I’m out on the bi-weekly bean run. The weather may be grey, but we’ve ground the last of our coffee. No, it’s not essential. Yes, we can live without it. But a good brew’s akin to a bog seat — it makes life a little more bearable.
So I walk along the monolithic concrete slabs of Karli to our good friend and dealer: Sehnsucht. When I pop inside, he greets me warmly with puffy eyes. Not from the 16 hour, triple-business days(*) he’s living, but the flu he’s kindly schlepping around. No matter, I think — I’ve just had two. I smile and say hello.
Standing at the counter, I cast a nervous glance towards the shelves. Here’s the thing: The Mathematician has a fondness for Purple Bee(**). Her face lights up like a honey-bathed Hymenoptera when she drinks it and, well, that’s the kind of sunshine that brightens up my day.
Oh, they have it — thank finca. And more varieties besides. I grab three different bags and line them up by the till.
“I like this new colour,” I say, pointing to the mauve concrete pillar and ceiling. “It really brightens the place.”
He nods. “Makes it warm, no? Is peaceful.”
I smile. “Nicer than the grey. Not that the grey was bad,” I add hastily. “Just, well, if you’re already in the basement, something a bit lighter’s more inviting.”
He nods and blows his nose.
“Get much sleep last night?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Got home at 1am.”
“No wonder you’re sick …”
He shrugs. “Too busy. Busy, busy, busy.”
This, from a South Korean, is significant. They can shakedown days for hours in ways that’d make a mafioso sweat. (And without breaking kneecaps, just spirits.)
“You really should have a rest some time.”
He laughs humourlessly. “Can not.”
We go outside and sit atop a pallet stacked with sacks of Brazilian beans(***). He lights up a cigarette and I shuffle back, out of the downwind. We talk as the city wanders by.
“Planning to visit Seoul next year?”
“Maybe, April. Maybe. We see.”
“I’m sure your dad would be happy to see you.”
He smiles and nods.
“How is he?”
He laughs. “He’s retired. He’s happy.”
“Something to look forward to.”
He sighs contentedly, billowing smoke. “Yes, just ten or twenty more years. Push, push, push. Then r-e-t-i-r-e.”
“Unless you die of overworking in the meantime.”
He shrugs and grins. “Is also good.”
I see Nuée coming down the street, his baby girl bundled on his chest. He smiles and waves.
“Hey, man. It’s impossible to creep up on you. Were you in the military or something?”
“No, I’ve just been standing here for three days. Knew you’d walk by eventually.”
He smiles.
“How are you?” he asks. “How’re things going? How’s the book?”
And so we chat, the three (and a half) of us, about writing, babies, AI, and the weather. He heads off to the Christmas market by the old town hall; Sehnsucht and I head back inside.
“Nice guy,” he says. “Indian?”
“Tunisian.”
“Tunisian,” he nods, sagely. “Want some coffee?”
The best of rhetorical questions.
Beans, the roaster, joins us from his shift out back, all hugs and good humour. We stand, we drink, we chat. (A day of threes.) I can’t stay for too long — I’ve much work to do — but the company’s cosy and wohl.
Heading home, I’m greeted by a gorgeous setting sun. It must have slipped under the clouds for the last hour of light. I buzz past gilded eaves and roof tiles. Life is good.
—
(*) Roasters (Gemi), café (Gemi), and restaurant (Ann’s Kitchen). A fourth is on its way.
(**) Castillo beans from the Finca La Sirena farm in Columbia. They’re fermented (through osmotic dehydration), but don’t hold that against her.
(***) The best use for them. No lover of coffee can stomach the Office Standard™
