It’s night, and I am sitting on the front porch of my house in Chicago as summer breathes a few final breaths, with crickets chirping and the air still sweet and sultry, yet winking at autumn.

This summer was not exactly what I had hoped for. As has been said many times before, time passes too quickly. My only daughter Scarlet is 6 (precious 6) and off to first grade next week. If there were ever an age at which time should be stopped for children, it is 6 as, at least for little girls, it would be hard to imagine anything more perfect. If you ever met her, you’d know what I mean. To think that she is 1/3 of the way from leaving home takes my breath away.

To anyone on the brink of parenthood (and there seem to be a lot of you out there these days), do not let the early days of your kid’s life slip away as you cannot get them back. Being involved with your kid(s) while building your business or career effectively is a feat that could knock topple even the most adept of the Flying Wallendas. Please heed my advice. You might accidentally land on happiness.

So what of summer? Well, our Silver Lake coffeebar just turned one. Another coffebar in a city of forgetting is on its way. If it reaches 80% of our aspirations, I swear nothing will ever be the same. (Have you ever noticed how courageous I am after a few glasses of wine?) For any of you floating through the city of Los Angeles, it becomes more interesting by the minute for reasons that cannot be explained unless you see it with your own eyes. So please, check it out. Something IS going on.

And yes, I am also pleased that we opened a training lab in New York. Stay tuned.

On Thursday, I am off to Slow Food Nation in San Francisco for the weekend. It’ll be nice to catch up with a number of friends from coffee as well as an old friend and his new wife… who have nothing to do with it. See you around.

“I wish I was as fortunate, as fortunate as me.”
-Eddie Vedder

Another 6:00 a.m. flight from Chicago to Los Angeles. Making this flight usually entails waking up around 4:00 a.m. and fumbling quietly in the darkness so as to not wake Emily or Scarlet (who have on occasion described me as “noisy”). I am fairly adept at this drill as I probably take this flight every couple of weeks. It appears that I will be making it much more often for reasons that will become clear in the not-too-distant future. My wardrobe for this adventure is almost always the same: jeans, slip-on Vans (great for making it through security), a t-shirt (short or long sleeve depending on the season) and a jacket (when seasonally appropriate). This, one could argue, is where my luck begins. You will notice I am not putting on a tuxedo (although recent commentary on our removal of the 20 oz. drink from our menus in Chicago labeled me “elitist”, which implies a monocle, top hat and perhaps an FDR-like cigarette holder) or a suit or even the uniform of so-called “relaxed” employers (khakis and a golf shirt… oh my!).

That’s right ladies and gents, the clownish, fighting - middle - age - with - every - breath, incongruously - t-shirt - and - sneakers - wearing - while - reading - the - Times - business - section guy next to you is me. Thank god. I will admit that at some distant point in history, I had hoped to be one of those guys wearing a suit on his way to some important meeting. But thankfully, I flubbed the LSAT and realized that I was not going to be a lawyer (at least not the kind I wanted to be). In hindsight, I am glad it went down that way as I now view lawyers as a necessary evil (my apologies to the lawyers that we currently employ) as they tangle with the insurance folks and the ever-daring bankers (excepting our current banker who I really happen to think is great) for a spot in one of the lower circles of Hell.

After flubbing the test, I had one real job in sales for a large company. I did well but did not enjoy it very much and lasted ten months. After this experience, I launched head-long into entrepreneurialism by starting a bottled iced tea company with a friend (which tanked after four years), worked for a couple of coffee roasters in their retail stores (Peet’s and the now-defunct-in-the-U.S. Spinelli) and then, after coming to my senses, or maybe forgetting about them, I moved from San Francisco to Chicago to launch Intelligentsia with my wife. Much to my amazement and after so many close calls, we are still around and are finally getting things shored up in a way I really hadn’t thought would be possible. Upon leaving California, I felt a little beaten, and I think Em did too, like we had let ourselves down, but we swore that someday we’d be back in some form. With a thriving coffeebar in Silver Lake, a Los Angeles Roasting Works and another coffeebar there on its way, I guess we’re back in the state.

So why “lucky”? Well, it goes like this: I am lucky to still be married to Emily (undoubtedly the most clever and most beautiful woman in the room) after all of the strains we’ve encountered; lucky to have parents (believe it or not their names are Don and Daisy) that never doubted this was possible (even after losing their investment in my first business misadventure); lucky to have Scarlet (my now six-year-old daughter who reminds me that every day should be an adventure attacked with gusto); lucky to have found coffee; lucky to work everyday with some of the smartest (certainly smarter than me), most creative, nicest, hardest working folks you’ll ever meet; lucky to have dodged so many bullets in this business; lucky to have found people that believe in what we do; and lucky to not have to put on a suit to go to go to work every day in some faceless place that gets to make no relevant difference each day. I guess that all-in-all it’s not too bad, 6:00 a.m. flights not withstanding.

On a flight from Chicago to Los Angeles…

Tick, tock. Another Specialty Coffee Association of America (SCAA) show has passed. Like other years, this one was a blur, but a blur off a different kind. The show is always a time to see all those you know from the far-flung places that make up Specialty Coffee. My first SCAA show was in Minneapolis, some 12 years ago. It is odd to go from wide-eyed observer to (perhaps overly) seasoned observer in this span of time. It is refreshing to see the Barista culture and youth (including an always positively restless George Howell, demonstrating that youth is not a reflection of chronological age, but spirit) driving change. I remember being awed by the big names in the industry and wondering how we as a start up would find our way. Lately, it seems we are beginning to.

For the first time I feel like we really executed on what promise we have as a coffee company. There was a knowing, positive fruition of our efforts from the way our coffee and espresso (Black Cat and the Single Origins) tasted at our booth to the way we presented our new Black Cat Project and Intelligentsia In Season initiatives to how we fared at the United States Barista Championship. The only other person that has seen this process from then until now is my trusty compadre Geoff Watts (and my wife Emily who founded the company with me but as of late has moved onto an endeavor much more charming than our business and her name is Scarlet). Clarity of purpose is nice and like any other business owner can tell you, we have made our fair share of mistakes. Some of them twice.

Geoff (Intelligentsia’s Coffee Buyer) and I had some nice talks during the show, which we rarely have given the rigor of his travel schedule outside of the country and my time between the different pieces of what we do in the United States. I happen to like Geoff. In our work together I am confident we have both found times that we have been thrilled to be working together and others when we have been incredibly frustrated with each other. Lately it has been the former. In both of our cases we have been figuring it out as we go along, and I finally think we are getting to the point of being the professionals we had always hoped to be.

I remember our first trip to origin together, and I must say where he has taken things with our work at source is far beyond what I (and I think he) imagined possible. That said, I think we both know we are just getting started.

And to everybody that helped to get us to where we are now, I am deeply grateful. I have watched a lot of you grow up (some quite quickly in the past couple of years) and it has been immensely gratifying watching your efforts shape an industry. It hasn’t been easy. But man, it sure has been fun.

I hope I can stay I can be as invigorated about it as George Howell is now for 20 more years. That could be nice.

In another lifetime I raced road bicycles and was actually quite good at it. (Ask me sometime about sprints to various signs against my Olympic Training Center roommate Frankie Andreu.) But somewhere between deciding to go to college and trying to lead a normal life, bicycle racing was sadly left behind. Every time I get back on my road bike, I am reminded of how much I love(d) it.

There were a few different platforms for road races: criterium (closed circuit with a couple of forms, including straight up and point race), open road race, and time trial. Often these were pieced together in the form of a stage race à la the Tour de France, and each was grueling in its own special way. Today I was reminded of the time trial for some reason. The time trail is just you against the clock for a specified distance. The greatest road riders of all time were almost all masters of the time trial: Eddy Merckx, Miguel Indurain and most recently Lance Armstrong.

I have a strange but fond memory of the Wisconsin State Time Trial Championships somewhere in very northern Wisconsin. It was 35 degrees Fahrenheit (that is a little above 0 Celsius for anybody not from the States), and I remember finishing and being pried from my bike wearing only a lycra skinsuit. I then shivered uncontrollably for approximately four hours as my mom proceeded to continuously force me to drink all the hot tea and cocoa that I possibly could. At about that point I realized how cool my mom really was. And no, I hadn’t started to drink coffee yet in any serious way.

My time trials were typically out and back, meaning that you rode to the halfway point, turned around, and headed back to where you started. Time trials were about pacing yourself for the entire distance as you had no one’s wheel to sit on and draft; it was just you, your legs, your lungs and (mostly) your mind at work. Like all disciplines of bicycle racing, when you were feeling the most pain at any point in the course, so too were your opponents. Just a pedal stroke more than them each minute and you would bury them over the course of a race.

No wind in a time trail was nice, but you could still find yourself low on energy in the second half. My favorite was the headwind out and the tailwind back. You could crank hard with your head down in a tight tuck into the wind and then at the point when you were most battered, turn around, have that tail wind hit you, and you would absolutely fly home in your biggest gear. It was a truly amazing feeling.

So why was I thinking about this? Well, I am now on vacation for my 6 year old daughter’s Spring Break, and I was out for a run today along the beautiful sand here in Miami Beach. As I started around 16th and Collins, I ran into a strong head wind all the way to 44th and Collins. I was distracted at times for various reasons, but the headwind would not be forgotten. At the halfway point I turned around and headed back with that marvelous tailwind behind me all the way.

There has been a lot of commotion and turbulence in the Specialty Coffee business lately. Up until now, I have felt like the race for critical acclaim and commercial success in Specialty Coffee has been really trying for all of us involved in it. We have cranked hard with our heads down into what can only be described as the most ferocious headwind. I think it is about time to turn around and experience the wind at our backs. I hope you’re ready. Remember, all it takes is one pedal stroke more.

In the aftermath of the Intelligentsia Los Angeles holiday party, I looked at some other possibilities for our next Los Angeles coffeebar on what can only be described as a dumbass why-did-I-drink-that-2nd-glass-of-rye- so-I-could-feel-like-I-am-bleeding-out-of-my-eyes-hangover. After a mild debate (which inevitably occurs if you are being shuttled around by our very own James Marcotte, resident foodie and raconteur), we decided to head to Langer’s, the only James Beard award-winning deli in this here great United States of America.

Langer’s is located (and has been for over sixty years) adjacent to MacArthur Park, an area that is now chock-full of fake ID stores; barbershops advertising fades, flattops, and custom scalp art; and streets lined with tough looking cholos and black eye-linered cholas with whom long-term eye contact is not highly recommended if your goal is to make it to your destination unscathed. Following this protocol closely, James and I arrived safely in the confines of Langer’s to be greeted by the warming smells of matzo ball soup, briny pickles, pastrami and corned beef. My grandmas, Gersten (German, out of Berlin) and Zell (Russian, out of Minsk), respectively tried to offer this kind of fare in their kitchens, but it ended up slightly heavy-handed but prepared with love in the first case and dry, salty, and flavorless in the second.

Anyway, back to Langer’s. The décor is trapped somewhere between the 60’s and 70’s and not in any sort of intentional, ironic, hipster diner sort of way; I just don’t think it has been updated since then. That said, it is tidy and well-kempt. A bit about the service: It is always top-notch. Not in a “you need to wear a jacket for dinner” sort of way, but more in a “Mom is happy to see you for lunch, before you were a jerky teenager” kind of way. I guess what I mean is that it is always stunningly accommodating and genuinely friendly, as if the folks working here actually enjoy it. Take a look at the guys working the grill and you notice that even they look like their having a good time. Weird, huh? So how does this manifest itself in the food?

In a word, remarkable. James, feeling a bit queasy from the reverie of the night before and (in his words) “a sandwich I slept on all night”, soothed himself with some matzo ball soup, took a bite of the legendary #19 on the menu (Pastrami with Swiss Cheese, Russian Dressing, and Coleslaw) and seemed to have spontaneously regained his appetite. I, on the other hand, had no trouble polishing off a bowl of matzo ball soup, at least four marvelous pickles and an absolutely mouth-watering turkey Rueben. I have eaten at Langer’s many times and James only twice, but we both agreed that it has been astonishingly good on each visit. At some point in time, the owner must have made a conscious choice to use only the best ingredients, treat the staff well, and build a place that could last. I can’t think of many restaurants that have continuously operated for sixty years and still have the same vigor and love for what they do in their sixtieth year as they did in their first.

After we gained about two pounds each, and after I purchased a t-shirt that said “When in doubt…eat Langer’s HOT pastrami”, we walked back to our car completely full and happy. We agreed that what we had just eaten was perfect in every way (avoiding the obvious artery clogging concerns) and James said cheerfully, “Maybe next time I’ll try something different.”

I responded, “Why would you do that? How could it have been any better?”

“I guess you’re right.”

We drove off into a rare rainy day in Los Angeles.

I’m on a plane headed to Los Angeles for Intelligentsia’s holiday party for our West Coast crew. If anyone sees this in time, you are certainly invited to attend the festivities. We’ll be at the York, a nice pub with a solid beer selection and tasty food in Highland Park (a Los Angeles neighborhood) starting at 8:00 P.M.

In Chicago the temperature may barely break into the double digits today. I know it’s raining in LA, but I think it is still supposed to reach the 60s, so I have no good reason to complain.

After only five months, our coffeebar in Los Angeles is thriving, which helps to reduce some of the sting of the long delays and the expense of the build-out. It looks like our West Coast Roasting Works will be permitted, functional, and all pretty some time in February, various Los Angeles County and City Departments willing. (Readers, please rub your lucky rabbit’s foot and pick a four leaf clover, if nearby.) For those of you that attended our party during SCAA, you saw the precursor to what will be a great training center and cupping lab, although based on the state many of you were in during that party, you may not remember.

The Roasting and Quality Assurance crew is chomping at the bit to finally roast some coffee, and we are eager to give tours to the public and to host our Espresso Enthusiast classes, Barista Training classes, and Meet the Grower visits there. Oh, and of course you must visit our coffee-packing-only room. We HAD to build this room smack dab in the middle of the space, thereby reducing the useable section of the warehouse in about half. We built it, at very little expense (please note more than just a little sarcasm here), because Los Angeles County demanded it before we could receive approval to roast and package coffee. The City of Angles, I mean Angels is notorious for delaying the opening of most any food-related venue be it a roasting facility, coffeebar or restaurant. Ask anyone here who has tried to open one.

Oh, on another note, I look forward to the upcoming Barista competition season. It should be a good one.

I’m going to try to get the posts out more often…time permitting.

Strange that I would think of this as I am rumbling along on the South Shore train line, from Chicago around the bottom of now icy Lake Michigan, heading to pick up my ’84 Landcruiser after some bodywork to clean up its rust. It’s a cold, dark Chicago winter morning. The train lurches along the backside of the Southside, and through smudgy, road-salt-encrusted train windows, the city emanates a melancholy beauty. It may help that I am listening to Wilco’s “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot”, which adds texture to an industrial landscape that seems to be alive, emitting steam with each warming breath.

Luxury, like much else, is being commoditized in the world of consumables. Leather seats in cars are becoming more standard and we wouldn’t dream of not having power windows. Almost all of us can afford to by something fluffy and fleecy, probably made in a country with a very low labor cost, at Target to keep us warm as we watch a football game (“gridiron” to my overseas reader(s)) on our new flat-screen, high-definition TV’s.

That said, the luxury I most relish is the one that seems to be the hardest to find, that of time. Peaceful, reflective opportunities that are stolen on planes, on the road to somewhere/nowhere, or on a train ride like this, in the morning before everyone else in my house is awake…enjoying a great cup of coffee. Here is to a luxurious 2008.

Oh, and Nick Cho, I think you owe me a glass of Bourbon; this is my 8th 9th post. Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, 20 years old should do just fine.

Today I woke just before the sun came up and headed to a small town in Michigan where there is a repair shop that does great work on my 1984 Toyota Land Cruiser. It’s about 80 minutes from my home on Chicago’s North Side and this post is being written while traveling aboard the legendary South Shore Line, which rumbles along the southern shore of Lake Michigan.

On the drive out, I passed through the (formerly) industrial south side of Chicago with its heaving brick buildings, the steel factories of Gary, and finally the heavily wooded stretch through the Indiana Dunes National lakeshore and southwestern Michigan, which were aglow with the last vestiges of Midwestern fall. I love this drive any time of year. It offers almost every kind of scenery imaginable from cityscape, to post-apocalyptic, to almost primeval forest, each beautiful and profound in its one-of-a-kind way. Another bit of luck is a charming gourmet market along the way that does a very nice job brewing and serving our coffee. I had a cup and exhaled a bit.

But really, 80 miles to get my truck fixed? There are service shops in Chicago, right? Well it comes down to a few things. The guys that work on my truck love what they do, which is repairing and bringing vintage vehicles to life. At any given time you will see a wide range of older models there: 60’s era (and older) Ferraris, Jaguars, and Austin Healys (my dad once had one of these lovely money-pits), MG’s, Triumphs, Aston Martins, Porsches (I got a ride to the train station in a 928 and when did they stop making those?), Datsuns, Volvos, Saabs and yes, I have even seen the short-lived De Lorean and the perplexing pre-SUV La Forza.

So is it just because these guys love what they do? No, it’s much more. They are always kind and thorough and never talk down to me (even though I admittedly am among the very mechanically challenged) or anybody that I have ever seen there, regardless of what vehicle they are bringing in or whether they are a man or a woman. When is the last time you experienced that? They always call with progress reports whether the news is bad or (as often) good. They always seem more than happy to pick you up or deliver you to the train station. I always ask how business is going and the reply is always the same: “Great. We’re just glad people are willing to wait for the kind of work we do.”

So ultimately what is it? Why do people like me come so far out of their way to get their cars looked after? The answer is it is rare to find consummate pros in a world of the rude, the apathetic, the arrogant, and the condescending know-it-all. I think we may have a lot to learn from these folks in our world of coffee. Present company included. Anybody listening?

I’ve just returned from a buying/information gathering trip to Brazil. With our trusty sidekick (or were we his?), we traveled about 1,000 car-miles to meet various producers and to visit their farms and mills. We also patronized some original and booming coffee bars in Sao Paulo. (Oh my.) It has been too long (over a year) since I traveled to a producing country, and I can say without reservation that it is the most rewarding work we do. The potential in Brazil seems to be virtually endless… so much coffee with so many different profiles that it could take a lifetime to sort through it all. When the process of finding what we are looking for is complete, I truly believe that it will revolutionize what is possible in a particularly finicky segment of Specialty Coffee. The ability to craft coffees in Brazil from the ground up through our Direct Trade model, as we have in so many other countries, will again change the course of possibility. Let the digging in begin.

The cool winds of autumn…

It is time to revel in great coffees from the Americas and the pleasure of a great cup of American-style (drip filter, Clover, urn, Chemex, even French Press, as long as we are not talking about espresso-based) coffee. At a lovely little bakery near my house (that just so happens to serve our coffee), I had an absolutely pristine cup of our La Perla de Oaxaca, Organic Mexico: stunning in its earnestness, profound in its sweetness, absolutely perfect… and I think impossible to beat as fall marches on its way to winter in reluctantly beautiful Chicago. In what is becoming an increasingly espresso-centric, technical and gadget-driven world, I see the pendulum swinging back to pure expressions of marvelous single origin coffees prepared without fuss and complication. Wouldn’t that be great? Getting back to where we started, and this time getting it right.