The Rake Magazine

Tag: coffee

  • The Citidiot

    My friend Nick and I strolled into the Looney Bean coffee shop in the tiny northern town of Crosby, Minnesota. We were grabbing some morning coffee and inquiring about the town’s upcoming community festival that we thought was called "Crosby Days." It was taking place that weekend and it sounded like a fun thing to do with our families.

    "Where do we go for the Crosby Days celebration?" Nick asked a Looney Bean employee.

    "It’s…called…Heritage Days," the teenage boy replied snidely.

    Then the kid frothed Nick’s mocha with an extra shot of bitterness. All we wanted were some details on the event and some coffee. But since we were stupid tourists, we inadvertently insulted the local kid’s civic pride by calling his town’s festival by the wrong name. When we left the shop and walked down good ol’ Main Street, Nick popped off the coffee cup lid just to make sure there wasn’t a fistful of toenails in his coffee.

    "Do you know what we are?" Nick asked me, as he clutched his beloved morning mocha.

    "Nope," I replied.

    "We’re Citidiots," he said. "City. Idiots."

    Nick had a great point. During the summer months all across the country, there is a mass exodus of city dwellers that descend onto quaint small towns, picturesque beaches, and pristine wilderness. We migrate to places like Cape Cod, The Hamptons, and National Parks, trying to get a little rest and relaxation. But mainly, our vacations just irritate the hell out of the local folks. We arrive clueless and slap happy, completely forgetting that people actually live in these sunny locales.

    In Minnesota, we head up north. Memorial Day to Labor Day is cabin season. From Nisswa to Ely to Grand Marais, we flock to resorts and lake shores, bringing with us the baggage from our sad silly Twin Cities lives. Citidiots (like Nick and I) treat every vacation destination with ignorant bliss. As we drove away from the Looney Bean in shame, we passed no fewer than fourteen massive signs hailing the upcoming "Heritage Days."

    That afternoon, we Citidiots went four wheeling. I climbed on top of a brand new Honda ATV that had a serious engine and mean looking tires.

    "That beast is a man’s ATV!" Nick said all pumped up.

    I should’ve been psyched. I should’ve been stoked to ride such a kick ass ATV through the beautiful north woods. But I wasn’t. I kept thinking that a real man should be driving this thing and not me. A real grizzled man who wore flannel, had chewing tobacco crammed into his lip, and shouted things like, "America! Hell Yeah!" For crying out loud, I’ve seen every episode of "Project Runway." And I loved every minute of it.

    I manned up, though. We plopped our four year old sons into our laps on our respective ATVs and took off down a heavily wooded path. I drove cautiously through a huge grove of ferns and White Pine trees, careful not to tread on something I wasn’t supposed to. I lolly gagged across several miles until my son finally had enough of my slow foot.

    "Bring it on!" Murphy snapped at me. Apparently, I wasn’t driving Miss Daisy. My kid wanted speed, so I tentatively opened the throttle. We tore through the woods and shot out into a clearing that was filled with wild flowers, a blueberry sky, and a herd of deer. It was a magical ride, a true father and son moment.

    Sadly, though, my Citidiot tendencies took over. Back in the thick woods, I tried to single a turn. When we returned to our cabin, I caught myself trying to parallel park the ATV in the open spot closest to the front door. Nick stood there laughing.

    "Do you want me to get the valet?" he asked.

    To complete the Citidiot Trifecta, the next day we tried to take the boys fishing. And as usual, it was a complete disaster. We had a boat but no boat license. We had a motor but no gas. We had boat cushions but no life jackets. We had fishing rods but no bait. The two boys stood on the shore, dumbfounded by our incompetence. I made an unfortunate decision to just go ahead and fish off the dock. That lasted about two minutes before the kids realized it was a total suckfest. The boys shrugged their shoulders, set down their rods, and went off and found their own fun.

    "Well, at least we tried," I said in defeat. And once again, a perfectly beautiful Minnesota summer day was ruined by a pair of Citidiots.

  • The Art of Coffee

    Sea green walls, worn wood floors, granite table tops, and ruby red chairs surround the counter. It looks and feels like any other coffee house, but what happens behind the bar only happens at Kopplin’s Coffee.

    A barista, bent at the waist stares intensely into the patterns of the espresso that drips from the Synesso espresso machine. Lifting the demitasse to his nostrils he smells the shot and evokes a grimace. Dissatisfied, the barista flings it down the drain knowing that it was not worthy of his palate. He begins his craft once again, adjusting the grind a fraction, measuring to the exact gram, tamping and spinning the porta-filter quickly to remove any excess grounds resting upon the surface of the perfectly polished pod. His work is beyond a job, it is an art form. Satisfied with his next shot, he lifts his pitcher of steamed organic milk. Peering deep into the cup, he angles the glass, slowly rotating it while swaying the hand with the pitcher back and forth. The milk fans out across the crema, staining it white in the elegant pattern of a rosetta, a beautiful fern-like leaf that signifies to the customer that the velvety froth has been steamed to perfection.

    Next to the barista, owner Andrew Kopplin stands in concentration above one of his two Clover machines. He stirs a Kenya AA Wagamuga, a coffee that has received the highest score ever given by Coffee Review. The Clover, one of only a few hundred in the world, is an $11,000 coffee brewer that offers complete control over every element of the brew. This is the only Clover in Minnesota available to the public. The machine allows Kopplin to find the ideal way to extract body and flavor from of each coffee. He peers into the coffee knowing that his stirring technique will affect the quality of the cup. His regulars are like fans at a baseball game. At a nearby table a regular watches while sipping on the silky froth of a cappuccino. He sports a dark blue t-shirt with the word Clover printed across it.

    On Fridays at noon, Kopplin steps out from behind the bar to engage in the smelling and slurping of a coffee cupping. Shallow glass dishes are filled with coffee and steeped for four minutes. Kopplin breaks the crust of the first coffee, inhaling with short quick sniffs. He stirs the coffee, searching for more aroma as he explains the act of cupping to the participants. The crowd includes regulars, coffee nerds, and the curious. Kopplin fills his spoon with coffee, raises it to his lips, and sucks loudly at the liquid. He throws it to the back of his mouth and swirls it around his palate. As others mimic his actions he describes what they taste in the coffee: hints of honey, black currant, pineapple, tobacco, green pepper, citrus, and sweet tomato. He educates his customers while also developing himself as he explores new coffees he has not yet experienced from various roasters and origins.

    Kopplin also changes the multiple espressos that he has available. He offers single origin espressos from specific farms and blended espressos from roasters from around the world. The most expensive espresso that Kopplin’s has offered was $30 a shot. This espresso was the first coffee ever offered from the coffee company R. Miguel, a new local company that offers coffee so exceptional that you have to be invited to purchase it. This espresso was from one of the rarest Gesha varietals in the world, grown at the extremely small Mama Cata farm in Boquete Panama. It was offered for one day only, and the roast master, R. Miguel Meza, was present at the event to discuss the coffee with customers. Kopplin also offered 8 oz glasses brewed on the Clover for $25. Customers tasted the coffee and learned about the farmer who grew the coffee, where it was grown, and how it was processed, roasted, and brewed.

    In May, Kopplin will be joining coffee enthusiasts from around the country at the Minneapolis Convention Center for the Specialty Coffee Association of America Conference and United States Barista Competition. Classes and exhibits from companies and professionals from around the country will be offered. Baristas from cafés all over the nation will come together for a competition to determine who will represent the United States in the World Barista Championship. Kopplin will be one among many who have a vision for coffee as an evolving art. His café on the corner of Randolph and Hamline in St. Paul will be a hot spot for many coffee professionals with a similar vision of the barista as an artist and coffee as a medium.

     

  • Eating Christians

    I have learned many things after only two days in Rome.

    I have learned, for instance, that I, who think of myself as a forthright women — pushy, even — have nothing on the people here who will grab a stranger’s arm and lead her into a restaurant or insist on turning heat on in her hotel room when it is already 80 degrees.

    I have learned that the most average table-quality olive oil here makes the stuff we’re buying back home (even the really, really pricey bottles at boutique gourmet shops) seem thin and tasteless. Here, the olio is viscous and green, with a sweet, nutty flavor — one that reminds you an olive is a fruit, and not a vegetable as our guidebook said.

    I have learned yet again (because I’ve visited Europe before and had this exact experience) that the coffee on the continent is vastly superior to everything we have in the States. In fact, these tiny cups of rich, dense, foamy liquid don’t even seem related to oily American espresso and this time, I’m certain I’ve been ruined for Caribou and Starbucks forever.

    I have learned to my chagrin that every other civilized person on the planet — including the kid we stopped on the street to ask for directions to the train station and the elderly man who was mopping the floor in the Pantheon this morning — knows several languages, including mine. I am traveling, for that matter, with a husband who knows three and is able to communicate with the majority of those few who haven’t learned English by slipping into Spanish. While my paltry smattering of poorly pronounced French has been useless.

    But put all that aside.

    My single greatest learning experience to date came this morning, when my husband and I walked from our hotel four miles, across the Tiber River, to the Vatican and beheld a spectacle unlike any I have ever seen. It was Disneyland with Jesus, a vast, commercial enterprise with men hawking knock-off purses and jewelry at the entrance and enormous screens showing video of the current pope. Were I a Catholic, I would be furious, ashamed, moved to convert to Islam. My mother is Catholic and I was positively aggrieved on her behalf. We declined the opportunity to pay €25 euro apiece to tour this “holy” place, tripped over the hordes of beggars who lay crouched in what I think of as a yogic child’s pose, rattling their shorn-off McDonald’s cups for coins. It was sobering to me, the streams of people wearing crosses who appeared to be gleaning something spiritual from the circus of cotton candy vendors, plastic pietas, and St. Francis on a stick.

    We walked away quiet, sickened, not in the mood for lunch. Our next destination was the Coliseum, which took us through the Ghetto, Rome’s Jewish section (which was lovely and quiet and completely devoid of hotdog vendors, kosher or otherwise), and the ancient ruins. Finally we came to the Coliseum, a blackened and broken stone structure, and sat in a park across the street.

    “So this was the place where they had, what?” I asked John (who, by the way, won the trivia contest on the plane on the way over; so I count on him to know all things).

    “Oh, you know, there were gladiators, and lions eating Christians,” he said.

    Well, of course, I’d heard this, but I hadn’t really thought of it. And I have to admit, his saying this really brightened my day. Eating Christians! Now I’m not saying all Christians deserve to be eaten. But I really do think that carefully employed, this practice would solve a lot of problems. There are droves of people pimping the Vatican, and hordes of others brainlessly buying it. Most of them are Christians. And I say, by getting the Coliseum in working order again and feeding a few of them to the lions, we might be able to put a stop to a lot of needless evil. Plus, it would thin out the crowds around Rome.

    Which would mean — here’s the real beauty part — that I wouldn’t have to stand in line so long for my coffee.

     

  • One More Cup of Coffee for the Road: In Another Lifetime

    Long, long ago, in the sweltering twilight of an August night
    roaring with cicadas and the vacuum hum of a lazy small town in retreat
    from the heat and the falling darkness, the yards and sidewalks
    abandoned for living rooms and television sets (the wobbling blue
    screens of which we could see through the dark, otherwise blank window
    frames and the gauzy, fluttering filter of curtains), I bucked you
    across town through the empty streets on my stingray bike.

    We were hunched together on my sparkling blue banana seat; I was
    pedaling furiously and you were clinging to the sissy bar. I wished you
    had been clinging to me, wished you would put your arms around my
    chest, but it was nice to feel you there behind me all the same, nice
    to hear your laughter (all the wonderful variations of your wonderful
    laugh) ringing out over the silent neighborhoods and your voice at my
    ear and your breath in my hair.

    I don’t know, can’t remember, where we were going. We weren’t,
    though, going to the Dairy Queen, where everyone else always seemed to be going and where the moths were in full swirling
    frenzy around the streetlamps in the parking lot. We were headed, I’m
    sure, elsewhere.

    We were in search of what you called a grassy horizontal, and we had darkness in mind, I think, and so we’d ride out to where the futile
    over-light of that shitty little town gave way suddenly to a great
    stretch of emptiness, where the pavement turned to gravel, where there
    were fields rolling away into the distance, and where there was a muddy
    creek and there were railroad tracks and trains (which sounded, you
    said, like iron waterfalls, and which I’ve always said sound like
    something heavy being carried away) crawling off into the night, out
    into an America we could only then imagine.

    But which we did imagine, together, breathlessly, with ridiculous
    hope and optimism. That place was where we knew we would eventually
    have to go to make our escape, to complete the process of becoming, to
    find ourselves even as we lost each other.

    That was also the place, the place beyond our close little world
    whose secrets and sadnesses we felt certain we had already divined,
    where we would one day, through exactly the sort of occasional miracle
    this world is still capable of delivering, find each other again.

    I am still, every day, my sister, my old friend, stunned by this
    miracle, still gratefully puzzled by my bounty of blessings entirely
    undeserved. And now it always seems to be that same magic dusk I
    remember, and I find myself once again in the position of trying to
    talk you onto the back of my stingray bike, trying to convince you to
    ride with me out beyond the false, feeble light of that low town, away
    from and out from under the people we have allowed ourselves to become;
    trying to get you to slow down and to listen again to the roaring
    silence and the moving water and the watch-winding racket of insects
    throbbing from the ditches, and to lie on your back with me marveling
    at the stars and the heat lightning trembling down the dark sky across
    the fields.