But I love coffee, and have, in deference to my dependency, been careful not to cultivate any highfalutin tastes while developing a broad appreciation for the elixir of the bean. (I will, however, try to avoid burnt coffee, and that which has been made/stored in/dispensed from equipment that is dirty enough to taste.)
Beyond that, I exercise less taste-directed discrimination in my selection of commercial coffee purveyors than antipathy to aspects of ambiance, convenience and personal relation. Thus, I avoid that monolith; I avoid the long lines of uptight office-suits at that monolith's cervine competitor; and go to the little independently-operated bakery franchise because the coffee's fine and the staff are pleasant and -- personally -- personable.
I do choose to make my own coffee well, grinding whole beans each time I brew to maximize available aromatic oils, but don't stress too much about whose vacuum-sealed brick of roasted beans I buy or where I get it (generally, still, avoiding that monolith), understanding that, as a junky, I have little practical ability to influence how long ago that vacuum-sealed brick was roasted. In the end I am happier to have a steady supply of reasonably-good coffee than a small and work-intensive supply of excellent coffee.
Some time ago, I remarked to my sister that a friend of a friend had been reported to roast her own green coffee beans in a skillet as part of her balanced and lovingly-prepared Ethiopian breakfast, and I thought that, while somewhat high maintenance, that sounded interesting, but I didn't have the first idea where to find fresh green coffee beans.
It was round about xmas, and, hearing this, sis got a calculating gleam in her eye, and said, "Oh, yes?" kind of knowingly. And I foolishly suggested that it would be hard to find a satisfactory, low maintenance supply (I am more than averagely chary about conducting commercial activities via the Internet, and don't believe -- or object to the tone of -- most of what I read), even in the unlikely event I should get around to learning the art with a skillet of my own, which she took as a challenge, apparently animated by fervent faith in the ramifying variety of Internet endeavors to efficiently supply any demand.
So, for my recent birthday, she gave me Kenneth Davids' Home Coffee Roasting, Romance & Revival, and five pounds of fair-trade-certified organic green coffee beans from Seven Bridges Cooperative: One pound each of Ethiopia Natural Harrar ("shade grown"), Mexico Chiapas ("strictly high grown"), Peru Cochapampa ("shade grown"), Columbia Sierra Nevada ("shade grown"), and Brazil Poco Fundo! (If I understand, those modifiers are regions within the specified countries.)
Dear Reader, I have not read that book, yet. But I have given it a pretty thorough scanning and carefully read several sections of it, those pertaining to the techniques, equipment and procedure for home-brewing several times, as well as the plant-to-cup production cycle and some of the methods of categorizing some of the variables within that cycle.
Believe it or not, stirring the beans in a dry skillet with a wooden spoon over a stove is not one of the featured methods -- it is not even described; but that is how my friend said his Ethiopian friend did it, so that is what I tried. The featured methods involve equipment designed (or repurposed) for roasting coffee and involving thermometers and cranks and stuff. So, having read the procedure for each of the described roasting devices, and heard my friend's description of his friend's behavior, I did just that, over a medium flame on the stove.
I picked the Ethiopian, put a couple handfuls (a little too much I think; target: fill entire surface area one bean deep) into a little skillet, flipped on the exhaust fan and got it on. The thing I did most wrong was to not take note of everything and mark it down in the little roaster's log thoughtfully provided in the book. The thing I did right was keep roasting them until -- to the best of my very limited ability to judge such things -- they were about as dark as I later learned is recommended on the packaging of the beans ("Viennese"), but I didn't know that yet, just stopping when I was pretty sure they were done but not yet charred to ruin.
Green beans:
First crack:
Done:
Aha! So that's what chaff is. Also, there is a "quenching" phase here of more or less active cooling and blowing off the chaff that sloughs from the beans when they crack. The book suggests, in two places, that beans are best after resting for four-or-so hours, but by all means enjoy some immediately also.
My kitchen smelled pretty bad: like someone had just burnt some molasses. Maybe it still does. Anyway, somewhat, skeptically, I ground some. The grounds smelled a little bit more like what one expects of fresh coffee grounds, although still a little stringently ashy. I threw them in the French press:
There was great crema (some of the oils, emulsified) in the press itself, but I was a little disappointed that none was evident in the first cup poured, which looked a little cloudy. But it tasted fine. That pot makes three of those cups; I have just finished them, and am satisfied: I think it was somewhat better, as coffee, than that first batch of home-brew, as beer, has been from any number of beer hobbyist friends. No disrespect: those who persist get better, and I think what I'm doing is somewhat easier. It'll be a fairer comparison when I'm harvesting my own beans.
Anyway, this tranche wrenched startling success from the threatening jaws of stinky defeat.
Now I'll brew some more and see what that friend thinks of the product. And then try to roast some more, better, taking note of the particulars.
Thanks Sis!
(That friend's first reaction is that he wouldn't send it back in any establishment, but that he is confident I'll learn better what to do about bringing out an expansive flavor. -ed)