On the Trail, With Coffee, and Nothing Else

People will tell you that this was a bad idea, that running a significant distance on little to no food does no more than promise a bonk, that dreaded precipitous decline in blood glucose that leaves legs heavy, and the mind swimming.

"Eat breakfast", they would urge. "You're going to go run a half-marathon." 

But I didn't listen, mostly because, as a rule, I don't. I had coffee at home, then stopped at a Starbucks for a 20oz iced coffee (as strong as the barista would willingly make) on the way to the race. I was wired, full of nervous energy and impossible expectations. I was invincible; the distance was mine to conquer.

They call alcohol liquid courage, but I don't think that's quite accurate. I never feel brave when tipsy, so much as I feel unhinged. Coffee, for me, does the job much better. Caffeine dulls whatever aches and pains might exist, then fills the body with adrenaline. You feel an urge to "go", and an endless ability to do just that.

And so, fueled by that perfect elixir, I ignited the trail, tearing my way to a course record and a win. 

I wish.

Truthfully, I landed wrong fairly early on, and apparently sprained my right LCL slightly. It hurt, and robbed me of the necessary flexibility to kick, and thus to run fast. That combined with a bevy of other aches and pains -- likely from having run another half 6 days prior.

The caffeine couldn't silence those pains, nor could it convince my brain that some glucose wasn't desperately needed.

And so, in reality, I hobbled to the finish in 12th place. 

I didn't walk well for the next few days, and a couple of weeks later, I still can't run for more than several minutes at a time. 

Man cannot run on coffee alone; though that will not stop me from trying.

Diminishing Demand

I wrote, not too long ago, that coffee had crossed the three dollar threshold for the first time in decades. Subsequently, and not surprisingly, coffee shops began upping their prices. Customers voiced concerns, but it seems now that they may have done more than that.

From Bloomberg.com:

Arabica coffee retreated for the third straight day on signs of sliding demand. Sugar fell, while cocoa rose.

Coffee inventories in warehouses monitored by ICE Futures U.S. in New York rose 1.2 percent in April, the first monthly gain since October 2008. Mild-bean prices offered by producing countries are the lowest in two or three years, according to Rodrigo Costa, vice-president of institutional sales at Newedge.

“We have witnessed a fall in demand,” Costa said by telephone from New York.

Arabica coffee for July delivery dropped 0.7 cent, or 0.2 percent, to settle at $2.8755 a pound at 2 p.m. on ICE Futures U.S. in New York. The most-active contract slid 4.1 percent this week.

As you can see, that three dollar threshold has been crossed again; this time, it's going in the other direction. This is certainly not a precipitous drop, but it shouldn't be disregarded either. 

Clearly, there is a market for coffee. That includes, we tend to think, a growing market for more expensive, specialty drinks. This trend doesn't prove otherwise, but it does tend to suggest that coffee -- at least the pricier stuff -- is still a luxury item to most people. As such, it can be done without, when the price creeps uncomfortable high.

Whether this trend continues, and whether prices adjust to reflect it, will be worth watching.

On Art, Again

The roof looked a bit high, the figures a bit small, but all things considered, it was a decent enough mock-up. Things were where they ought to be, roughly, and it wasn't to hard to derive a sense of the scene. A success, then, if not an altogether rousing one.

Such was the diorama, discussed in class today -- this same class where my little attempt at a play was to be discussed. 

I rambled back and forth, trying to tease out exactly what I was going for with it. I talked about Tristan Tzara, and from him to Lady Gaga, about libraries and cafes and coffee. Mostly, I talked about coffee. Whether I ever said what I meant, I don't know; and whether I meant anything at all is equally ambiguous.

Eventually, I stopped talking, mostly because I had to at some point, and the point where I chose to do so seemed as good as any I was ever likely to find. "So that's basically what I was going for," I said.

The resulting conversation was enthusiastic, if a bit meandering, not terribly unlike my own attempt at describing the work we discussed. The academic viability of Lady Gaga was discussed, considered, and summarily embraced. The similarities, both ideologically and stylistically, to Travesties, were noted. People laughed a bit, and it seemed as if the play succeeded on at least that level.

It was decided that the Alex character and the Alex person are largely correct, insofar as latte art does look cool; even if it is not practical, and does not, in any way, make the drink taste better, it is viable for that reason at least.

In that regard, both the character Alex and me Alex are somewhat Joycian, as in James Joyce, insofar as we tend to think that art is to be enjoyed and celebrated. If it looks cool, and makes you smile, then it's worth it.

Straight Business

Cold press is strong stuff, the concentrated nectar of a pound of course grounds, left to steep overnight and wrung through a filter. It tastes dense, heavy, like a lightly sweetened fudge. It's the sort of thing you're supposed to cut, at least 50/50, with water or milk. 

That's the conventional take. Some advise even weaker preparations, like the bottle I purchased this morning. "Mix 3 ounces of concentrate with 8 ounces hot or cold water to make a strong cup of coffee." The bottle wasn't very big, maybe 9 ounces total, so this may well have been to give the illusion of value rather than save the customer from jitters. 

But nevermind all that, because I drank it straight. I drank it straight, despite having a cup of coffee earlier in the morning; and I sit here now, drinking another.

Some might say this is a problem. They might be right. I'm not advocating for cold press chugging, or rampant caffeination by any other means. But to some extant, I value transparency. And in the name of full disclosure, I think it's important to note the kind of coffee drinker I am.

In short: I don't do well with moderation.

Castles in the Sky

Somewhere between theory and practice, there has to be a good fit. At least you hope there is, hope that lofty ideals needn't be totally compromised in the name of practical application. And the latter needn't be without artistry or panache, certainly not without quality. 

It's a false dichotomy, too often struck in the food and beverage world. 

Fast and convenient means inedible; yet gourmet requires pretension and a hefty price. 

This is the same thread that ran through my post about the USBC, discussing the difference between the performance they put on, and the daily task of tending a coffee bar. I said that there were probably things to be learned by watching them, but I couldn't pinpoint what, exactly. 

I think I have a better idea now. Or rather, I think I swiped a better idea. The bit about the space between theory and practice is lifted, with honors, from Rock & Roll, the second Tom Stoppard play to get reference here in as many days. Stoppard's Max is talking about communism; I'm talking about coffee. But even still, I think there's a relevant lesson here. 

What works in an ideal world is worth keeping in mind. We have our castles in the sky (another lit reference...), worthwhile aspirations, but not something we'll ever live in. But that doesn't mean we have to settle for the slums, either.

So while the USBC presents an ideal scenario - not one that could ever occur in even the most elite of cafes, much less the vast majority - it is still instructive and inspirational. This is the best we can do, given the best case scenario. Let's strive for that, whether we can possibly achieve it or not.

The Pitcher and the Pourer

In writing about the USBC yesterday, reigning (and not defending) champion Mike Phillips came to mind. Later, when watching Sunday night baseball, I saw Cliff Lee take the mound. Or maybe, I saw Mike Phillips take the mound. Let the speculation begin.

Dream On

The United States Barista Championship is an interesting watch. We've got sparkling equipment, as clean as the day it was built, and baristas, looking perhaps even more pristine. They talk about balance, about phases of flavor, fruit, chocolate, and a million other descriptors, seemingly pulled from a wine tasting handbook. 

It's beautiful, in a way, a sort of ideal cafe universe. In this utopia, customers don't mind waiting several minutes for drinks. They want direction on tasting every potential nuance in their espresso, and never ask for something like a frappuccino.

It's not just the circumstances which are ideal. Every barista is well dressed, tucked nicely in to tapered slacks and vests, neatly adorned with careful stubble and sharp jawlines. They flick and tamp and twist and pour with the sharp, practiced ease of a dancer.

But it is song and dance, in a way, performance for the initiated few, rather than production for the masses. One might thus decide that barista contests are to cafe work what a dunk contest is to basketball ability - a grand display of skills which are ultimately tangential to success when it comes to the genuine challenge. 

But I'm watching, regardless, transfixed on the dose of grounds in each portafilter, the angle and speed of the pour. Mostly, I'm watching all of that, piecing it together, attempting to absorb the cadence with which they work, the rapidity with which they construct prize drinks. 

It's not that I'm competing - though maybe, some day - but rather that, by whatever standard, these people are the best at doing what I do. It follows, then, that there is something be learned from watching them practice their craft. I'm not looking for specific techniques to pilfer, rather, I'm attempting what might better be called learning by osmosis. In watching the best, you absorb more information than you can consciously process, and surely, some of that must be useful.

Well, probably. At the very least, it's entertaining, and impressive too. Again, this is something of a dream scenario on display; and it's a dream I enjoy having.