If you have ever traveled to Southern Europe (Italy, Spain, France, Portugal), Latin America or particular parts of the American South (New Orleans without Katrina damage), you have been to spots that are decaying in a way that somehow makes them lovelier. These areas may be a bit worn, but they seem to possess an inherent wisdom that newer places that are scrubbed and more antiseptic may not. They reflect time passing, not as negative, but as an advantage where knowledge is gained, food is savored, children are revered, and things are more romantic and soulful. They are places where old friends and former foes may meet after battling long and hard. These are places where out of the corner of your eye you may catch God and the Devil (or saints and demons if you believe in such things) having a conversation.

I had a conversation of a similar sort recently (actually, my blogging has been infrequent and it was a couple of months ago) on a blustery night in Chicago at North Pond just prior to the close of the last decade. It was a dinner attended by a Mr. Duane Sorenson and yours truly. (In the spirit of full disclosure, I asked Duane if it was OK to write about this, and he said it was fine.) Before anyone jumps in here and says the attendees both have considerable egos (the accusation has been made of both of us and may hold some degree of truth) and that a comparison to saints and demons is unfounded, this mention is related to what others have foisted upon us and not what we believe ourselves. As for who is saint and who is demon, it depends entirely upon one’s point of view.

So where did the conversation go? It was surprisingly pleasant. As the years accumulate and the beautiful decay sets in (which I really do think applies to people as well), wisdom and experience piles up and perspective changes. As much as we are fierce (in a positive way) competitors, we are pursuing similar things in terms of where we hope to see coffee go, both as it relates to what happens at source as well as how coffee is presented and perceived here in the US and around the world. We discussed the positive changes that are taking place and how the public’s mind can be transformed cup by a great cup of coffee. We agreed that a lot has changed, but that there is still a long way to go.

We commiserated about what it means to be successful and how it makes you a target of mean-spirited barbs from people who have never met you and know nothing about you or your company. The woeful rise of the keyboard warrior and the anonymity of the Internet can make people forget their manners.

We talked about our kids and how much we love them and everything was right in the world for a moment.

Later in the night, we headed off to the Violet Hour (if you are reading this, live in Chicago, and haven’t been, you should go; if you aren’t in Chicago, it is worth the plane ride) for a closing cocktail on a fine evening. We ran into a surprising number of Chicago and Los Angeles culinary royalty. (If you ask me about it, I’ll tell you.)

I dropped Duane off and we agreed we should do this again sometime.

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.

It’s 2:00AM in Chicago and I am experiencing the wrath of jet lag post-World Barista Championship. You may or may not know that I am the exiting Chairman of the Board of the WBC and when compared to past WBC events, I am pleased to say that Tokyo’s was unparalleled in many ways. Not only was there record attendance but the spirit of all of those in attendance was one of complete camaraderie: between the Baristas (of the record number 45 countries), the volunteers, the committees, and the WBC Board. It was a shining example of why Specialty Coffee can be so great when stripped of unnecessary politics, posturing, and chest thumping. The competitors were skilled and humble and the judging was serious and careful, and I am honored to have been a part of it. Last, and certainly not least, the folks at the SCAJ put on a rockin’ event with a beautiful stage set up and spot-on camera crew. Many thanks to them.

I enjoyed a number of glasses of beer or sake (or other) catching up with my coffee friends from around the world, theorizing about the power of great coffee and how it can truly be world-changing. All I can say is that it was just plain great and reminded me of why I do this in the first place, for a love of the coffee and a love of the coffee people. There was no swagger, no “I’m more independent”, or “I’m bigger/smaller”. There was professionalism and humility and integrity. At the end of the day it should be about how great the people that bring us the coffee are and how great the coffee is. We should be about the coffee and that’s it, right?

I am sitting drinking a glass (ahem, bottle) of Torrontes (an Argentine varietal) from a wine maker named Susana Balbo. The label is Crios and the vintage is a young 2006. To me it smacks of summer in all of its Midwestern-thunderstorm lusciousness. “Crios” means offspring and in the case of this wine refers to Susana’s children and wine. The funny thing is that my mom (one of my heroes, more on that some other time) actually gave me a bottle of this wine a couple of years ago and I’ve been a fan of Torrontes ever since.

I still think Crios is probably the best Torrontes I’ve had, but I’ve also loved some bottles from another Argentine producer, Norton (yes I know, like the British motorcycles). I drank many a bottle of that Norton staring off the deck of a rented house in the cars-up-on-blocks part of New Buffalo, Michigan (a community that is right on Lake Michigan) watching fireflies in the midst of a thick summer night on a La Fuma chair getting eaten alive by mosquitoes but somehow not noticing until the next day. There are even some shockingly cheap organic bottles of this varietal that can be picked up from that large natural food supermarket (down the street from you if you live in a major city) that go well with, well, almost anything you’d like in the summer.

I am by no means a wine expert, but I must say I do like the stuff in most all of its manifestations. I frankly am lost with all of the French and Italian stuff (Mr. Ron Cook, President of La Marzocco, sure knows his way around Italian wines so ask him if you get the chance) and tend to dig wines from Spain, the U.S., Australia, and South America. Maybe this makes me a wine idiot. If that’s the case, then so be it. Other coffee folk that seem to know their way around wine are Tim Castle and our very own James Marcotte.

So what does a life (I guess 14 years of mine, so a hair shy of 1/3) in coffee get you? Rocks to turnover. Some you’re glad you did; some you wish you hadn’t. It all starts when you turn over that first one with your first real trip to origin… and when I say “real” I’m not talking about a whitewashed version of a coffee producing country. I’m talking about a place that makes you a little uncomfortable with how good you’ve got it, a place where you’re dirty dusty and tired like most of the developing world, a place that won’t be ignored and won’t let you go back to your quiet normal life, a place that demands you do something about it; until you’ve seen it, you cannot possibly understand. So go see it… at all costs. I promise you will never be the same. If you are, you need to get out of coffee fast.

If you turn over the rock of ever-improving quality, be prepared to never be satisfied. Revel in the pursuit. Many (alright a few) have heard me reference the story of a famous Cambodian chef, born of royalty whose family fled during the time of the Khmer Rouge. He eventually landed at Le Cirque in New York as the chef de Cuisine and then up and left with little notice to head back to Cambodia. He was said to have been found on the steps of his family’s home peeling a mango. When asked why he left, he claimed that at one point in his life he had the perfect taste, a taste from a mango that combined the perfect combination of sweet, salty, sour and bitter all in one bite, and as a chef, he had been pursuing that perfect taste his whole career, never to find it again. His story ends nicely with a dish he prepares for the author, which supposedly presented a perfect taste. Sadly, (or perhaps marvelously) coffee is the pursuit of the perfect taste we will never reach… be it brewed (Clover, vac-pot, French Press, Eva Solo, what-have-you) or the even more preparation-heavy espresso. But that’s alright if you can live with it.

That’s all for now. More on what a life in coffee gets you later. I’m going to get back to that bottle of Crios Torrontes.