Coffee’s a romantic addiction. It makes us feel good and bad, alert
and spent. It brings out the best in us if it’s there when we need it, and we painfully miss it when it’s gone. Its aroma wakes us up, and one whiff can take us back to each beautiful or important cup we’ve had before. We look forward to coffee and even plan events around meeting for an espresso or a good cup of Joe. Coffee wasn’t my first love, but it’s been my longest lasting one. I suppose that’s because coffee, like love, is my addiction. My romance with coffee began a lot like a Kindle romance. It wasn’t love at first sight. In fact, I hated it, but it gave me something I didn’t know I needed. Over time, I discovered its charms, and you never forget your first cup.
I was a young boy on a snowy mountain, sleeping in the ruin of an Appalachian cabin, and I awoke by the big embers and flickering remains of our campfire well before dawn. It wasn’t because the blizzard spent all night trying to flatten the cabin; I slept through most of that because I was exhausted. The pain woke me up. I’d spent most of the previous day learning to fire an old combat rifle that was as long as I was tall. I wasn’t allowed to rest, I could only fire it standing up, and every shot I fired felt like a horse kicking me in the chest. That day left marks that were deep bruises by nightfall; by next morning hurt and stiffness had set in, and I could barely move.
There wasn’t much to be done about the pain. When the storm passed, my father and I had to return to the hunt, so my dad gave me aspirins to chew, and they were vile. Then he handed me a warm tin mug and told me to drink it down. I was distracted by my body’s throbbing ache. I thought it was hot chocolate in the dark. But it was black campfire coffee that made the bad taste worse. I complained, my father glared, and I choked it down. By the time breakfast was over, the pain had faded, and I could breathe better. I was done being mad just in time to make an Olympic-qualifying sprint to the outhouse, where I discovered that coffee, in addition to stimulant and painkilling properties, had other effects.
For a while, coffee and I weren’t exclusive. I distanced myself, we dated other people and tried other things. I experimented. There was hot cocoa, different types of tea, caffeine pills during finals, and, while I’m not proud of it, I did take comfort from energy drinks for a while, though I know now that’s not who I am.
We got back together, and I was full-on in love with coffee again when I joined the Air Force. I was an Intelligence Analyst during the Cold War, and among other things, that meant there was always an urn of coffee percolating at some remote site or deep underground vault. Shifts were long, missions were critical, and coffee and I were intimate. We were good together, and our relationship was strong.
Over time though, we got stuck in a rut. I knew I would never leave
coffee, but there had to be something out there to spice things up—to keep it fresh and interesting, to reignite that flame. I knew what I liked, but I wasn’t sure what to ask for, and this was before Starbucks. So, I started in Italy. Espresso I knew, but in Venice I could have it in different grinds and from different machines that made it taste naughty.
By Tuscany, I learned how cappuccino was best in the morning, sometimes with grappa. One night at a Trattoria across the street from Aviano Air Base, a barmaid with big blue eyes made me an Affogato after last call that was gelato drowned in espresso that we ate together.
Later I added French press, Turkish and Greek coffees thick enough to stand a spoon in, and Arabic coffee in Kuwait, where the beans were lightly roasted with cardamom pods. The difference between the dark roast used for espresso and the light roast used in Arab coffees made me realize that coffee beans from different places, roasted different ways, were a billion combinations of an even bigger world.
Coffee could be anything I wanted it to be. After Saddam’s rape of Kuwait, I helped gather intelligence and support missions that destroyed Iraqi weapons of mass destruction. I was burnt out when it was over, but my best friend, Chris, dragged me away for some surprise R&R. We’d always talked about opening a coffee shop together someday. In the military, you always talk about “someday” as that magical place where you get to do whatever you want after you leave the combat zone or the service. It’s the goodness you finally get to have after climbing just one mountain more.
We spent a week at the Diedrich Manufacturing Company in
Sandpoint, in the northern panhandle of Idaho, getting a crash course in all things coffee and how to run their commercial coffee roasters. It was a chance to see how the business of coffee might fit into someday.
There are similarities between selecting grapes for wine and beans for coffee. Where they grow, how they’re harvested, and their varieties give wine or coffee different characteristics, and fermentation or roasting can tease out their best qualities and create complexity and depth of flavor. For example, Columbian beans are prized because they produce a clean, bright coffee with good flavor and little bitterness. Hotels like to serve Columbian roast because it’s not jarring and it appeals to many people, while beans from Sumatra produce a smoky, fragrant and syrupy cup of coffee. With the right roast, there’s something for everyone.
Coffee roasting doesn’t take long once the roaster comes up to temperature. I use a drum roaster at home, and each batch takes about twelve minutes. Roasting coffee to a specific, repeatable flavor profile can be a challenge. There’s an art and science to it, but whether you use a Whirly-Pop or a high-end Diedrich Coffee Roaster, the process is the same. Roasting coffee is like making popcorn. In fact, most home roasters start out using stove top or slightly modified hot air poppers. The important things are timing and temperature control, inside and around the beans.
Green coffee beans look small when you load them into the roaster.
At first, the beans take in all the heat they can. It’s an endothermic reaction that dries the beans and changes their color from green to yellow to light brown. They continue to absorb heat until their internal temperatures reach critical, and steam swells the beans until it’s released in tiny “first crack” explosions that sound like popcorn. They begin to look more like the coffee beans in stores. Medium to dark brown, their scent changes from sweet to rich and smoky, and the beans finally begin to give off their heat. This second phase is an exothermic reaction. There’s a “second crack,” and the beans tick and click like static electric. This is where roasting brings out the last flavors of your coffee. Cell walls break down, and flavors you’ve already created can be overwritten. In a minute, your beans can go from Full-City to French to Italian to Spanish roast. In an instant you can have either a flavorful roast or charcoal. If you reach “third crack,” your coffee is dead.
For our final exam, Chris and I had a good plan, but what set us apart was teamwork. The test was to run each roaster manually with no computer or tech support. Between adjusting the large machine’s controls, checking temps, monitoring times, and taking samples, it was a precise two-person job that hinged on communication. There were many teams. We ran ours like a military operation, repeating directions and acknowledging adjustments like a submarine crew on a combat mission.
We had fun. We got a standing ovation. Our coffee was recognized
as “best roast,” and afterward we were offered master roaster jobs in Switzerland and England. It was good validation, and we wanted to take those jobs or open our own place, but we both had things we still wanted to do in the Air Force. Now, Chris owns a coffee shop and a mountain lodge. I’m still passionate about roasting and addicted to coffee, but along the way I discovered my “someday” was to be a writer, and this weekend I have a book tour stop at Chris’ mountain lodge. After I finish signing my books, we’ll definitely catch up over coffee.
Check out http://www.ncausa.org to learn more about coffee and home roasting.
Bill Riley is a writer and retired US Air Force lieutenant colonel
with interests in space exploration, coffee roasting, global communication, intelligence activities, and ancient ruins. Bill was an intelligence analyst during the Cold War. Later, he specialized
in strategy and communications. During his career, he’s worked with intelligence and special operations professionals from every service, virtually every intelligence agency, and several friendly foreign governments.
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