I feel like I have an allotted amount of posts that can be just about my love for coffee and my thankfulness for it in my life. This is my first purposeful post of this type, so I have at least, like, what, five left in my blog’s life?
Here starts my girlishly sappy journal entry…about coffee.
Yesterday I pulled shot after shot for two and a half hours. I must have pulled 100. I used over 3 pounds of espresso. I was working with one of my managers to find the best extraction for a two-day old espresso. I won’t lie, it was a tedious training session, but I was determined to have a really great attitude about it.
The entire time my back ached and I couldn’t breath out of my left nostril, but I made it and with an 18 gram input, 28 gram output at a 26 second extraction we found the tastiest, smokiest shot of them all. But, that’s where it stopped. I cleaned up as fast as I could and went home to make dinner, not thinking anymore about it.
But then, this morning I’m sitting at one of my favorite coffee shops drinking a French-pressed Tanzanian. It tastes like a chocolate plum. And I sat there, and I thought to myself how mysterious and wonderful it is that you can move a burr less than a centimeter and put a gram difference into a portafilter and you can taste wildly different things.
It made me very happy to know I get to be a part of unearthing this mystery of flavors. And as much as I don’t like math or science, I’m glad I have such a standard to brew by. Such a small bean, hidden inside of a cherry, is capable of producing such a vast amount of flavors that the least I can do as a barista is make sure I get the most flavor out of it each and every time.