striking range of the Champion spot. An improvement in this set of espressos, or an improvement in your professionalism, plus a slight mistake on the part of the Champion could easily have switched positions. Even hitting an even 4.5 on cappuccinos taste balance could have scored you the title.

In the end, I discussed it with them to show that there's nothing rigged about the competition. The scores reflect the performance. Maybe that one puck was off and you served it because it would burn time to redo the shot. That shot got you 1.5 in scores. Maybe it would be worth it to burn the additional 30 seconds to grab a 3.5 in scores? All things that have to be considered by the competitive barista.

I think they all left understanding the process a little bit better. Perhaps still not happy that they "lost" but at least with a better understanding.

And if I can leave a place with a better understanding of our craft, then it's been a worthwhile trip.

Two Guys Out On The Town

The nightlight is kicking at Cayenne.

It's nearly two a.m., the music is thumping, bodies writhe before us, a plate of grilled meat is half eaten, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label is nearly finished, and for reasons I don't quite understand, I've been smoking a shisha the whole night when a crazy (but very friendly) central Asian dude comes up to our table to offer greetings and shots of tequila.

After nearly a full bottle of Black Label, tequila of unknown origin has to be a bad idea. Somehow, the guy knows my girlfriend lives in Mexico City, asking me to bring back a bottle of tequila the next time I come back to Kampala (as though I'm here every few weeks). The tequila isn't bad - maybe Cuevo Tradicional (or similar). Slightly sweet and tart, and unlike America, there's not a salt shaker or wedge of lime in sight (gracias a Dios).

We've been here for hours and while sitting at our reserved table, I've seen the club go from comfortably open to insanely packed. It's a madhouse in here. And it's the most diverse crowd I've seen yet. Americans, Europeans, Asians, Africans - everyone is here. Including that hooker I see at my hotel bar every night.

That's not to say Cayenne is a hooker bar, because it's not. People of all strata are here - mainly middle to upper class because everyone else can't afford the cover charge. Andreas knows the owner so we're comfortably ensconced at the best table in the house.

It's not the occasional hooker, or the older white men with young African girls, it's the sex tourists that surprise me. Not the stereotypical male hunting young girls (or boys), but rather the new breed of sex tourists: White (American or European) women of all ages on the hunt for real African cock. As one of our friends from the American Embassy tells us, the white girls ignore him (he's also white) because they're looking to get plowed by the fantasy.

Women sex tourists hunting men. If that isn't gender equality, then I don't know what is...

Everyone knows Andy (or so it seems). As we sit there, I meet a wide range of people who come to our table to say hi. Promoters, coffee industry types and one guy who at one point evidently was the head of Mossad in Tel Aviv. I make a mental note not to screw with that guy.

It's interesting and fun but at one point, I find myself asking "what are we doing here?" We're just sitting there, like uninteresting guys. Five years ago, Andy and I would be on the prowl. Shooting and looting. In a place like this, it would be Game On and out of control.

Instead, I'm smoking a shisha.

Two guys, once pirates, now committed, sitting at a reserve table with bottle service and smoking a shisha at 3am. Guess it's time to go home.

Robusta, Naturally!

Welcome to Great Lakes Coffee - the honorary Consulate of Greece.

After eating a bit too much barbecue and partying together in Houston this past April, Andy invited me to visit his coffee factory the next time I was in Kampala (you know, because I always just happen to swing out to Africa).

And since I was in Kampala, I gave him a ring and off we were running in a Euro-spec Nissan Patrol careening through the streets of Kampala off to some far-flung place on the eastern side of the city, past rutted roads, mud huts and sinfully gorgeous gated mansions to this industrial section where I wondered how anyone navigated the "road" without a four wheel drive truck or SUV.


Where the women hand sort for defects.

Drive up and you face a gated wall that's simply ominous and forbidding. Until the armed guard with the Ak-47 swings the gate open with a friendly "You're very most welcome!"

Africa: Situation Normal.

Once inside the high, concrete walls, I'm reminded of my cousins rice mill in the Philippines. Large, flatbed trucks wait to haul away container loads of coffee and some kind of mill towers above all else.


A mosque for the Muslim workers.

Our tour begins with the sorting room. Here dozens of women sit on the floor, spread out with a bag of green coffee in front of them. Each of the women sit there sorting the coffee and picking out the bad beans. Those go into a hopper where they'll evidently be sold to Lavazza or Illy or Folger's, or any of the dozens of coffee companies looking for coffee of any quality - so long as it's priced below the C-Market.

For the women, it's a great way to make money and socialize. They sit in the large room, openly discussing the days gossip. Who's doing what to whom, and so on. Showing me a wooden desk that looks like an oversized cigar rolling table, Andy tells me that he once tried to create these work stations where the women would sit and sort. It would be more comfortable and more efficient, allowing these women (who are paid by the bag) to work faster and earn more.

Problem is that these workstations ended up being five feet high and when seated, the bin would obscure the women's view from each other, thus ending the social interaction that they enjoy more than cranking out another bag a day. The one model stands lonely in the space, a monument reminding the women that this is about sorting quality coffee AND discussing what that crazy muzungu lady must have been thinking wearing that outfit to church.


Laser sorting green coffee.

From there it's past the Mosque built specifically so that Muslim workers would have a place to worship and into the processing room where thousands of pounds an hour can be mechanically dried, hulled, sorted and bagged. It's a large and impressive operation with laser sorters that divide the beans at incredible speed.

Next to the processing area is the arrival storage area where the room is nearly packed to the ceiling with green coffees fresh from the fields. The harvest is starting to peak here in Uganda and we're seeing the greatest volume right about now.


Reaching the peak of harvest.

After a tour of the offices to meet the company principals (Dad, uncle, brother and Kat), I'm whisked into the lab where the fun really will begin. Andy, Corey and Emma have set up an 11 sample cupping for me to taste the latest crop arrivals along with some interesting specimens from the DRC (Democratic Republic of the Congo) and a freakingly interesting natural processed robusta.

Awareness of Ugandan coffees is very low, with most people only knowing or hearing about Ugandan Bugisu. According to Andy, coffees from this Bugisu region can be very good - especially the select stuff from Mount Elgon. The problem with Bugisu is similar to that of Kona in Hawaii. Coffees from other parts of Uganda, which may be interesting on their own, are trucked across the country to be blended with coffees from the Bugisu region to become Uganda's "Bugisu" coffee.


Cupping New Crop arrivals.

Happily, Andy and company are forging ways to preserve the unique characters of the growing regions and develop a specialty market for these coffees. I'm interested in tasting these coffees and bringing them back to the United States.

Despite (or maybe because of) the fact that we buy and sell some of the best coffees available on the market at Spro, my personal exposure to the many cupping defects out there really is quite limited. By the time we receive our green or roasted coffees, they've already gone through a multi-stage process of cupping and vetting. Here, we're tasting the stuff as it's coming from the field and anything goes.


Screening 320 bags (container load) with my face.

One cupping sample (out of the five) immediately smelled of boiled peanuts when dry and wet potatoes when wet. There's that potato fungus right there. Sadly, while it was interesting to actually cup a coffee from the DRC, the coffee itself wasn't quite what we were looking for.

There were, however, several samples that I found really intriguing and I'm planning on following these coffees through the harvest to see exactly how they're going to shape up in the coming weeks.

Foolishness

Feeling the call to duty.

It's been sitting on my desk for three days now. I don't even know why I bought it knowing that I was leaving for Africa tomorrow. I could just have easily waited until I return in December, but noooo.

I've convinced myself that I can play just one (or two) levels and then I'll be done and can put the game away until I return...

Another Box Gone...

2006 Arturo Fuente Rothschild Maduro.

The problem with enjoying lovely cigars is that they tend to fly out of my humidor.

I'm lucky in the fact that I was prudent enough to build a humidor quite a number of years ago. Through wreckless thinking and judicious use of my American Express, I was able to not only build the humidor but stock it as well. This happened in the mid-1990s, during the midst of the cigar boom when scarcity was the norm and low-quality cigars abounded.

But I was still able to lay my hands on a nice collection of La Gloria Cubanas, Partagas 110, a selection of ISOM (Island South Of Miami) cigars, Partagas 150 Anniversary and a beautiful depth from Arturo Fuente, including the first run of the then-new 1995 Arturo Fuente Opus X (which I found not to be to my tastes).

It was literal madness until about 1998 when the boom really put a crush on the quality of available cigars and I stopped adding to the collection altogether.

The beauty of this is that I now had a collection of lovely aging cigars. A wonderful selection. After about five years, the problem changed to one of replenishment. I now had a stellar collection of aged cigars, but I was five years behind the curve. If I smoked the box, I didn't have successive years to replace it. I was in trouble.

By this point, I had started buying nice and decent cigars as a regular smoke, in an attempt to stave off the certain financial ruin that was to come by only smoking my favorite Belicoso Maduro by Paul Garmirian. They're insanely delicious but oh so very dearly priced. Open a box one day and it's sucked dry within a month. Good for Visa's bottom line. Not good for mine.

In 2006, Bryan called me to let me know that Iwan Ries in Chicago was running a sale on Arturo Fuente Rothschild Maduro cigars. Super cheap special prices, he assured me. Sure enough, the prices were cheap, the Visa numbers were blazing and a package of Rothschild Maduros were on their way to me.

When they arrived in 2006, they were nice cigars. The Rothschilds were nice, decent smokes. Enjoyable. Satisfying. And relatively inexpensive (especially when compared to the PGs). I smoked them regularly and enjoyed them.

Two boxes found their way into the recesses of the humidor where they layed fallow for several years, until I found them last winter. Hmmm, I wondered, how will these be now with some age on them? Shockingly good and demonstrably superior to when they were fresh. Aging deepened the flavors, brought out a little spice and just made them into tasty treats.

The problem when cigars are this good is that I can't hold on to them. Just one more, I tell myself - until the entire box is gone. I'll share some with friends. Before I knew it, I was on the last cigar of the two boxes.

And now I'm back to Square One...

Dancing On The Valentine

Nick Rhodes waves goodbye to my childhood.


In 1984, I was an unhappy child.

I was fifteen years old, Duran Duran was on their worldwide Sing Blue Silver Tour, and my mom would not allow me to attend the concert at the Capital Center. Like many of my peers, I was a Duran Duran freak. They were my favorite band. I fancied myself as the American Nick Rhodes. I desired the Roland Jupiter 8 synthesizer simply because it was Nick's keyboard of choice - so therefore, it had to be awesome. I had to go to the concert.

My mom would have none of it.

So, I did what any teenager does when he doesn't get his way: I moped around the house and lamented my lot in life. The biggest concert tour in the world and I was going to miss it.

This wasn't the first time I was denied a concert. An attempt to see AC/DC in 1981 with a close friend was promptly shot down by my parents. A proper boy going to see such bedlam? Not having it. Even the argument that I had already purchased the tickets (and had them in-hand) did nothing to help my cause. I moped for the very first time.

Duran Duran was the centerpoint of my teenage years. Not seeing them in concert in 1984 would haunt me for years. How could I embody the essence of Nick Rhodes if I never saw them live? My stage persona would be lacking because of it.

Finally, on the day before the concert, my mom relented. "Okay, you can go and see Duran Duran," she told me. Which upset me even more. One does not simply go to the biggest concert tour in the world the day before the show when it is completely sold out. It was just a no-win situation.

Years would pass and I would finally go to concerts on my own. The Go-Go's, INXS, SWANS, Depeche Mode, Frank Zappa, Erasure, Pet Shop Boys, 10,000 Maniacs and more. But I wouldn't have the opportunity to see Duran Duran until much later, in the mid-1990s, at Merriwether Post Pavilion. By then, their fame had softened to smaller venues, which would turn out to be more conducive to enjoying the experience. I would see them again in 1999 at the Nissan Pavilion.

Through the years, the band lineup changed. In the early 2000s, the original members got back together, but I could never find the right time to see them. Then on Thursday, I receive a Facebook message from a friend in San Diego playing in a Duran Duran tribute band.

Truth be told, I think tribute bands are kinda odd. I mean, I'm a fan. I love the music, but a tribute band? That's serious fandom. His post reminded me to check around and see if Duran Duran (the real band) was playing anywhere and turns out they were playing in Washington, D.C. at the D.A.R. Constitution Hall on Sunday night. Tickets were available. Mom was not around to deny me, and I was going.

The interesting and odd thing about going to a concert of your favorite teenage band when you're 42 is that everyone else at the concert is around your age - much different than Lady Gaga last winter. To be honest, I'm not usually surrounded by people my own age and it reminded me of my 20th year high school reunion: everyone looked damn old.

Sure, there were a few people in the 20s, but the majority of attendees were 30s and up. The same people who went to see them during the Sing Blue Silver Tour were now denying their teenage children their opportunity to see The Black Eyed Peas in concert while leaving them at home to watch Simon LeBon.

As always, Duran Duran attracts a wide swath of people. From normal, suburban yuppie types to avante garde types, old school goths, immigrants, tourists, fetishists and everyone in between. Everyone is welcome. Everyone gets along. As it should always be.

Of course, by morning some of them will be facing off in the typical democrats v. republicans kind of division we know as America today, but tonight everyone is waiting with cell phones in hand, anticipating waving them over their heads during "Save A Prayer."

The concert itself was a good one. Constitution Hall has got to be one of the best venues in the region. It's relatively small, has good acoustics and there doesn't seem to be a bad seat in the house. Of course, I somehow found myself on the orchestra floor at the front row, stage right when my tickets were for Section C, Row K, high on the sides.

I had simply walked onto the floor, found myself a row of seats, waited for someone to challenge me but when no one did (maybe a little), I just kept quiet and waited for Simon to take the stage.

It turns out that the row of seats I had found were kept for handicapped attendees and other misfits. A lady in a wheelchair and her companions, two other ladies and a very drunk blonde in a tight, black mini-dress that looked quite a lot like 1980s Kim Basinger sat next to me.

And when I say "drunk", I mean DRUNK. Wasted. Like have a hard time standing and balancing kind of drunk. She had a VIP Access badge, making me wonder if she might be a girlfriend or wife of one of the band members. Nothing quite like having your teen idols know you because they hate you because their woman was all over you.

Once upon a time, this would have been a welcome event. Everyone partying and boozing. Drunk girl comes up, wants to dance and then who knows what? A year ago, no problem. Today? Slow your roll there, girl. I'm happy just enjoying the show and the last thing I need is some sort of Facebook photo of me with some slutty, drunk girl.

I should've stayed in my seat in Section C, Row K.

Happily, she soon tired of my indifference and latched onto the big, burly floor bouncer. Whew! That's just the way I like it!

The concert itself was good. Lots of oldies but goodies, along with a number of tunes for their new CD that I'm not familiar. I guess I should be a better fan. Simon and the gang are getting old - they've gotta be over 50 by now, but the women still scream the loudest for John Taylor.

As the show continues, I silently wonder what it really must have been like to be in the audience during Sing Blue Silver. Duran Duran was at its zenith. They were touring the world and playing to stadiums. The world was ablaze with craze for the Fab Five. It would be the tour that would end the band as we knew it.

After that tour, succumbing to the pressures of success and fame, the band split. John and Andy went to form Power Station while Simon and Nick (with John too) started up Arcadia. Roger left music altogether to live on his farm in the English countryside. It would never be the same again.

And I'm still left with the feeling that while the show was good, it wasn't Sing Blue Silver. I'll never be able to capture that experience. It is gone like sand in the hourglass. Gone like Save A Prayer is from their setlist.

Da na na na...

Call Of The Siren Song

Grande Mocha Frappuccino.

It's another weekend in Pawtucket, Rhode Island for the annual Mid-Atlantic NorthEast Coffee Conference (aka MANE) where we've talked coffee, discussed coffee, argued about coffee, theorized about coffee and even drank some coffee. So much going on but the essence is that the MANE is simply the best barista coffee event in the United States today.

Where other events are surrounded by the politics and dogma of the coffee industry, MANE is solidly independent and free-thinking. It's a place for open exchange of ideas and the closes thing that the barista craft has to a chefs congress and it's only going to get better in the future.


At some point in time, everyone goes to Starbucks.

But all that's over for this year and after two solid days of non-stop barista craft, we headed out for a Sunday brunch, a walk around Providence and some refreshments at that one coffee place we all know: Starbucks. While everyone enjoyed a tea lemonade drink, I couldn't but help myself to that granddaddy of Starbucks creations: The Mocha Frappuccino.

Nothing like hanging with the world's top barista, machine tech and green importers at the place that started it all.

Nice & Shiny

In certain circles, it's impolite to ask one's age.

To my mind, the craft is about attention to detail. It's something I try to instill into each and everyone on our staff. Much of this manifests itself in details that the guest may never see or notice. Take this steaming pitcher, for example. Take a close look and tell me how old you think it is.

It is clean. Polished. Shiny. If one were so inclined, one could use it as a steaming pitcher in a barista competition. It looks nearly as good as one straight out of the box. To note, this isn't a display pitcher or one that we use for dressing. It's the main pitcher that our baristas use day in and day out. Lattes, cappuccinos and chais are steamed in this vessel all the time. It is washed between each use. It is a demonstration as to why I think Spro baristas are some of the greatest working baristas in the industry today.

This pitcher that has worked every day making all sorts of drinks, under constant use by our baristas...

Is now five years old.

Cold In-Fusion

Adding cold water to the coffee.

I've been thinking about cold infusions lately. Infusions that don't require heat and are not destructive (changing) to the ingredients used. Heat up the ingredients and a change occurs. What ways can we move to infuse liquids while trying to capture the vibrancy of the natural ingredients?

A technique developed by Dave Arnold at the French Culinary Institute described using an iSi Whip Charger to infuse flavors. At its most basic, the iSi is widely used to make whipped cream. Insert cream, add a little sugar, seal and charge with a nitrogen cartridge and you've got ready made whipped cream.


Double-charged and three minutes.

The whipper is a great tool and I've used it before to make foams and played a little with them to inject carbon dioxide into products - "Strawberry Soda", anyone?

All of this started the other night while I was lying in bed thinking about mole - that ubiquitous Mexican dish of spices, chiles, nuts and cocoa. How might we be able to create a drink that represented mole?


Straining the liquid infusion.

Originally, I pondered this similar question four years ago and didn't get very far. The complex and powerful flavors of the mole, not to mention the gritty paste (for a drink) that serves as the base, made it difficult to work with and I soon abandoned that idea for others (the "Breakfast In Bed" concept).

Fast forward four years and I'm back in the same situation, considering the options. This time, the potential lies in being able to take the ingredients and infuse them into a liquid to carry the flavor and combine that with coffee (or espresso). And maybe Dave's idea of cold infusion might work.


Still a bit cloudy.

But without the necessary ingredients at the ready to make a proper mole, I decided to give it a conceptual try using whatever we had on hand - namely coffee. Stumptown's Finca San Vicente coffee from Honduras has been performing brilliantly this week with notes of vanilla, cinnamon, caramel, hops and macadamia nuts and would make for an interesting test subject. What kind of notes and nuances might we be able to extract from the coffee with this method?

As a baseline, we took 24 grams of the San Vicente and ground it coarser than for french press on a Compak R80 grinder (roughly the 90 setting). Placed that in the iSi Whipper along with 14 ounces of cold water. Screw the top on tight and charge with two (2) nitrogen cartridges, making sure to wait a few moments to allow the nitrogen to absorb into the liquid and shake well between charges.


Through a paper filter.

Once charged, we waited about three (3) minutes for the infusion to take place, being sure to note the fact that if we had simply brewed the coffee it would have taken the same amount of time.

Degas the whipper by holding it upright and using a container to catch any liquid that may come through the nozzle. Slowly allow the gas to escape and then unscrew the top. You'll notice that the liquid looks like it's boiling. This is perfectly normal. After straining the liquid, we noticed that there were still quite a bit of particulates in the liquid and then passed it through a paper coffee filter. Note: it will be more efficient to stir the liquid in the whipper and then pour the entire contents through the paper filter instead of using the strainer first. Passing strained coffee liquid through a paper filter always results in too many fines clogging the filter and slowing the process immensely.


Gassed up.

We tasted the liquid and it was light, fruity with a slight tartiness. Jacked it up with a little simple syrup and the liquid became vibrant. What were just a moment ago light and elusive fruit flavors were now dominate notes of tamarind - both sweet and tarty.

But it needed something more to give it a kick. Back into the iSi, we hit it with one charge of carbon dioxide, degassed and then poured it out.

Something to keep in mind about carbonation: you want the liquid to be cold. CO2 does not hold in warm temperatures. It simply gasses out into the environment. Which is why warm Coke goes flat at alarming rates. The colder the better. We added ice cubes to the iSi to chill down the liquid and keep it as cold as possible.


Finished. Sort of.

Degas the whipper in the same manner as before and we found a lovely amber colored liquid with lovely notes of tamarind and that refreshing carbon dioxide kick. It really brought it to life.

Next week: time to give it a try with actual mole ingredients!

100g of Calibrating Power

One of the coolest things I picked up yesterday at the gem show was a calibration weight. Perfectly tuned to 100 grams, this weight is used to calibrate your scales and make sure they're in sync.

At home and at work, I use gram scales all the time and the gem show is one of the few places where I can go, buy a gram scale and not have funny or "knowing" looks between me and the person selling me the scale. In America, it seems that the only people using gram scales are gem dealers and drug dealers. In a way, they're all scam artists selling highly addictive products.

Come to think of it, baristas, jewelers and drug dealers all seem to have this in common. Go figure.

And, as any dealer (drugs, gems or otherwise) will tell you: we live and die by the scale, so it has to be accurate and on the money. A couple of grams off and you're talking profit or loss. In the millions. So, a calibration weight is a handy tool.

Some of our scales have been in constant use for nearly two years now. They're dropped on the floor, plopped into drawers, tossed around, slammed around, weigh continuously and are subject to a wet environment. I was almost sure that one of them would be off but when I placed the weight on the scales, they all read "100" grams.

Even the new scales I picked up yesterday were on the money - though the one that weighs to the hundreth of a gram measured "100.12" grams. Hmmm, I'm starting to worry about that .12 gram.

I'm now on the lookout for a proper Bentley so I can join the ranks of dealers worldwide.

Tooling At The Gem Show

This is what I see at a gem show.

I really must be a simple creature. All around me, I'm surrounded by gold, jade, emeralds, rubies, gold, silver, Rolexes, Breitlings and diamonds galore - all I can see are tools.

Every few months or so, my mom enlists me to drive her to a gem show somewhere. Today, we're in Chantilly, Virginia - just a few minutes from Dulles airport and a nearly two hour drive (damn that NoVa/DC traffic) from home.

For me, it's a non-issue but the array and selection of jewelry is amazing. Everything and more that you've never seen at Zales or Jared. If there's some kind of jewelry that you want, they probably have it here. Need to find the perfect engagement ring and wreck yourself of $15,000? They are only too happy to help. Want to find that right estate (read:used) watch (preferably a gold and platinum, diamond encrusted Rolex Daytona)? They've got plenty.

What you don't have (read:I) is the experience and knowledge to take advantage of the situation. It reminds me of antiquing - that honored practice of going out on weekends on antique furniture hunts only to be taken by the smarmy dealer with the pencil moustache whose studio artists have demonstrated their mastery of distressing techniques.

Color, cut, clarity - who the hell knows and understands these things??? To pass the time, I ask a vendor to show me a 1.15 carat diamond. He tells me it's $6,500. Huh? Are you serious? He encourages me to look at it through a 10x loupe and I see flaws. Nothing too dramatic but flaws nonetheless.

In the parlance of diamonds (and I presume emeralds, sapphires and tanzanite), they're called inclusions and those, along with color, clarity and weight determine just how much the diamond will cost you. To me, these prices are outrageous and a total extortion.

Diamond lovers (and their sellers) will tell you that it's one of the world's most rare and exotic gems. Complete and total hogwash. Diamonds are a dime a dozen. If that weren't true, you wouldn't be able to buy a diamond encrusted saw blade on the internet for thirty bucks. It would cost you thousands.

Let's face it. Diamonds are everywhere and the psychosis that is DeBeers has invaded our mindset. The saying goes that you should be able to afford two months salary. That's 24% of your yearly pay. Does that sound reasonable?

But I digress.

Bewildered by the prices of diamonds, I walk around the show and find a booth that I haven't seen before: the jeweler's tool vendor. This guy has it all - anything and everything you need to work on jewelry. Mini anvils, tiny pliers and tweezers, the cool-looking loupe that diamond dealer was using to show me the flaws. I like this place. It brings me comfort in a sea of over-priced diamonds and bead-crazed women.

Like Home Depot, I want to go nuts here. All sorts of weird and exotic tools that I could use in the kitchen. Take that ultrasonic bath - how can I use that? It's only $150. Or that weird contraption that I don't even know what it is. I want to use it. Heck, I need to use it.

In the end, I leave with a bag of goodies. A couple of close out gram scales that were downright cheap, a loupe so I can posture like I know what I'm taking about when I talk about H color, and a couple of other items that will make a fine addition to my tool kit.

I leave the show for the long drive home with a bag of tools from a gem show. About right.

Kiddie Sized Perfection

Kiddie sized chocolate snowball with marshmallow.

I guess this is one of those signs that an era has truly passed.

We closed down main operations of Jays Shave Ice at the end of 2006. For the next four years, Jays Shave Ice operated during the Artscape festival in downtown Baltimore. 2011 was the first Artscape that we missed in eleven seasons. I was just tired.

The company is still technically called "Jays Shave Ice" but the shave ice component is no longer our focus. And while we've been focused on coffee for nearly five years, I knew that a turning point had been reached when I stopped by a friends snowball stand for a yearly taste of the flavors I had known for so long.



The perfect way to enjoy vanilla soft serve.

Quite simply, after you've operated a well-regarded shave ice company, most of the stuff that passes as snowballs and syrup just isn't up to scratch. Everywhere I turn this summer it seems that I'm surrounded by people serving a lower quality product that isn't fit for consumption. I know that's a bit of an arrogant thing to say but it just tastes terrible.

Hence my stop at Kavern's Tastee Zone in Catonsville during my market tour this week. Here the ice is shaved and fluffy. Not as fluffy as our old product but as close as I'm going to get without hauling out the gear and doing myself. I sat there and made a little glutton of myself.


A kiddie sized canteloupe snowball. Lovely.

A kiddie sized chocolate with marshmallow - originally a combination I thought was disgusting, it wasn't until about 2002 that I really got into it after trying it one cold winter. For me, everything is a kiddie size. I never ate the medium or large shave ices we made, it was just too much. A kiddie size was perfect, just a little bit to when the palate and satiate the desire. Today, much of the same.

Between courses was a cake cone just barely filled with vanilla soft serve ice cream. That was truly my secret delight. Just enough ice cream to fill the cone. A balance between crispy cake cone and icy vanilla dairy. Perfection.

Lastly, a kiddie sized canteloupe snowball. I don't know why, but canteloupe become one of my personal favorites. I had to have it.

And that was it. Just a few bites and I was on my way once again. Until next year...

Killing Myself By The Numbers

Losing my mind in a sea of numbers.

Sometime today I started to lose it. Calculating the various details and expenses of each menu item was starting to get to me. All around me a cacophony of activity carried on. Prepping, cooking, washing, cleaning, the clomp clomp clomp of people going up and down the stairs, the acrid aroma of roasting garlic, footsteps above my head signaling the continuous stream of guests coming and going, the high-pitched squeal of the espresso grinders, the dull clunk of portafilters hitting the knockbox and I'm sitting there trying to figure out just how much that teaspoon of piquin pepper adds to the cost of the terrine.

Somewhere out there sits a smug, crisply pressed white jacketed chef with a binder filled with perfectly calculated menu item costs. Each item is perfectly accounted for, by ingredient, to the gram, to arrive at a precise and logical menu price. Someday, I would like to meet this person and slap him with my HAACP binder (presuming that I someday actually finish writing it).

It's been a busy week. Tomorrow, after two years of thinking about it, we're launching a food menu at Spro Hampden. Nothing too fancy or out of control, just some nice and solid items composed of fresh, local and healthy ingredients. Since Cynthia decided to close Soup's On across the street, Lauren has decided to come join us and bring forth our vision of food for the people.

Longtime readers of this blog might be expecting a menu heavily laden with fattening meats and cheeses and gobs of Mexican dishes. This outing is a bit more delicate than that. Light and fresh items that are thoughtfully sourced without being too precious or pretentious.

It's been a hectic day of calculating costs, sampling menu items and rushing to get everything done and prepped before the 7pm menu tasting with the entire Spro Hampden staff. Add a big bottle of Belgian ale, an assortment of chicken salad sandwiches and the entire menu and it makes for a nice evening before tomorrow's storm.

Menu starts tomorrow at 11am.

Tasting Charleston

House Salad with Strawberry Vinaigrette at Bluegrass Kitchen.

Charleston, West Virginia. I never thought I would come here. Nothing against the city, it just was never on my list of places to visit though I must say that there's a certain charm to this place. Walking downtown, the old buildings look cool and I'm tempted to put a Spro here.

Of course, there's lots of vacant shopfronts in downtown Charleston, attesting to its struggle to attract more people to city life. According to Tom hanging out at The Squire, Charleston's population of 50,000 swells to 150,000 during the day. Sounds like a lot until you realize that Baltimore's population is just under a million.


Rueben Kincaid - house cured West Virginia beef brisket with sauerkraut, swiss cheese and Sputnik dressing.

Still, finding parking in Charleston is not easy. They don't have enough. Sure, they've got great looking brick paved sidewalks and streets but the parking is precious and I circle a few times to land a spot in front of Taylor's Books where I've been seduced by the clearance book section and have loaded up on cooking tomes.

But before that, I was enjoying lunch at the Bluegrass Kitchen. One of those progressive, locally sourced kind of places with the church pews, sort of remnant furniture and tasty grub. Fresh greens for a nice salad and house cured pastrami with a spicy dressing made for a very good reuben.


Peanut Butter Brownie and Coconut ice cream from Ellen's Homemade Ice Cream.

Like most places, Charleston is national food chain Hell. Turn in any direction and you'll find the typical chain places. The big news in food here? Panera Bread recently opened at the Towne Center Mall. Brilliant. Not. And like most places, you have to seek out the different and the tasty. And I'm hoping to seek some of that out while here this weekend.

Next stop: Ellen's Homemade Ice Cream. Initially, I was thinking that I might jump in the car and charge up to Columbus to find out what the hype surrounding Jeni's Ice Cream is all about. Only to find out from google maps that it's a three-hour drive. Forget Jeni, Hello Ellen.


A nice cigar at The Squire.

Capitol Street seems to be the right place today. Across from Taylor Books is Ellen's, a quaint ice cream joint that makes everything in-house. She's got a standard selection of ice creams, as well as light fare and a coffee menu. I'm here strictly for the ice cream and order coconut with the day's special PB Brownie.

The Peanut Butter Brownie is just right. Creamy peanut butter and frozen bits of brownie. Very nice. The coconut has shaved pieces mixed in and is light and creamy. Not quite the coconut at Les Halles but pretty good. For some reason, I ordered the large ice cream, ate it all and felt a bit ill afterwards. In reality, I probably should have ordered a milkshake. Oh well, there's always tomorrow.


The Planters brand Royal peanut roaster at The Peanut Shoppe.

While Taylor's and Ellen's offer coffee and espresso drinks and the venerable Capital Roasting is just around the corner, I decide against buying coffee. It's not that I'm some sort of coffee snob (okay, well, maybe) but I'm just scared of drinking bad coffee and the tell tale signs tell me to avoid.

Next stop is The Squire, the local tobacconist who's been here since 1993 and boasts the largest humidor in Charleston and perhaps West Virginia. They've got a nice selection and offer a number of cigars that I like and others that I have not seen before. I chose an Alec Bradley SCR lancero that's got some spice and good flavor but the roll is off, the center is soft and goes out continuously during the last half.

Earlier I had spotted The Peanut Shoppe as I was walking by paying my meter. By the way, if you do visit Charleston, be sure to pay your meter on time. The meter maid patrols every 15 minutes and is only too eager to write you a ticket. Someone's gotta pay for the deficit and they want it to be you.

What had caught my eye about The Peanut Shoppe was the 25 pound Planters brand peanut drum roaster in the store. It looks like and probably is an old Royal roaster and they still use it to roast their nuts. Average roast time: 30 minutes though when the crop gets old, say around August/September, the moisture has decreased and the roast time is quicker. All kinds of salted nuts, candies, popcorn and more from this decidedly old school peanut shop. Even the bags have that Old School look.

From there, it's a swing through the Towne Center Mall that looks straight out of the 1980s and reminds me of the old Hunt Valley Mall. There's a Taco Bell and I think about grabbing a crunchy ground mystery beef taco. That or the soft serve ice cream with crispy chocolate shell at the Dairy Queen.

Strada-ling DC

Scott and The Boys latest album cover art.

I'm in DC for the day to hang with friends and take the La Marzocco Strada EP espresso machine technicians course, ostensibly one of the final hurdles before La Marzocco will allow me to have one of the new machines for Spro Hampden.

For as advanced and high-tech as the Strada EP really is, it's actually quite simple, and seemingly easy, to service. Pump rebuilds, firmware updates, potentiometer replacements all seem so much simpler than the Linea or GB5 series of machines. It's also vastly different than its sister MP version, with the MP being closer to a GB5 than the EP.


Inside the Strada EP paddle.

After an afternoon with Chris and the rest of the guys jockeying for a new Strada EP, I headed over with Rashid to check out his place, Filter. I had heard quite a lot about Filter from other baristas and chef Mark Furstenburg. Actually, it was really Mark's recommendation that made Filter the first on my list of coffee shops to visit in Washington DC and it just so happened that Rashid was taking the tech class as well.

Breaking away from the typical coffee supplier of the area, Rashid has decided to go with Annapolis' Pronto Coffee, who just so happens to buy some coffees from the same source I buy coffees - meaning they've got great coffees and I was interested to see their interpretation of the Ardi Ethiopia. Fruity, round and lovely. Paired that with a Hawthorne Bakery blueberry muffin and it was indeed a treat.


A little Ethiopian Ardi at Filter.

Filter itself is a smaller shop with seating for about 13 on the inside and a few more chairs (and lots of stoops) outside. At 4pm on a Wednesday, the place was full and humming along - one of the better reasons to investigate opening a shop in DC. Filled with colors of orange and brown, the space gives off a warm feeling and everyone seemed happily running along drinking coffee, eating pastries and surfing the internet on the free wi-fi.

For drink making, there's a La Marzocco GB5, a row of pourover brewers, a large hot water tower and a bunch of french presses for making coffee during the "busy morning rush".


Frisee Salad and Frites at Bistrot du Coin.

After departing Filter and not having eaten since my breakfast at Chick-Fil-A many hours before, I headed over to Bistrot du Coin for a little mid-afternoon meal. I've been to du Coin before and found it to be decent, in spite of some of my friends constantly raving about it.

I had the frisee salad and a side of frites. The salad was good but was a bit light on the acidity which would have popped it and really make it stand out. The frites were decent enough but slightly limp and didn't have that crisp that I really enjoy in a well-made frite. Numerous menu offerings such as blanquette du veau, curry mussels, steak tartare and the onglet made me wish for a phalanx of friends to order en masse for a sampling, which just means I will have to return at a later date.


It's Julie's last week as a District resident.

From there it was back to the La Marzocco event, this time it was for anyone interested in learning more about the Strada EP. I got to hang a bit with Samuel Demisse and see Julie Housh before she left DC and moves to the West Coast. Otherwise, I only hung out for less than an hour before heading off to dinner.