Sakagura

Lighted signs guiding you to Japanese heaven.


Our friendly host offering samples of sake.


Sake Service: brilliant!


Ohitashi - Shimeji, shiitake, enoki mushrooms and mitsuba leaves in bonito broth.


Five Kinds of Seasonal Sashimi


More Sake.


Kamo Roast Negimaki - Chilled roasted duck wrapped around scallion with basil sauce.


Gindara Yuan Yaki - Grilled cod steeped in sweet soy sauce.


Sanma Miso Hobayashi - Chopped pike mackerel, miso paste on hoba leaf.


Buta Kakuni - Stewed diced pork.

We're back in New York City and hitting the restaurant scene once again. Tonight's venture takes us to Sakagura. Sake bar? Izakaya? Whatever the case, I'm never sure about classifications other than the fact that the descriptions stating that visiting Sakagura is like a visit to Tokyo are spot on.

Located in the basement of a nondescript office building on 43rd street, it's easy to miss Sakagura, especially if you're unfamiliar with the lit sidewalk signs that are ubiquitous in Japan. A couple of turns and a flight of stairs and you're transported into what must be authentic Japan - right down to the ethnically Japanese staff.

As we were seated at the bar, our friendly hostess guided us through the sake selections and we started ordering. Sake, sake and more sake. Much of it delicious. Much of it I didn't understand. There's a whole world and etiquette surrounding sake and I've still got a lot more to learn.

What can be said? The images above speak loudly. The sashimi was excellent. The toro beautifully fatty and silky on the mouth, the uni unbearably sweet. Freshly grated wasabi - a grown man should cry. The flavors were delicate and balanced. To my mind, Japanese food is about nuance and subtlety and Sakagura delivers.

The cod was wonderfully buttery and the mackerel grilling on the hoba leaf was a first. My only concern was the pork belly that was cooked perfectly but so large that it made negotiating with chopsticks a bit difficult.

Before long I was ejected back out onto the New York streets, in cool early autumn air with images of Tokyo dancing in my mind.

Sakagura
211 East 43 Street
New York, New York 10017
212-953-7253
www.sakagura.com

AA2104 MIA-BWI - That Can't Be Good

Guayabera, Guajiro Guayabera

Rushing to the airport with the two hundred dollar guayabera...

Being a Filipino who is partial to the traditional Barong Tagalog, I've always harbored an interest in the Cuban Guayabera. The problem living in Baltimore is that it's far away from anything Cuban and obtaining a guayabera is difficult at best.

Over the years, I've managed to obtain one that just wasn't very comfortable. I've long imagined myself wearing the guayabera, walking through fields of tobacco with a torpedo shaped puro in my hand that was rolled on the thigh of a virgin.

Instead, I tried wearing an ill-tailored white shirt that just didn't have the fit or finish of a proper guayabera. Having enjoyed the fine pina cloth of an ultra-traditional Barong, I've wished for at least a better quality guayabera than the twenty dollar job that's been banished to the far end of my shirt rack.

On the drive back from Key West, I thought that now might be the opportune time to grab a guayabera that fit. The iPhone showed me several guayabera shops and the one nearest to the airport, and on my way, was a place called La Casa De Las Guayaberas - The House of the Guayaberas. I figured this would be a good bet for a guayabera.

My guess is that here in Miami, the guayabera is like the Aloha Shirt in Hawaii. Lots of low-quality shirts designed for the masses (and tourists). I didn't need something artisanal, just something decent enough to wear while smoking a cigar and fashioning myself as a sort of modern-day Che Guevara.

Located in the midst of Miami's Calle Ocho, driving to La Casa De Las Guayaberas places one deep into Cuban/Latino culture. Everything is in Spanish - even the Chinese restaurant is in Spanish. All over Miami, people speak Spanish and I'm starting to get the feeling that to live in Miami and no hablo Espanol could very well leave you in the minority.

Is Calle Ocho a tough neighborhood? I can't tell because I don't know much about the culture here, except for some of the Latino music I hear making reference to this legendary street. That said, La Casa De Las Guayaberas has accordion-like metal shutters that enclosed the entire storefront, except for the entry doorway. Of course, this could be more of the fact that I arrived at 6:00pm - about an hour before closing.

Inside are racks upon racks of guayaberas on hangers and wrapped in plastic. There's all sorts of guayaberas here: white, pink, yellow, red, blue - just about any color that the fashionable Cuban could want while awaiting the overthrow of Fidel Castro. In the back, behind clear glass is the tailoring room where tailors trim and size your guayabera to your body's quirks, backgrounded by luscious-looking rolls of fabric. Seeing the fabric on the wall makes me think of a custom-tailored guayabera for Papi Chulo.

This is where things took a turn for the interesting.

Walking into La Casa, I'm greeted by a friendly older woman who only seems to speak Spanish. No problem, this is their house and I'm going to give mi Espanol a try - afterall, I just came back from over a week in Colombia, I should be able to navigate somewhat easily. I'll just say hello and have a look at those guayaberas on the racks and find one in the $40-$60 price range.

The woman starts inquiring about what I'm looking for and immediately my Spanish fails me. How can I possibly keep up with the speed and Cuban-style pronunciation when I'm only comprendo about a third of the words she's throwing at me. Somewhere in there I figure out that she's asking what I'm looking for and specifically what kind of fabric I desire. I thought I responded with the only word that sounded somewhat familiar: polyester. But I was probably wrong.

She immediately introduces me to a man who I later find out is the owner, Ramon Puig, who emigrated to the United States from Cuba over forty years ago. The man immediately assesses my bodily situation: mas grande!. Oh, great. He asks how many X's I require. "No se," I answer.

Ramon is merciful with the questions and moves to a nice, traditional white guayabera, but with my penchant for spilling food and not really enjoying wearing white, I ask him for "negra, por favor".

We've moved to the side wall away from the racks and he's going through, seeking just the right guayabera, in just the right size. A few moments later, he pulls one from the rack and unwraps it from it's plastic.

Watching Ramon move is like majesty. He's proud of the guayaberas they make and you can see it as he works with the finished item. It's not until much later that I realize that I'm in the midst of a maestro and wish I had spent more time with him reviewing the materials, instead of being in such a rush to get to the airport.

There's another gentleman trying on guayaberas. He's younger than me and looks like he could be one of those Latino actors at whom women throw themselves. I'm envious - even though I have hair better than Alejandro Fernandez.

Senor Puig encourages me to try the guayabera on for size, and even though I'm wearing a t-shirt and would just put it on right there, he wants me to use the dressing room. I head inside, put it on and come out for the review.

The fit is nice. The man is good. There's no need for tailoring or tucking along the body, the length is right and it feels comfortable. The only thing is that the sleeves are about two inches too long.

Did I mention it was long-sleeved? I originally wanted a short-sleeved guayabera but as I looked around the room at the Latin Actor, Senor Puig and the other gentleman hanging out in the store, I noticed all of them wore long-sleeved guayaberas. Perhaps I too should follow their cue.

Senor Puig is asking me about tailoring the shirt but I only understand a little bit of what he's saying. I get the gist of it and tell him that I have a tailor at home that I can use when the Actor jumps in en Ingles to let me know that they could do it but the girls have already gone home for the day. Being in a hurry to get to the airport, I assure them that I will be fine and will have it tailored properly. Senor Puig pins the sleeves for me to ensure the proper length.

Thinking about it now, I probably should have left the guayabera with them for proper tailoring. They know their product and they will do it correctly, whereas my local tailor will do it to their knowledge - which is presumably non-existent of Cuban fashion. Perhaps I'll send it back to Senor Puig for the work to be properly done.

Really, the guayabera is fantastic. The fabric feels comfortable. This is nothing like the guayabera I have at home and I can't wait to wear it to the cigar shop accessorizing with a proper cigar and the imaginary virgin.

Not speaking Spanish and jumping into things leads me to trouble every now and then. We agree that this the guayabera for me and return to the cash register. I've got $80 in cash, no problemo.

The shocker comes when Senor Ramon Puig tells the woman at the counter: Cien noventa y cinco."

Huh???? Did that tag on the plastic say "$195.00"???? Ay, carajo!

Holy crap. Now, I'm stuck. One hundred ninety-five dollars. One hundred ninety five...

I didn't want to look like a dumb ass and ask for a forty dollar guayabera. Truth is, I already knew the worth of owning a cheap guayabera, and it's worthless. I knew that this one is the Real Deal. With this guayabera, I could become The Baller of Calle Ocho. Latinas would swoon. Latinos would give me room to pass. I could smoke my cigars proudly and perhaps even a virgin would appear.

Hmm, maybe two hundred dollars is a bargain...



La Casa De Las Guayaberas
5840 SW 8th Street
West Miami, Florida 33144
305-266-9683

Voy a Key West

Cuban Americano and Chicken Empanada at Pasion del Cielo.

Last year, when I last flew American Airlines to Managua for the Nicaraguan Barista Championship, I also stopped in Miami and had an overnight stay on the return. Problem was that my return flight to Baltimore was scheduled for 1pm and even with the first class ticket I had on that trip, they wanted to charge me a considerable sum to change to later flight.

This time, I decided that I would forgo the 24 window for a stopover and press the return to the 9:25pm flight to Baltimore, leaving me with more than 24 hours to visit Miami and make the trek to Key West.

Key West. I've heard so much about how great it is. I just didn't realize how far away it is. Three and a half hours from Miami. It's about the same from my house to Manhattan or my house to Ocean City, Maryland. Not really a big deal but one that would prove to be a bit brutal in the hot weather and the immediate return to make the nights' flight.

After a decent nights' sleep and a quick stop at Pasion del Cielo coffee shop in Coral Gables, I was on my way. The drive itself isn't that bad but the worst part is the speed. Just like islanders, everyone wants to drive the posted speed limit of 45mph. Can we please go a little faster? Maybe push the envelope to 55mph?


Storm Clouds calling my number.

About halfway there, dark clouds started looming on the horizon and I started to wonder: Does the Gulf of Mexico hate me? The last time the Gulf and I came into contact last July, I nearly lost our glorious battle in the pursuit of bay scallops. As the winds kicked up and the rain started to pour on the roadway in the middle of the Gulf, I wondered if the Gulf might win this time,

As we approached Key West, a loud screeching sound filled my ears and I began to worry that the car was blowing up. Looking up I spotted a Tigershark fighter making a hard bank at high speed being pursued by an F/A-18. With only 90 miles between us, could this be Fidel's defiant gesture towards the American Imperialists led by Barack Obama? Should I worry about being hit by a missile - civilian losses being a necessary concession to the repelling of Americans from Cuba's shores?

With only the roadway to protect me, I figured that I would just accept the fate and let Him decide what's best: up or down. The Gulf would be jealous.


Touristy cheese on Key West's Duval Street.

As the fighters broke left and descended hard, I noticed the signs for the Key West Naval Station. Hmm, smaller, more nimble fighter being pursued by big fighter? Must be Viper and Maverick.

Friends encouraged me to enjoy a sunset rum at a bar on Duval Street. Since I didn't have the time to revel in the sunet, I settled for driving down Duval Street.

To be honest, I'm glad I didn't stop. Aside from the Cuba! Cuba! store, I was pretty repulsed by Duval Street. It's about as compelling as Waikiki Beach, Picadilly Circus, Rue de Rivoli or Front Street Lahaina. Tourist Cheese. I counted at least two Crazy Shirt shops, a renamed Cheeseburger in Paradise, Starbucks, Banana Republic and numerous bars playing acoustic music and lots of tourists doing very touristy things.

Not that any of this is necessarily bad. If you like this kind of tourist cheese then Duval Street is the place for you. It's just not the scene I get into anymore - though the idea of drunken women on holiday looking to work out their frustrations in the form of vacation seems like a good thing to me...


The beach at Fort Zachary Taylor.

I had journeyed to the southernmost point in the continental United States (I had been to the southermost point in the USA - Ka Lae, Hawaii, many times) and I was determined to get in the water. A friendly police officer pointed me to the beach at Fort. You have to pay to get in but it's probably the best beach in Key West.

Wading in from the crushed coral beach, the water is warm. Bodily warm. It's weird and a bit unnerving. It's like bath water and very unlike the cool water you're used to at most beaches around the world. It's also salty. Very, very salty. Strange, but interesting. To my left are a group of four Italians chatting loudly and taking pictures of themselves on an American beach. Spanish speaking visitors from other parts of the world sun themselves and some play in the water.

Lining the beach are palm trees and picnic tables inviting all to shade themselves and cook their meal on the grill. If I had more time and some friends that exactly what I would do, but it's almost 2 o'clock and I have to hit the road by 3pm in order to make it back to Miami on time. I stand neck deep in the water allowing the soothing nature of the salt water to fill every pore in my body.

In Hawaii, the sea water is known to rejuvenate and heal. Got a twisted ankle, soak it in the 'ua from the sea and all will be well. The water feels incredibly relaxing and invigorating. It's healing and I want to linger there all day.

But the clock is ticking and it's time to go. I pull myself from the water and hunt for the object of my trip: B.O.'s Fish Wagon.


Conch-A-Mania at B.O.'s Fish Wagon.

Located on a corner by Key West's historic marina, B.O.'s is literally a ramshakle trailer with various bits of wood, salvaged signs and remnant anything screwed to it to fashion a sort of covered seating area slash restaurant. Rickety and rustic is the only way to describe it.

If you're the adventurous sort who's not turned off by greasy spoons or perhaps questionable sources while traveling the world, B.O.'s is for you. In fact, I often wonder how typical Americans can say they're scared by the stalls on Bangkok's Sukhumvit Soi 38 or Mexico City's antojitos, yet find nothing odd about places like B.O.'s. Not to say that I find anything worrisome about B.O.'s, but I like and prefer small, kinda questionable places.

Without much knowledge of where to eat in Key West, other than the ubiquitous tourist places, I had turned to the New York Times to find out about B.O.'s, and the ranger at the park also gave it a hearty recommendation, saying he ate there at least once a week.

While the decor is rustic and the food assuredly good, the real gem of B.O.'s is their people. The man and woman who worked the counter were amazingly friendly and very welcoming. Just lots of love pouring from them for what they do, their product and their customers. The food may have been very good but it's the people that made the difference.

Evidently, B.O.'s is known for one thing: the cracked conch sandwich. Thin slices of fresh conch are lightly breaded and deep fried to a golden yellow then layered with lettuce, onion, tomato and onion on a white bread bun. Simple, straightforward and oh so delicious. The conch's tender chewiness balanced with the mayo and lettuce with a light bite from the onion.

Add a little salt, vinegar, lime or whatever and it's nearly perfection. Balance the fattiness with the carbon dioxide and acid from a Coke (or in this case, Pepsi) and it's just beautiful.

My original battle plan was to order the sandwich and fries, then order two separate orders of Conch Fritters - one for the drive back to Miami and the other for the flight to Baltimore. When informed of my plan, the lady at the counter refused my request, stating that the fritters would not last the trip and would be cold and rubbery by the time I ate them and that just wasn't the way she was going to allow her fritters to be served. I can respect that.

So, with a small, six piece order of fritters in hand, and a small fry, I sat down to enjoy my fried goodness. Good thing they offered complimentary refills of soda.

The fritters are made with corn meal, ground conch and some spices and come out piping hot and served with a cocktail like sauce with a wedge of lime. There's also a tartar sauce, but I preferred the cocktail sauce or just the lime and salt. The fries were hand sliced and fried beautifully.

If one can say that there is fried conch perfection somewhere in the world, I'd have to say that it's in Key West - the margaritas be damned.

But it's 2:55pm and I've got to hit the road. It's another three or so hours back to Miami and I need to return the car by seven to avoid extra fees (I'm cheap). On the way down, I spied a sign for Ron Jon Surf Shop. Ron Jon started in New Jersey then moved to Cocoa Beach where it's become arguably the most famous surf shop in the word. I've always wanted to visit and have come close the several times I've visited Florida but never made it. I had been hoping to visit Ron Jon Key West but with time falling through the cracks, it wasn't meant to be. No new board shorts for daddy.

I'm not a big fan of Florida in general. The landscape is flat, it looks mostly like a sprawling suburb and generally doesn't have much character other than the Disney-like facades constructed in all directions. Plus, it's hot and humid and generally nasty - and since my exposure to nice weather on the East Coast is limited, I'm determined to drive with the windows down and the sunroof open, meaning that the drive is increasingly brutal as the thermometer pushes past 35C.

The drive through the Keys is very country. Lots of grasses and lots of shack-like buildings. Everything looks kinda redneck meaning that American Rock is the ideal music of choice while on the road. A little Styx, Lynyrd Skynyrd and more 70s and 80s rock make the drive just a little more fun. Nothing like belting out to Journey at 45mph with the windows down your skin mottled in sweat. I want to rip the sleeves off of my shirt and tie a bandana around my forehead.

Two hours into the drive back and I had been baking in the sun for nearly eight hours and was starting to really feel it. Sleepiness, fatigue, lack of sugar. I started to think that I might crash and figured that's a good sign to take a pit stop rather than push all the way to Miami.

A stop at a local Dairy Queen for a small Snickers Blizzard and a Coke returns sugar to the body, enlivens my senses and we're back on Route 1 rocketing towards Miami at a blistering (for the Keys) speed of 62mph. Even at 62mph, I have to keep a keen lookout for Troopers and the Monroe County Sheriffs who are busy looking to make an example out of law-breaking citizens, such as myself.

Finally, Route 1 gives way to the Florida Turnpike and I can finally settle in at cruise speeds of up to 80mph. It's six o'clock and I've got some extra time before returning the rental car. Maybe it's time to find some cigars or a guayabera...

Michael's Genuine

Starting off with house made potato chips and roasted onion dip.

Make no mistake about it, my meal at Michael's Genuine Food and Drink was monster.

With only one night in Miami, I had been thinking about exploring more Latino cuisine. Specifically Cuban or Argentine cuisine. In fact, I had chosen an Argentine restaurant and sent a text message to Juan Manuel to see what he thought - being that he's Argentine and from Miami.

The response that came back surprised me. Forget the Argentine place and go to Michael's. Michael's? I'm going to eat at yet another farm to table kind of restaurant when I'm in the land of Cuban/Latin cuisine? That sounds like madness. So mad that I almost thought of bailing on Juan Manuel's suggestion and hitting the Argentine place anyway.


Passion fruit soda.

Then I thought about it more. Juan Manuel knows cuisine pretty darn well. His palate and taste is one that I respect. He knows my tastes in cuisine and I knew that he wouldn't steer me wrong. With that in mind, and against my personal judgment, I decided to head down to Miami's Design District for a taste of what Michael's had to offer.

I won't write much more but to say that the meal was absolutely killer. Just from reading the menu alone, I knew that I was excited. My only regret is that I was dining alone - because a menu this good deserves to be explored thoroughly and while I'm willing to order a number of plates to sample, ordering the entire menu by myself would just be "too much" - even for a man prone to excess like myself.

With restraint, I chose some selected items to taste from. I didn't finish them all but instead ate them on the way to Key West the next day.


Fried Beef Cheek.

I'm a big fan of rib eye steaks. Give me a nice rib eye and I can be very happy. My favorite part of the rib eye is the flap that surrounds the eye. It's full of juicy fatness that makes the steak. Michael's offers just that flap as their Ribeye Cap Steak. A nice cut of meat whose seasoning I wasn't too keen on but it made for delicious eating on the way to Key West.

Of all the dishes I sampled, the absolute star was the Fried Beef Cheek. Simply amazing and well worth the visit. In fact, I could have eaten just that dish alone (with a side of fries, of course) and it would have been perfect. Beautifully soft, tender and seasoned meat then fried til crisp... Good God, it was just unbelievable. I think of that cheek with fond remembrance.


Wood Roasted Double Yolk Egg with gruyere cheese.

I ended the meal with the Basil Panna Cotta at Juan Manuel's suggestion. It was good but I was more intrigued by the Roasted Popcorn Ice Cream that I passed on in favor of the panna cotta.

Surprisingly, Michael's offers a dark roasted blend coffee from Intelligentsia in Chicago but sadly, it misses the boat. Dark, roasty and carbon-tasting. It's typical restaurant coffee with a fancy roaster attached to it. Disappointing and in need of sugar and cream. Lots of sugar and cream.


Grilled Prime Ribeye Cap Steak - faro salad, feta and salsa verde.


French Fries, of course!


Basil Panna Cotta.


Michael's Genuine Food and Drink
130 NorthEast 40th Street
Miami, Florida 33137
305-513-5550

Adios Ibague!

Waiting by the gate.

The time has come for our adventure in Ibague to come to an end. The airport in Ibague is a small place and the security is just right for air travel. It's not the 1984-esque police state that we endure in the United States, but a screening center, identification check, a second screening and then you're off to the plane.

Rouki and I are flying off to Bogota for a couple of days before returning home. Alirio and his wife and Diana have come to see us off. Alfredo and Carolina join us and our Colombia Coffee Family is complete.


Alfredo and Carolina arrive con azucar.

It's been an amazing time here in Ibague. So much to consider. So much to process. It's a melancholy time at the airport as we sit around waiting together. Alfredo and Carolina have brought us a going away gift of sugar packets. Not the simple packets you find at your local coffee shop but the same sugar packets we saw earlier this week at Sonata Cafe with the love messages.

Here, at this little airport in the middle of Colombia, we rediscover the joy of flying. It's a trip back to a time when people actually could wait with each other and see each other off. Only at the last minute do we leave our group and head for the tarmac.

It's a sad moment to leave our friends but I look forward to the time when we will see each other again.


No trip would be complete without one last photo.

A Sunday Brunch Like No Other

For the past week that we have been in Ibague, we've been eating breakfast at the Mercure Hotel's Cafe Bistrot. For the entire week it's been a quiet affair with very little going on. Even at night, when you expect the town's most prominent hotel to be pumping, the social scene is dead. In many places you'd come downstairs to find a bar or disco and the chance of meeting women. At the Mercure, there's another Italian restaurant and that's about it.

Until today.

Joining Rouki for our morning breakfast routine and suddenly the hotel was alive and packed with people. Colombians mostly, plus a few of us who are here for the coffee expo. Everywhere you turn you find Colombia's finest suspended or compacted in the clothing that only Colombianas can wear.

In other words, it was a beautiful brunch...

The Salsero

Pork on a stick and a salsa dj at the Multicentro mall.

How do you explain to someone that you really wanted to see them when the photos look like you're having the time of your life?

The plan was really quite simple. Finish the workshops, head back to the hotel to shower and change, then attend the fiesta where that certain someone is waiting for and expecting you.

The execution didn't quite turn out so well.

Evidently, the fiesta was being held outside of town, at some place more than twenty minutes and a pricey cab ride away. Thus, no one wanted to go and I was stuck either at the hotel doing nothing or just tagging along and hopefully finding a way out to the fiesta and the call at 10pm to say that I was stuck and still trying to figure a way there was not met with a happy response.

Ever had someone tell you they're waiting for you and want to see you when you want the same but you can't? She sounded pretty mad.


Drunken besos from the otra Diana at San Juan.

By midnight I decided that I might as well start drinking and powered down three mixed drinks of rum and tequila. At 12:30am, I began to think that it didn't matter that I didn't know my way around the city, I could find the party.

By 1am I decided that I would go and tried calling. Three times. No answer. Either: 1) she was busy (she was one of the organizers of the party and the entire weeklong event), 2) the music was too loud to hear the phone, or 3) she was waaay pissed off to answer my call. Whatever the case, I was screwed. Time to drink more.


Yo soy Salsero.

With no girl, no phone calls and too much to drink what better to do than start dancing salsa? Or perhaps what passes for salsa while dancing while drinking.

Of course, all of this become worse if, the next day, that certain someone who was expecting you to salsa with her is viewing the photos from your camera and finds you, The Salsero, dancing with someone else at some club called Don Juan...


Diego, Carolina, Alfredo, myself and Rodrigo in the midst of cerveza y ron.

Diana y Diana

Otra vez???

I'm starting to wonder if there isn't something in the water here when it comes to Colombianas named Diana. In the United States, the name Diana isn't very popular amongst people that I know but here in Colombia, it's starting to seem like every third woman is named Diana.

I should note that it isn't the Diana that we think of in the United States. The "Dye-Anna" that we usually pronounce, but the Spanish version: "Dee-ahnah" but with short pronunciations.

There's Diana T., Diana G., Diana R., Diana L., and of course, there's Diana G. No matter how you slice it, that's a lot of Dianas.



Diana T. squeezing out Diana G.

Competition Class

Everyone wants a photo with Rouki.

Our workshops continue focusing on barista competitions and how a competitor can approach the competition. The first afternoon was spent mostly in lecture and watching video of world barista champion Gwilym Davies capture the crown for the third straight time for London's Square Mile Coffee and presentations about rules changes and the like. In essence, I just kinda hung out on the sidelines for the first afternoon.

With the next morning came something for me to do. We broke down into groups and started working with the attendees on presentation of espresso and cappuccino. What makes a zero? What makes a 5? What's in-between? We worked with examples of those and broke down the points for the attendees to see and understand.

Linda and Claudia. Too happy.

I mean really, if you've never thought about it nor seen it, how do you know that this espresso is a 2 and that espresso is a 4? We stressed on them that the standards we'll be teaching, and holding them to, are based on what we've seen throughout the world. So that when they receive a "3" - it's a "3" in terms of worldwide competitors.

One of the problems that the World Barista Championship faces is that it's not uncommon for a barista competitor to receive a "5" on an espresso in their home country that would barely make a "2" on the world level, creating an invisible disparity that makes it difficult for non-Western barista competitors to realize where they need to improve and become competitive.


Alfredo - Ready To Rock You.

Of course, that doesn't address or solve the problems of corruption within the WBC and the national organizations, but that's not our concern for this workshop. We're just here to show them the standard that would help them achieve the highest scores and a possible win, excluding any sort of score manipulation, favoritism or corruption of the system - which has not been limited to non-western nations.

Suddenly, a consensus starts to emerge. They start to see and agree that this espresso is a 2 because it's just kinda flat-looking. That cappuccino is barely a 1 because there's no definition between the foam and crema, not to mention the thin layer of foam that barely covers the liquid.


Los Jueces: Kelli, Johnny, Linda and Cedric.

Instead of taking the approach where I tell them what the results are, I let the attendees review the drinks and give scores. Some want to give zeros and others want to give fives when they're not warranted. Using a thought from other judges, I tell them that our goal as judges is not to penalize but to reward. We want to give them fives and sixes, but they must earn it. It's not our job to be harsh, just fair. So if you can give them a 1.5 instead of a 1.0, then give it to them. But if the crema has broken on the espresso, it's still a Zero.


Manggy prepares her setup.

Not long after, they're starting to get into a rhythm and the scores start falling within a narrow range. I take on the role of "head judge" - merely there to push and pull them in the right direction and keep them from straying too harsh or too optimistically.

After lunch, it's time to get into some mock competitions. Each attendee is offered the opportunity to perform and be judged by our panel of happy judges. Curiously, not everyone decides to perform, which I think is a mistake because now is the time to get critical without having to be penalized in the competition. Here, if you make a mistake, you can easily make the changes and be ready for the national competition in Bogota.


Carolina preps the judges table.

Earlier they watched the Colombian National Champion, Ever Bernal, do his thing, now it's their turn. While Rodrigo stood and did technicals, Rouki, Alirio and myself sat down for the sensory judging. In fact, we had a rotating sensory judge so that a number of the attendees could get a feel for sensory.

Surprisingly, a few of the attendees prepared full-blown routines. Manggy from Capristano and Leonardo both had full routines with signature drinks. Tre Cool. But the competitor who really commanded the stage was Cedric from Curacao's Cafe Barista. I've seen a lot of barista competitors from around the world and while many of them are great baristas, they're lacking in the engaging and entertaining department. Cedric is one of the very few baristas I've witnessed with a real talent for engaging and entertaining an audience.


Leonardo prepares.


Manggy in the distance.

As our last day came to a close, it was time to pass out certificates and say our goodbyes. Departures are such sweet sorrow but there will be more good times to come and I look forward to the day when I can return and find many of our participants on stage competing for the Colombian crown.


The official photographer, Diana T.


Adriana, right, works for Dunkin Donuts. Vas mas rapido!


El Jefe Alirio drops by for an inspection.




She's not in our class. But I don't mind...

Lechoneria Eduvina

La Lechona in all its' glory.

Sometimes I wonder if there isn't some kind of force working on us during these trips, steering us away from comida typica that I seek. It was the very kind Alfredo that brought us to the famous lechona restaurant somewhere in Ibague where promises of roasted pig were about to be fulfilled.

The lovely part of visiting Latin America is that they too love roasting pigs. Growing up Filipino, it wasn't uncommon to find pig on a spit spinning in the backyard. Of course, when I was really young we didn't like the fact that our fathers killed the cute pig but it was a scar that would have to remain in the face of porcine tastiness.

Once in a while, I worry about whipping out the camera wherever we go to take pictures of our food. It's weird and freakish and perhaps even off-putting to Latinos who are probably expecting all sorts of tomfoolery from gringos. But when the camera came out, the proprietor seemed more than happy not only to allow me to take pictures but to give us the grand tour as well.


The in-house butchery.

Moments later, we were descending the stairs into some dark basement where the true secret of Lechona lived. In the belly of this concrete beast lay a massive wood-fired oven where ten pigs had laid to rest for their ten hour slumber at low temperature where their muscles would break down into moist, stringy goodness and their skins would crisp into chicharron.

Coconut husks were used to start the fire while peas and assorted herbs are used to stuff and flavor the pigs. To one side of the room is a concrete table where rubber aprons are hung nearby - the sign of butchery. While the pigs aren't slaughtered here, they are prepared and finished here and you can't help but think slightly grotesque images of pigs being disemboweled as their guts and blood run onto the table surface before being collected for the house morcilla.


More Lechona making their ten hour journey in the oven.

Peering into the oven and seeing the pigs lying in their individual metal pans, I can't help but think that this resembles some sort of funeral pyre. Their eyes closed and they seems so at peace. I'm genuinely touched.

Back upstairs, Senora Guzman is preparing our Lechona while I peer into the outside lit display case housing such wares as empanadas, sausages and the mysterious looking dried pulmon or cow's lung.


Dried Pulmon - cow's lung.

Cow's Lung. Pulmon. It looks like it could be dried liver, or some sort of random dried thing. Lung. My God, who eats lung? I think of the inedible lung/gills of a blue crab. I think of the texture of the human lung. I think that the idea of eating lung is disgusting. But obviously Colombianos eat lung because it's here and in a large pile. I can't think not to eat it without actually trying it for myself. I ask Alfredo to ask the Senora if we can just sample one, she grants my wish.

Pulmon. It looks like dried Philippine Beef Tapa - marinated strips of skirt steak dried on racks in the sun. I conjure the Philippine Gods of Beef Tapa in the hope the flavor of the beef lung is the same. It isn't.


One must never let the frontier go unchallenged.

Actually, it's quite difficult to describe the experience. Lung seems to be one of those things that, unless you've experienced it yourself, it's hard to have a reference point. It's neither mealy nor smooth. Nor pasty or coarse. It's lung and the flavor isn't despicable. In fact, with repeated portions, and some salt and vinegar, Pulmon could become an infrequent favorite, like Filipino Balut (that nearly developed duck egg/embryo that's boiled and sucked on) - and a big pile of steaming white rice. In fact, I can eat almost anything with a big plate of steamed white rice.

Finally, our Lechona makes its' grand entrance. Rouki (the smart one of the group) went for the pequeno plate. I went for the medio plate, and Rodrigo went for the grande plate. Though, if I was smart, I would have gone for the small (pequeno) plate like Rouki. The medium plate was too much.


Morcillo and Arepas.

Lechona is the meat piled on with the stuffing of peas and herbs. It's a delicious combination but I found some pieces of meat to be drier than the others, making the moistness of the meat imbalanced. Don't get me wrong, it's still very good.

The meal is served with a kind of corn jelly that reminds me of the Hawaiian dessert called haupia. My understanding is that you take the corn Harina and mix it with sugar and water and it creates a paste that you bake and it gels and solidifies into a kind of hard gelatin texture. The texture and result is very similar to the haupia without being as sweet and dessert-like. Whatever the case, it a perfect counterbalance to the fattiness of the pork.


La Maestra presents us more of her work before delivering them to another table.

The common side in Colombia seems to be the Arrepa or Arrepita - thick, corn discs very similar to the corn disks of the Mexican sopes. But aside from the arrepitas at the Mercure Hotel, I'm finding them to be pretty dry and bland (we think the Mercure makes theirs with butter). Add a bottle of Coca-Cola and all is well in Lechona Land.

Awhile later, Senora Guzman comes by our table with a tray full of orders for another table. She's proud of her work and wants us to have a glance at the items before they're delivered to their rightful patrons. She also comes by to drop off an complimentary order of morcilla, a Colombian blood sausage stuffed with rice.


La Lechona.

The morcilla is dark and angry-looking. So dark, it looks sinister. Overall, I'm not a big fan of blood sausage. I've tried it numerous times and have only liked it once. For me, it's that kind of livery-mealy texture that gets me. But we're in Ibague trying new things and I'm not going to say no to blood sausage - especially since the one example that I did like, I found to be delicious. I hoping that this morcilla will be to my liking.

This morcilla has nice flavor and the inclusion of rice is something I've never experienced before but that mealy, grainy texture is there and I'm afraid I'm not a fan. I'm ashamed because this was Senora's gift to us - an expression of their love for their craft and it's not to my liking.


Chicharron!

As we sit in the warmth of the hot Ibague summer night, I'm comforted by the fact that we're eating good pig and surrounded by good friends. When I think back on it, it's kinda strange for me to travel with friends since I seem to do so much traveling alone. Rouki and I have been to Africa, Central America and Europe on trips and adventures and I know there will be more, and I'm hoping that Rodrigo, Alfredo and Carolina will be able to join those future adventures as well.

Aisen Guzman Arias

Lechoneria lo rico de Eduvina
Urb. La Esperanza Mz B Casa 9
Ibague, Tolima
Colombia
271 59 98