From the roast log
Why Guji
The first time he cupped a washed Guji he accused the seller of scenting the table. Apricot, bergamot, something like black tea cooling in the pot. Nobody scents a table in this business. It was just the coffee.
Guji sits high — most of what he buys grows between nineteen hundred and twenty-two hundred meters. Up there the nights are cold and the cherry ripens slow, and slow ripening is where sweetness comes from. The farms are small, the lots are small, and the washing stations are fussy in the best way.
His mistake, the first year, was roasting it like everything else. Guji does not want the full ride. Take it deep and all that high floral talk goes quiet and you are left with a decent, anonymous cup — which for this bean is a small crime. He pulls it about forty seconds after first crack, lighter than anything else on the shelf.
People raised on dark roast pick up the bag and squint at it. He hands them a taste instead of an argument. Most of them come back for the argument later, and lose it happily.
Ethiopia Guji
Poured slow,
pulled early.
