Left Hand Milk Stout

"Dude, look at you, drinkin' that hipster beer and shit. But nah. It's cool man."

And so I was, and so it was. Though PBR has the reputation as unofficial hipster beer of the unwashed masses, there is a segment that prefers craft brews. It follows, logically, that someone who appreciates specialty coffee might like their other beverages derived from a similarly obscure background.

I don't, really. Or rather, it's not the craftiness or the niche factor that drives my beer preference. It's simply a matter of taste. I like beer that does not taste like rancid water, but beyond that, I can't say too much. I'm akin, in this field, to the coffee drinker who knows that they like coffee, but not really what or why.

I do know, however, that I really enjoy the beer pictured at the top. It's a stout, but rather sweet, tasting a bit like chocolate milk. It's easier to drink that you expect, and not as heavy either. All in all, it makes for very comfortable hipster beer drinking. One can lean up against a wall, sip it with skinny jeans and a thin smile, and feel entirely superior to all the mixed whatever drinkers in the crowd. That's what hipster beer is for, right?

In any case, though I'm a very (very, very) infrequent drinker, I really do enjoy this brew. What's more, the website lists several others that I feel compelled to try. Describing a porter as having espresso notes is a sure way to lure me, after all.

Pickled Coffee

Coffee, put in a pickle jar, held tight by fingers protruding from cut-off mittens. A hat, with feather, perched over sharp eyes and a loose beard. Something about that is right. Coffee, had with no pretense, in whatever and however. But mostly, coffee, had with a certain contentedness and happiness.

This contrasts, more than a little, with the aesthetic presented on numerous other occasions. But it's something like the ideal I imagine. Not the beard, or the gloves, or any of that. But the picture, which somehow is more than the sum of those parts. A picture, which can results from innumerable other ingredients. It's an aesthetic that has nothing to do with how it looks, and everything to do with how I see it.

If this makes no sense... well, there's really no "if" about it. This certainly makes no sense. It's an idea floating around in my head, of what coffee should be, of what it should mean, that carries with it an entire set of otherwise unrelated connotations. Generally, the lack of pretense is an agreed upon virtue. But how we go about perceiving that is much less a shared trait.

And that's ok. We'll agree on that too, probably, if nothing else. But still, coffee in a pickle jar. How can you not smile?

The Gift of Ignorance

The blueberry scone? Oh, that's the blue-specked one. With the blueberries in it. And the pumpkin bread is orange. Like a pumpkin. As for precisely what makes a brownie vegan, well, you'll have to ask it. Everyone, it seems, has different reasons; but I'd hazard a guess towards various ecological concerns.

These are the things  - or at least, the sorts of things - that occur to me, at random times, on random days. You think them, but don't say them. To do that would make you something other than nice - snooty, perhaps. And since I was told, just recently, that I am not one of those "snooty baristas", things better left unsaid tend to stay that way.

Which is not to say that there's an endless pool of snark welling up inside me, but rather, is more of a comment on the perceived state of the profession. We are a demographic from which snootiness is expected, perhaps, and thus encouraged.

Oh, you don't know what a dry cappuccino is? Here, let me help you, by tilting my head slightly, raising my eyebrows, and exhaling. There. Now you've learned, not what the drink is, but to not ask. Most of all, you've learned that ignorance will not be tolerated, but instead, made cruel spectacle of.

This is not the way it should be, or the way it has to be. Nice people think not nice things, and even say them sometimes. But a pattern emerges. It's said you can tell a lot about a person by how they treat food service employees, but the opposite is every bit as true.

I've talked about this before, of course. Generally, I believe in playing nice. There is a place for snark, dispensed judiciously, a touch of seasoning on the entree of general congeniality. But just a touch. More, and you mask the fact that baristas are paid to hang out at a coffee bar all day. It's an enviable situation - though I'm biased.

Sure, some questions may seem unnecessary. But ignorance is bliss, for those with the answers. Without the questions, we'd be automatons, replaceable by push-button machines serving dismal coffee. The blueberry scone? On the left. Thanks.

In Other News, Good Coffee is Good

When asked, "What is art?", Picasso is said to have responded with "What is not?"

Gas station and hotel coffee, for starters. As an Italian gent, I'm sure Pablo fancied a well pulled double, with perhaps the occasional dollop of milk foam. We might assume that this consummate renaissance man never had the putrid, black water served for our "convenience" at otherwise well meaning mid-western locals.

Well good for him. But not so good for me.

I am spoiled, no doubt, though the extent to which that is the case wasn't clear to me before these last few days. I've grown accustomed to drinking Broadway Coffee at work, and other small roasters at home. These are single origin beans, handled by practiced and passionate hands at every step of the process. You taste the result - bright, clear, complex flavors.

And then you have something else, something that could hardly be further removed from that vintage. This is not a revelation. Or at least, it shouldn't be. Specialty coffee ought to be special; otherwise, what are we doing with our lives?

But there is knowing, and then there is knowing.

The latter requires experience, a few days of absence making the heart grow fonder. And mine, having just finished a cup of Peter Asher's New Guinea, is all aflutter. I am spoiled, perhaps something of an elitist. But whatever I may be, I am with good coffee sending a surge of dopamine through my brain.

Thanks

First things first: If diet coke and espresso form a rather less-than-the-sum-of-its-parts mix, diet coke and cold press make something so much better. It's like chocolate sparkly dessert coffee, or something like that. It's so good you almost won't be ashamed to admit it, sipping it behind the counter, insisting to anyone that asks that you're just drinking iced coffee - nevermind the bubbles you think you see. You still won't put it on the menu, though; if for no other reason than admitting to creating (and having to name) the abomination.

Be thankful for that conversation, that will never happen. And while we're at it, be thankful for other things as well. Be thankful for pour-over cones, single cup trends, and lighter beans. And be thankful for the overly-sweet stuff that actually makes you money. Mostly, be thankful for the source of that money, the customers - who are really much more than that. There are surely other things as well, specific to you. But I wouldn't know anything about that.

But I do know about myself, and the things I'm happy about, this random day in November.

- That this blog has supplied me with free beans, to such an extent that I've not paid for a bag in... longer than I can recall.

- That anyone reads this, honestly.

- That I'm getting to play coffee bar manager, on a daily basis. And no one is making me stop.

- Latte art. I can do it.

- The races I ran, both the positive results and the negative. You learn from all of it, maybe more the latter.

- The trails out at Clinton Lake. I haven't had a bad run there, and every race goes better than I had hoped.

- That this isn't the end of anything. I can, rather unbelievably, call myself a coffee bar manager and ultramarathon runner (well, I ran most of it...). But the coffee, running, and writing, will all get better.

A Runner By Any Other Name

The question of identity is a complicated one, with divergent answers that inspire controversy to confusion. But sign yourself up for a club, and that's that. You're a member - whether there's a card to carry or not.

The above is the running club to which I belong. Lawrence, as you likely know, houses the University of Kansas Jayhawks. The Trail Hawks moniker, probably, is inspired by that. But I don't know for sure. A name tells you a lot - but not everything.

Still, my name is fairly instructive. That is, my club name. The Trail Hawks, at some point which, as best I can tell, is arbitrary, bestow upon new members a "Hawk Name". It is a name. That ends with "Hawk". But moreover, it tells the rest of the club something about you. And, since they pick it, it shows how they see you as well.

My name? Barista Hawk. As if there could have been any other choice.

Diet Coke + Espresso = .....

Legend has it that Earl Grey tea was first made by accident, the product of tumultuous waves rocking a boat carrying both black tea and bergamot oil. When the product, soggy and astringent, made its way to England, it found reprieve on the palate of Earl Grey himself. So smitten was he with the concoction that he made it his daily tea. Others, prone vulnerable to the influence of a powerful man - and, perhaps, a decent tea - followed suit.

That's the legend. The truth is somewhere, hiding from a more-interesting story.

True or not, happy accidents are a time honored tradition in the culinary world. Put this and that together, see what happens. You probably won't die, and you may even find the next great thing. With that in mind, it's the rare barista that hasn't tried to put espresso where it doesn't belong.

Early Grey, born of a random mash-up, was attempted yesterday. The result was predictably awful, the oil turning violently bitter and leaving an aluminum coat on the tongue. I looked at the other leaves, trembling in their clear containers, and decided that none could withstand espresso.

My eyes turned to the right, however, to the fridge in which we keep our soda and juice. Espresso is potent stuff, strong and hearty. But it cannot melt corrosion off of car batteries. For that, you need coke - regular or diet will do. I opted for the latter, because whatever dangers aspartame may hint at, it's probably better (or at least less deadly) than corn syrup.

I poured a can of diet coke in to a cup, with ice, and pulled two shots. They were - thanks, in part, to my new baskets - lovely. I had left a little room in the cup, but not nearly enough, as it turns out. The coke fizzed, bubbled, and a tan head spilled on to the counter. It looked like a chemistry experiment, which I suppose it was. Once separated, the aesthetic was similar to a dark beer - black body, rusty orange head.

I sipped the froth first, and found it thick, almost chewy. It was not pleasant, but not offensive either. Seeking consistency, I stirred it in, and tried once more. This time, the flavors meshed better. It was bitter, sweet - bittersweet, you might say - and just a little flat. It tasted like I had left the coke out for too long, and something had gone ever so slightly rancid - but in the least awful way possible.

Still, I'd never put this on the menu as anything other than a novelty. Cold press and coke would almost certainly work better, though I can't be sure. At least, it probably wouldn't produce dishwater soap on top. I guess I'll just have to try.

And on running shoes: My last post discussed my looking for a workhorse/racehorse, a responsive shoe with enough underfoot to handle 50-70 miles a week, 20+ mile training runs on pavement, rocks, and dirt, that doesn't feel like a brick or a slipper. I can't say that I've found it, but the Mizuno Wave Musha 3 is the closest I've come. I'd prefer a lower heel and more flexible midfoot, and its trail performance has yet to be tested. Still, I've never run in something so pavement/treadmill friendly. It neuters the impact, without dampening your response. Now, if New Balance would sneak the MT110 out the door just a little early, I'd have a perfect, two-shoe stable.