Getting Fancy

I've never shot a man in Reno, nor a police officer of any rank; but I have committed a crime, as of today, that - in the coffee world - may stand as more egregious than either. (Punctuation gymnastics are fun.)

Today, I drank something with syrup in it.

These are the things we hate, the things that I've spent 5 years trying to rise above. Espresso and maybe a little bit of something else, a dollop of foam or the like, and that's it. Coffee, black. Fuck your cream and your sugar. It's on the counter, but it's a prop. You're not actually supposed to drink it, people.

But syrupy drinks? Worse. Far worse. Like, coffee cred killing bad.

My name is Alex Beecher and in my house, right now, is Kenyan Peaberry by Broadway Roasting Company. I prepared it this morning with a pour over cone. I then went to work, as a barista, a position I've occupied for nearly 6 years now. I poured 3 rosettas in one cup because I am really, really good at what I do.

And I tasted a flavored, syrupy thing.

Pigs flew and kittens died and Satan bought some trendy Patagonia pullover because fuck, it got cold down there.

It tasted pretty good, the flavors more balanced than I expected. I basically understood why people get addicted to these things. Sugar is sugar, after all. It does things to the brain that are usually illegal.

I didn't drink any more than a mouthful, I promise, and hey, IT CAME ON TO ME, dammit, and it was totally out of context anyway, like, kind of a friendly thing, and then nothing. I won't call.

I drank 2 shots of espresso, cleansing my palette but more so, my credibility. I ate lentil soup and rode my 1985 Centurion road bike. I am hipster, here me meekly and apathetically mumble something noncommittal.