Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that I don't like good coffee.
Let me revise that: I don't like the new wave of good coffee. I am particular about the coffee I brew every day (I should be, I drink enough of it); we get our beans delivered every ten days from d'Amico in Carroll Gardens and I "decant them into glass" as Laurie Colwin would say and grind them as needed. But as to all the boutique coffees springing up all over town, I just don't...get it.
In principle, I was gung-ho! I am all for fair trade/small batch/artisanal stuff and most yuppie food movements have pretty delicious results. But from the first time I tasted the coffee at my local spot in Greenpoint, regarded as a vanguard of the boutique coffee movement - so serious are they that they host regular "coffee-tastings" to educate the palate - I knew doubt. I didn't like the bright, acid flavor or the amber color or, frankly, what it did to my admittedly weak stomach. And this conviction has only strengthened as I've gamely worked my way through roasting plants and caffeine meccas around the city. Whereas I used to see "Stumptown" or "Counter-Culture" or and have a moment of happiness, now my heart sinks. I alternate between calling myself a Philistine and bitterly muttering about naked emperors. I guess it's really, at the end of the day, just a question of taste: I like old-school, oily, dark-roasted beans. I like d'Amico and Porto Rico Importing Co's "Danish Blend" and am eager to try the venerable "Texis Coffee" in Queens. Heck, I'd as soon have a good Bustela with hot milk, frankly. There, I said it.