Like a Virgin

They say you never forget your first time, which is not strictly true in every case, but still does a decent job of emphasizing the power of novelty. Still, in my case, I don't remember. I don't recall my fist tamp, steam, or pour. It's all one homogenous blur, evenly textured like the microfoam itself.

So, failing that, it's nice to experience novelty from the other side. I'm still doing a fair bit of training, and I'm still loving it. Mostly, because of that novelty. You get to see, first hand, the feeling of holyshitthisissocoolandI'mtotallydoingit develop, and then take hold. You see the seeds of the addiction that's so wholly ensnared you take root. And what's more, you're sowing those seeds. This is their triumph, mostly, but yours too, because you're making it happen.

Since it is new to them, it can't help but feel a little new to you as well. It reintroduces a sense of novelty in to your routine - in my case, about 5 years old. And it's great. Always. It simply refuses to get old, because their fresh enthusiasm becomes yours.

And that's that. You'd think there would be something about frustration with slow learners, or jealousy directed at those who pick it up a little too quickly. Maybe something about introducing what might be future competition, further saturating an already crowded barista market. Maybe something about how, with only one exception, all of these trainees are post-grad, like me, and oh no!, shouldn't they be getting a real job, what about our economy?

But no, there is none of that. Novelty, being what it is, leaves little room for cynicism, and so I have none. What I have instead, and refreshed repeatedly, is a sense of enthusiasm. Making a coffee drink is really pretty cool, and being good at it is especially so. So thanks, fellow doomed Millennials. Thanks for forever renewing my sense that doing cool shit - satisfying, fulfilling shit - is right on.

Soy Foam at the Mountain Top

It's amazing how mundane an ultra feels, while you're doing it. It really is as simple as one step after another, an exercise in mental as much as physical endurance. And when it's done, that's it. You return to your life, and find it unchanged. The person who rings up your gas at the Kwik Shop still doesn't smile, and that customer still wants a non-soy/dairy milk. You limp a bit, but mostly hope people don't ask why, because the whole thing can be a chore to explain. "Yes, it's far. And yes, people run it. No I can't really tell you why, other than because. Sometimes you just do things."

But there is comfort in that sameness, in the routine. It helps, of course, that I rather like mine. Monday came, as it does, and Tuesday after it. People came and bought their usual drinks, and we talked about the usual things. It was, despite the sameness, not mundane; and it never really is.

I trained another person, as is happening a lot lately. The owner of my shop is opening up another, and it largely falls on me to bring the would-be-baristas up to speed.

I made, probably, my best triple rosetta. Perhaps this has to do with the above, as explaining my milk texturing and pouring has a way of focusing my efforts. No matter how good you are, you're better when you really dial things in.

And I made the best dry soy cappuccino in the history of Earth. Really. Allegedly, there are shops who will tell you this cannot be done. They are either lying, or wrong. Maybe they can't meet the challenge, or perhaps it's too daunting to attempt. But I've climbed that mountain, tasted the air, and it's real. Let me tell you, it's real. The dry soy cappuccino can happen, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

In summation, I feel more proud of my ability to stretch soy milk than my ability to traverse 50 miles somewhat quickly. Weird.

I'm Running 50 Miles Soon, So Here Is Some Mostly Unrelated Stuff

Wearing compression socks while writing is not a performance enhancer, as demonstrated by the quality of this lead sentence and the fact that I misspelled "enhancer" the first time around, only to be corrected by that handy little red line that protects whatever integrity as a legit writer I have.

But I am wearing a pair, because there is a 50-mile race on Saturday, and I'm doing it. If this doesn't seem to logically follow, let me just say that I'm not reaping any physical benefits by wearing them; I simply like to have them on, like a little kid who won't take his shoulder pads off after his first football practice.

Also, coffee things: I've been training a lot of people lately, and searching for a viable "milk" that is neither dairy nor soy.

The former is going well. Training is easy, really, to the point where I can't believe it was ever a source of anxiety. You show a little, tell even less, then let them practice. Then, when mistakes are made, make corrections (without being a dick). Repeat this for a few hours, and then a few days, and significant progress will have been made.

Perhaps I shouldn't say so, lest I threaten my job security, but it's really not terribly hard to elevate someone to competence as a barista. Of course, competence is not excellence. That requires practice on a longer timeline, and a refined feel for your machine, espresso, and milk. That can neither be taught nor rushed; it must simply be earned by putting in the hours.

The non-dairy/soy milk search is going less well. Almond milk refuses to accept any air whatsoever, getting sudsy and oh, bitter as well. Coconut milk, while a little better, still doesn't texture properly, and the flavor is far too pronounced. Rice milk is predictably thin and bland, doing little more than watering down the espresso.

There are other options, liquids made from hemp, oats, sunflower seeds, hazelnuts, etc. I've not tried them, and given the results thus far, I'm not keen to.

So, why bother? Because people ask. Not many, but enough. There are those who can't or won't drink dairy, which I understand. (Lactose intolerance is quite common, and some people would just rather be nice to cows. Legit concerns, both.) Soy avoidance confuses me slightly more, though I've heard all manner of reasons for it. Suffice it to say, people are allowed their neurosis, and if possible, I'd like to help indulge it.

But so far, I just can't. Or rather, I can't find a viable dairy/soy substitute. I can offer them a premium beverage that is gluten/soy/sugar/egg/lactose free, however: Coffee. Black coffee. It really is a miracle beverage, even enhancing endurance performance to a greater extent than compression socks.

There. I brought it around.

How To Tamp, and How Not To

So I know I've railed against overly prescriptivist training in the past, swore that there's not a right way, and that we need only apply principles in ways that work for us. Well, this is a nice ideal, and I mostly stand by it. But just because there's not a right way to do a thing, doesn't exclude the possibility that there can be very wrong ways. I've seen too many of those recently, so I'm going to lay out my how-to-tamp guide.

Yes, this is going to be a little inside baseball for some. But at least I'm sticking somewhat to my profession, and not tangenting on my hobby (though there will be more racing posts in the future). So ok, tamping. Tamping is that thing were you press the espresso in to a puck, so that the water can extract the juicy goodness from it.

First, let's talk principals. You want the whole thing to be uniform, since water will cheat if it's not. For that same reason, you would really like the puck to be level. But that's not really so complicated. We need a flat puck with no holes in it. Pretty simple. But for something simple, the act itself often ends up mess, sloppy, and worse, fails to achieve the perfect puck.

I think this is caused, not by too little effort, but by too much. People get hung up on hitting some poundage with their tamp, and so they mash the whole thing, pressing down so hard that they lose feel for how the puck is compressing. Which really, is the opposite of what you want, keeping the principles in mind. You want a flat, uniform puck, and so you press down evenly, just hard enough to get that. Once it's solid, you can stop. Focus, not on mashing, but on pressing evenly and just hard enough.

Some people stop here. I think that's fine, but we're going to continue, because most people do. This is the part were to tap the edge of the portafilter, dislodging lose grounds. Again, it helps to keep the goal in mind. We want to knock the lose grounds away from the edge, not dislodge the entire puck. So tap just hard enough to do the former, and not the latter.

Of course, even a soft tap will move things around a bit, and remember, we want a uniform puck. So, we're tamping again. Some insist that this should be lighter than the first tamp, some say stronger. I say not to worry about it, and again, to press just hard enough. If that sounds too vague, it isn't. "Too hard" is something you have to feel for yourself, and if you're taking the time to feel what you're doing, you'll usually avoid it anyway.

Next, we polish. Or rather, some do. Ideally, this is supposed to smooth out the surface of the puck. However, if the tamps were solid, this probably isn't necessary. Still, if we're going to do it, let's do it right. And that means, as in the other steps, that we won't do it too violently. It's called a polish, after all, not a mash, and not a grind. Don't press down with your full body weight and twist the tamper back and forth, ruining the perfect puck you just made. Do, if you do anything at all, twist lightly, quickly, and not too much.

The last step is difficult to screw up, but too often skipped altogether. No matter how perfectly you did the other things, there will be lose grounds on the edge of the portafilter. We don't want those, so flick the portafilter, and run your finger around the edge. Failure to do so won't ruin this shot, but it will gum up your group head, which is gross, and can hurt the quality of future shots. Finally, before locking the filter in to the head, flush. This cleans out whatever mess you may have there, and optimizes the temperature.

That, basically, is it. We want a level puck, with nowhere for water to cheat around the grounds, and to not beat shit up in acquiring it. We want the process to be neat, controlled, and clean. Do that, and you get what we really want: Sweet espresso.

I Want to be an Average Barista

I've trained two new (potential) baristas in the past few weeks. I tried, as much as possible, to avoid dogmatic repetition of technique; my way, after all, is not the only way. Rather, I simply explained why I did things the way I did, and what I hoped to accomplish.

I don't think it's arrogant to say that these sessions went well. Both individuals left them capable of steaming up a glossy pitcher of milk and pulling lovely bronze shots. They even managed to combine them in a way that suggested the potential for latte art, given a little more dedicated practice.

Of course, these sessions are helpful for me as well. In elucidating my technique, I am forced to justify things that might otherwise be mere habit, at this point. And by focusing on that technique, I keep it sharp. But that's a bit dry. More importantly, it emphasizes the fact that my job requires a skill set that A) Few have; and B) A lot of people seem to think is pretty cool.

Sadly, the process also makes clear a fact that is much less cool: There are a lot of shitty baristas out there. I don't mean to throw my compatriots under the bus - well, yes I do. But I don't want to look like a dick for doing so. Because the fact of the matter is this: I want everyone out there to be as good as I am, and really, it's not that complicated.

Despite the lack of complication, simple is not always easy. That is, while steaming milk well is not fundamentally complex, it requires some practice, and something like the correct technique. Many I've seen simply don't have it. There are also certain rules that ought to be followed. You should not, for instance, leave espresso locked in the head, without pulling the shots. But I see this very thing happen - and taste the burnt result - far too often, when I order an espresso.

Of course, this is not the fault of the individual baristas. They were never taught, and as such, simply don't know better. Perhaps they could be motivated to seek out internet content, but really, how much of it is worthwhile? (I say, knowing full well that this is internet content, and could be easily dismissed as such.) No, the fault is with those who trained them - or perhaps, those who opted not to.

I'm not advocating for everyone to get certified. I'm not, and I think I obtained the needed skills regardless. What I am arguing for is this: We, as professionals, should take enough pride in our work, and be pragmatic enough, to ensure that our trade is well represented. That I am exceptional is unacceptable, because really, I'm not uniquely gifted. I should be average, and if I were, this would be a better business, both in terms of happiness and profit.

Simple

Coffee is good, I think you'll agree. Given that basic assumption, the preparation of it becomes remarkably simple. 

That's what I've tried to keep in mind, as I've learned myself, and as I've attempted to pass on some of that knowledge. Coffee doesn't need me to make it taste good; neither does espresso, milk, or whatever else I might serve. My goal is not to make it better, but to simply get out of the way, and let it be good. 

This is a difficult concept for me to grasp sometimes, and more often, a difficult concept for me to embrace. Part of what drew me to coffee bar work in the first place was the apparent difficulty of the task, the seemingly esoteric nature of the barista ritual. 

Part of me wants to think that, four years later, I've begun to master some form of ancient Chinese kung fu. But I know better. The more time I spend behind a coffee bar, the more I come to realize how sublimely simple the job can - and should - be. 

On it's face, this might be a disappointing revelation. If the craft of espresso is simple, then what exactly have I been doing these years? And what of those who have been doing it longer, and better? Have we all been wasting our time, toiling to master some skill, the important aspects of which can be learned in a half hour?

Simply, no. To a degree, experience is necessary to realize the simplicity. Without it, you're bound to be intimidated be the whirs, clicks, hisses, roars, and general chaos. It's a cacophony that only sounds like a symphony once you've played it enough. 

Newness also lends itself to misplaced ambition, a need to do more instead of do better. Newness looks for the optimal drop rate and angle to ensure perfect milk; newness looks for the right combination of tamping, tapping, and twisting to pull the perfect shot. 

Experience realizes that there is no perfect way to do those things, and that there needn't be. The ingredients are already as they should be, and perfect in that sense. The barista's job, then, is to do as little as needed to combine everything. Basically, the barista needs only to not screw things up. 

What that means differs by barista, and differs by drink, which is the biggest reason experience is vital. Only with that can you learn what milk should sound like, what a puck should feel like. 

So that's been my goal, both with myself and the people I'm instructing. Complication is not a virtue; do as little as you can, as well as you can.