forbidden yirgacheffe, on nate the finger’s home bar.
when a week of spro tripping morphs largely into a survey of home bars, it’s either a sign of this blog’s emerging homebody clinginess or a commentary on the quiet consistency spreading among the junkies — not genius, typically, but more and more very good spro.
at nate the finger’s indiana place, it was a not-for-espresso yirgacheffe that was slammed in a portafilter anyway and kicked around for its carbonated currant traits. on the blogbrother’s gleaming basement place, it was all redline all the time … dosed way down and gradually sweeter in a fruity cake batter sort of way. and you already know all about the rabid liquid flowing in the madman’s ohio hideaway.
the commonalities: fun-n-games. bad shots and good shots. headway. eurekas. narrative.
and now comes hoffmann, not in the grand, star-studded sense in which he has traversed the east coast painting pictures for crowds as world champion, but in the casual, almost clueless way in which such a fellow of stature might stroll into some hack blogger’s living room in order to humiliate him. what ARE we going to do? and why?
this blog has its private hopes. hoffmann has his day of rest. betwixt the two, we might just find something worth stewing on. at the very least, it’s high time the lanky brit had him some deep south hinterlands brew — he once asked us to make him something terrible, the masochist. we aim to do our best.
if all falls flat, then at least we can shove a steam wand in our inner ear canal and give a mighty twist …