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.

English Major

The internet is a big, scary, wonderful, terrible, disgusting, and beautiful place. And I love it. Sometimes. Of course, I should, being that this manifestation of myself exists only online. It allows me a degree of publishing freedom and an audience that I would never have otherwise. How else would this, a collection of ramblings tied together only in being written by me, a man of no real import, garner any readership at all?

That's a great question. And it's one that deserves a great answer. I won't give you that tonight, however. What I will do is share this with you, because it's tremendous.

Stay thirsty, my friends.

I Believe I Can Fly (How'd That Work, Icarus?)

Hubris is a bitch.

You'd think that, as an English major, I'd be familiar with literary devices, and how they play out. The protagonist, impressed with his achievements and abilities, assumes too much, and pays for it. This predates English lit, even, as the term is Greek in origin. And let's not pretend that, back in day, our good ol' cavefolk ancestors didn't have the same concept. Some guy thinks he can chuck a pointy stick at a sabretooth tiger, and lo and behold, it works once. Probably, it did not work twice. Hubris.

So yeah, this is old school. Hell, this is older than school. In any case, I should know better.

But I thought I was invincible. I though I did all of the core and strength stuff you need to, that I wore the right kind of shoe (or lack thereof), and trained intelligently. Bulletproof, baby.

Enter hubris.

My left IT band is now rather inflamed, and I've been reduced to that guy hobbling up to the elliptical for an hour of light spinning, trying to coax my heart rate over 100 BPM. Granted, it's only been two days, and things are feeling quite a bit better. And at any rate, nothing but my transient pride depends on how fast I can manage the 5K in a week and a half.

But my income depends on my ability to make coffee. Well, that, and my ability to sweep, chat, hand over muffins, etc. But mostly, I make coffee. For a while there, that coffee was looking pretty good. By which I mean that I was pouring some pretty swank designs in lattes, and whipping up some lusty foam for cappuccinos.

Enter hubris.

Oh, wait. Hubris was that other thing. This is arete, a Greek word English hasn't co-opted, so I'll have to explain. Short version: It's the opposite. Whereas hubris is an overabundance of confidence, arete is a lack thereof.

There was a latte art "throwdown" last Friday night, of which I was made aware with plenty of time to prepare myself. I had a week to hone my hearts, rate my rosettas, and get ready to go kick some ass. Or pour pretty milk designs in espresso. Whatever. In any case, I did neither, because instead of psyching myself up, I psyched myself out, and went running instead. (See above for more info on how that went.) Maybe I'm a coward, maybe I just care too much. But whatever the reason, the result is the crappiest string of rosettas I've presented in months. 

So while hubris is a bitch, so is balance. If Space Jam taught us anything, it's that you must believe it to achieve it, but that you can't take anything for granted. So I'm going to lace up my... actually, my shoes don't have laces. But still, I will wear shoes, because I value health code. And then I'll go make some good drinks, to save the world from alien baristas that have stolen the skill-set of former WBC competitors.

Managing Expectations

The lessons that stick with us are not always those on a syllabus. Perhaps the most enduring example from my High School experience is this little nugget: "Don't lower people's expectations before you start. Let them decide you're horrible on their own. They might even think you're great."

It was a speech class, and the teacher had heard enough prefaces that were, in fact, apologies for hypothetical transgressions. It's not that there is anything wrong with "I'm sorry", in the same way that there isn't anything wrong with hot sauce. But you might want to use both judiciously.

I bring this up now, because yesterday was a good day for foam. More than usual cappuccinos stacked on unflavored lattes, and even a few macchiatos. But it's not just that these orders were placed, as by whom they were placed. Which is to say, educated coffee drinkers, who knew what they wanted, and had some basic grasp of what their drink ought to look like. My kind of people in general, but one stood out.

"How good is your cappuccino foam?" she inquired. Taken out of context, this seems an aggressive query - and it is, at least, rather blunt. But if you've seen the quality of cappuccino often served, even at otherwise well-run establishments, you'll feel the question justified.

The first instinct of some might be to engage in a preemptive strike against her expectations, say something like "fine", or "I'll do my best". Others will start further back, and perhaps try and manage things further. After all, start expectations low enough, and you don't disappoint anyone.

But I remembered that High School lesson. I tried to keep the hubris from sprouting, and my proclamation becoming too boastful. "Good," I said, in a flat monotone. "You'll be happy with it."

She ordered, thus leaving only the matter of delivering. Which isn't so hard. Forget the expectations in general, and just steam the milk. Easy.

Stretch.

Texture.

Pour.

Serve.

Accept thanks, offered in the form of a post-drink "Wow."

Judging the Man by his Collar

One look at the size of his collar, at the fit of his coat, and I knew he had a preference concerning cappuccinos. Not everyone does, of course. Truthfully, something like a majority of the people ordering them would be better off asking for something else -- either a latte, or perhaps the sort of thing vended from a gas station machine.

But as I looked up from the ticket, glancing over the espresso machine, I knew that he was not in that crowd. He was neither ignorant nor apathetic. His posture was too perfect for that, his gait too self assured, and the collar on his coat altogether too large. He eyed the cookbooks like someone who might be able to properly fold an omelet.

"How dry do you like your cappuccinos?" I asked. He glanced up, his eyes open in the way that says "Me?" I looked back in the way that responds "Who else?"

"Wet," he said. No explanation, and certainly no question.

There was nothing left but to do it then. A wet cappuccino is a mixed breed of sorts, something of a hybrid latte and genuine cappuccino. It ought to be smooth and consistent, like a latte, but not so milky as that. It should thus be foamy, but not so light and airy as a cappuccino. It resides in that ether between the two, and is something of a challenge for that.

I set to stretching the milk, settling in to a soft spot just to the left of the vortex, nicking the edge and coaxing a thick hiss from the milk. I let the wand penetrate deeper as the liquid rose, texturing and smoothing, eliminating bubbles and inconsistencies. The requisite temperature reached, I cut the steam,  and set the pitcher down. I had hit my target, or thereabouts. This was no dishwater foam; it was refined and dense.

I poured, and as the milk entered the cup, so too did doubt begin to fill my mind. Too light. Too airy. Too dry. I lifted the cup, and knew that I had made a perfect cappuccino -- but not a perfect wet cappuccino. I had missed my mark by millimeters, having perhaps stretched too eagerly and thus landed near -- but not on -- the bull's eye.

"I think it might be a touch dry," I confessed.

He fingered the foam, lightly at first, then scooped a portion to his mouth and licked. "How deep is the foam?" he asked.

"It ought to be consistent," I said. "I don't use a spoon unless I'm making one totally dry. The whole thing should be about like that. But pick it up; I think it felt a little light."

He did, and took a sip as well.

"I have more milk left over," I said, preempting the request I expected would come.

"Would you..." he paused, and cocked his features, not quite finishing the question -- but setting the cup down.

I used a spoon then, holding back what foam there might have been, incorporating more milk in to the drink that I now estimated to be 15% dryer than intended. He took it, sipped, and professed satisfaction.

Whether he was, I was not. A wet cappuccino may be something of an ambiguous drink, residing at several possible points on an imaginary continuum, but my ego struggled to accept that I may not have fully vanquished the challenge laid before me.

I watched him drink as he walked away, still with the same posture and stride that had clued me in to his distinct tastes before, noting again the size of the collar.

A drink after work

Downtown Lawrence, crisp air, a stale bagel and a rich cappuccino. Tonight, I wanted for nothing else. Which is not to say that I do not appreciate company. As anyone who knows me can surely attest, I enjoy conversation. Sometimes, I even let the other person talk.

But tonight was night for walking, for thinking and not thinking. Sometimes -- ok, oftentimes -- the latter is preferable.

And so I departed from work, walked the block to Henry's and ordered. I talked with some strangers and the barista first. The barista was nice, asking, with obvious sincerity, how my drink was. This is something I try and do often, not just because it seems nice, but because I genuinely care. If your drink isn't what you wanted, I want to know so that I can make something you like. She seemed to have that same interest.

Of course, the cappuccino was great. They always are at Henry's, which is why I go so often. The espresso is sweet, but most of all, the baristi are all quite good. I mean that in every sense that I've discussed barista quality. They're friendly and polite, as well as knowledgeable and skilled.

So, cappuccino and stale bagel in hand, I walked out the door. Mass street was crowded, as you'd expect on a Saturday night. I didn't expect so many Halloween costumes quite yet, but oh well. As Customer Jim (something of an omnipresent man downtown) said: "It's Lawrence."

And so it is.

I never did figure out exactly what the bagel was supposed to be. It tasted vaguely of raisins, and there looked to be spots, so that's my best guess. But I could be wrong. In any case, it was gloriously bland starch -- exactly the compliment I wanted. The cappuccino, again, was lovely. So was Mass. And so, on the whole, was the night.

Stretch

A cappuccino is, perhaps, near the pinnacle of espresso snob beverages. Oh sure, a purist may prefer a machiatto, or perhaps straight espresso. But no drink better combines both espresso and steamed milk. That is, milk that has truly been stretched, not just heated -- as can seem to be the case with a latte.

Cappuccinos are also fucking hard. You have to stretch the milk enough to generate quite a bit of foam, while controlling the process enough to avoid giant bubbles -- and spillage. Mostly the spillage. Which sounds easy, really. Only it's not. Somehow, some way, once milk gets going, it's like a boulder cascading off a cliff. You can stop it, sure, but only by allowing some damage.

In this case, by damage, I mean a mess. Such was the case today, as a first time milk steamer attempted her first cappuccino. I had my face right over the pitcher, observing the process. The milk careened towards my face, and I was the damsel tied to the proverbial tracks. There was nothing for it but to sit idly and take my medicine.

Of course, the milk actually turned out quite nice -- the amount that was still in the pitcher, anyway. Which is to say nothing of the various lattes she prepared, all of which were far too good for someone just learning the craft.

The lesson here -- And why is it I always try and end on some type of lesson? I'm not Jerry Springer -- is that cappuccinos are fickle bitches. Whether your a complete beginner or the most grizzled of veterans, they will kick your ass. But it's ok, because they're delicious.

Some like it wet

I've written a bit -- and though quite a lot -- recently, about how a latte ought to be prepared. As you likely know, I've long espoused the virtues of microfoam, and stated unequivocally that a latte ought to be made almost entirely of this substance.

Maybe -- just maybe -- I was wrong. Perhaps a latte, as its name would imply, ought to be mostly milk. That is, perhaps it ought to be, shall we say, somewhat thin and watery. Let's just say, for the record, that I don't believe this to be the case. I think a latte should have some texture to it, that you should be able to tell it was steamed, not just microwaved.

Clearly, however, my opinion is not a universal one. There are numerous baristi out there, and many customers as well, for whom a latte more or less implies "no foam". Again, I am not such a person.

Thankfully, there is such a thing as the wet cappuccino. Rather than it's light-as-a-feather, texture of a cloud cousin, the dry cappuccino, the wet version is more than the dry foam scooped off the top of ultra stretched milk. Rather, it is milk, stretched more or less to cappuccino dimensions, then simply poured as one would a latte.

This drink is something of a godsend for folks like myself, who love the taste of espresso, and love foam, but want a little moisture to soften things up. The whole drink ought to be a treat, down to the last bits -- which, no doubt, need to be scooped out with a finger.

Milk: It does espresso good

Well, that was something of a longer hiatus than I had planned. In truth, I hadn't really planned any time off at all. But various health problems (stupid pancreas) and other writing efforts (stupid fiction, being damn hard to cobble together) conspired to leave this blog in something of a vegetative state.

Thus, a brief update. My pancreas is fine. Because of my increased ability to digest things properly, milk no longer seems to be a bother. This is better news than I can put in to words. Because, once again, I can enjoy the velvety perfection that is embodied in milk foam. Perfection, that is, so long is it's topping a cappuccino.

I've talked about steaming milk before. And I'm sure that I'll talk about it again, as it's that important. But, just for a moment, let me discuss the types of milk available for your espresso beverages, and which are best.

There is, of course, skim, which some might argue is not really milk at all, but rather a watery emulsion of lactose, whey and casein. Some people might say that, but I would not. Skim milk is still milk, in the same way that a steak with the fat trimmed off is still a steak. Unfortunatley, that's about all the nice things I have to say about skim milk. Its lack of fat means two things: First, that even when steamed, it lacks the body of fattier dairy; And second, that it lacks the flavor.

The next step up on the fat-o-meter is 2%, which many coffee bars don't offer. The theory, I suppose, is that skim is for the calorie watchers, whole is for everyone else. Half & half, then, is for the militant. Despite that fact, king of coffee, Starbucks, uses 2% as its standard for espresso beverages. As you would expect, 2% offers more flavor and texture than skim, but less than whole. The question, then, is how much difference is there?

Not an insignificant amount. A simple slurp and swirl is enough for the moderately learned palate to differentiate between the three options.

Whole, predictably enough, tends to be the agreed upon best choice in the industry. The old culinary truism that fat equals flavor holds true in this regard. The fat really does enhance the espresso, as well as provide a delicious aroma. When you're drinking from a saucer or lidless cup (which is to be recommended) this fact is not to be underestimated. But it really is the texture that makes the biggest difference. Milk is steamed in order to stretch and aerate it, to create a pillowy mass of infinitesimal microfoam. Less fatty dairy simply does not have the structure to hold as luscious a structure as whole milk does.

But there is the matter of diminishing returns. While fat does equal better flavor and texture, too much fat is still possible. I would argue that a breve beverage (made with half&half) doesn't quite cross that line, but it certainly does toe it. The body is heavy and rich, almost approaching cheese territory. The lack of lactose also means, not surprisingly, that the beverage is less sweet. Thus, for a breve beverage to be best, it requires a stronger (or simply more) espresso to cut through the fat and add a touch of sweet.

And heavy cream? I don't know, and I don't want to.