Corduroy Orange

There was apparently minimal fanfare nor reaction to La Prima’s decision at some point in the last several months to eliminate Monsoon Malabar from its menu of coffees. During my last visit to their roastery, I ordered a couple of pounds to begin my order. The man at the counter looked briefly alarmed and grabbed for their printed list of coffees, “Don’t tell me that’s still on there!” It wasn’t. They had recently canceled it, he explained, in short, because it hadn’t sold well.

I was surprised. The first time I had tasted coffees, Monsoon Malabar was the sleeper hit: the bean I’d never heard of that captured my palate with its smooth balance and unique aroma. The one that proved all coffees aren’t created equal.

That was a few years ago: 2005, perhaps? I’d made my first-ever trip to the La Prima roastery in search of information about what goes into opening a coffee house (short answer: a whole lot of money and a good deal of hope) as part of a daydream that such an effort might be the sort of start-up that I could somehow economically swing (it wasn’t). But as part of that inquiry, my curiosity was rewarded with the gift of several samples of coffee: Tanzanian Peaberry, Ethiopian Yrgacheffe, Colombian fair trade, Monsoon Malabar, and a couple of others that escape my memory.

Until then, I’d been under the impression that coffee was coffee, it all tastes the same. And truth be told, if I’d had one kind one day and another kind another, I can’t be certain I would have necessarily noticed the differences inherent to the beans. Instead, in a caffeine-drenched brunchtime extravaganza, we used three brewers to go through samples of six beans.

If the Malabar had been the sleeper, Columbian was the blockbuster that fizzled, quite sour on the tongue. Left a taste in my mouth that had lingered, that’s for sure, and I avoided Colombian as a general rule ever since.

Until, that is, to my last visit to the roastery when I was informed that the Monsoon Malabar was no longer available from La Prima (though you can still get it from Crazy Mocha if you place an order ahead of time). As an alternative, the man behind the counter (whose name may have been Ryan; for the sake of providing him with a moniker, I’ll assume that my memory of hearing him called by that name is accurate) recommended a Colombian bean from Los Olivos farm.

I wrinkled my nose at the suggestion, “don’t particularly care for Colombian,” I told him. “In fact, I find it to be quite sour.”

“Sour?” asked Ryan; he nodded. “This one not so much. It’s got traits that remind me more of an Asian bean.” I was skeptical, but allowed him to give me a sample. “You see,” he explained, “We bought the entire crop from this farm. We really like this bean, so I’m going to give you a quarter pound or so so you can try it.”

The first way I tasted it was as an espresso. I know most coffee places have espresso roasts and espresso blends that they sell intended for this preparation, but my friend Eric and I have been experimenting with his espresso maker and a variety of beans: if coffee shops tell you where their coffee of the day comes from, why don’t they advertise the pedigree of their espresso as well? So we’ve been trying a variety of espressos. As an espresso, the worst qualities of a Colombian bean were intensified, and the resulting cup was quite sour.

As a result, it took me a couple of weeks before I warmed up to the idea of just brewing it as coffee, giving it a swirl. When I did, though, I found that, in large part, Ryan was right. Freshly brewed, the Los Olivos was rich and robust, not overly acidic and pleasant to sip, even as it cooled. To me, that’s key to a good cup of coffee: I can drink about anything hot, but as it cools down, any flaws are unmasked and the overall taste degrades. Los Olivos held up to this test.

After an hour or more of sitting, brewed, over the hot plate, Los Olivos wasn’t quite as pleasant anymore. That’s only to be expected, of course (my coffee maker has a timer of two hours on the life span of a brewed cup of coffee, after which time it turns off its heat and sounds an alarm to tell you that what’s left of the pot is dead), but there are other beans that last a bit stronger in the stale pot and maintain more of their pleasant overtones.

For instance, the Celebes Kolossi that I bought during that same visit managed to survive that kind of neglect quite well. It’s a contender for the title of my new favorite bean, as I seek a replacement for the Monsoon Malabar. While I might, on occasion, think to order some in advance from Crazy Mocha, there’s something about my visits to the La Prima Roastery that intensify my appreciation for the beans, and I don’t see myself giving up my chats with the people who roast my coffee and my being able to find out when it was roasted and get suggestions from the folks who handle the beans so intimately on a daily basis that I can’t possibly replace by catalog shopping.

It’s one Strip District destination that is closed on Saturdays, so you’ll have to head out to Smallman Street on a weekday if you want to visit the La Prima roastery yourself.

The La Prima roastery is located in the Pittsburgh Produce Terminal, near the intersection of 20th and Smallman.

This entry was posted on Friday, May 30th, 2008 at 1:04 pm and is filed under Pittsburgh, Tastings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.