When You Least Expect It

Just when you thought you'd heard it all, somethings sneaks up behind you and catches you by surprise. Jack Keller, a south Texas treasure of fermentation experimentation has for many years promoted the expansion of our palates' pallet of gustatory appreciation. In particular, he strives to show us the wide spectrum of possible ingredients, beyond the traditional foundation of grapes, to ferment and produce successful, enjoyable wines. Recently, however, I stumbled upon something that I suspect even Jack has not yet attempted, or even imagined.

This past Saturday morning, I and a few friends traveled to the fine art destination of Wimberley, Texas, nestled in the middle of nowhere in the Hill Country west of Austin. Although Wimberley is worthy of the trip on its own merit, we specifically traveled that morning to celebrate a new gallery being opened by our friends, Linda and David Jacobson. Linda creates marvelous and joyously expressive interpretations of wildflowers, in paint on canvas (an example appears above). Her art has progressed over the years, with her followers and collectors keeping pace, even expanding beyond the borders of this country.

In Linda's online invitation to the opening, she tells the story of how they came to decide on the particular space their gallery now occupies. As she describes the unfolding events Linda mentions a coffee roasting shop very near the little building her gallery now calls home. As we arrived at the gallery's opening we took note of the "Fisticuffs Coffee Roasters" shop next door. After greeting the Jacobsons and enjoying their new art space and Linda's most recent work, we followed our noses next door, carried along by the aroma of fresh roast.

The sign out front declared "FREE COFFEE," but we wondered what that really meant. Surely, this would be some tiny, thimble-sized communion-cup serving. As we stepped inside, the owner, James Perkins, invited us in and said yes, indeed, the fresh-brewed coffee was free, and we could pour ourselves standard-sized foam cups that were stacked by the warm carafe. The coffee was enjoyable, and clearly, it was freshly roasted.

As we spoke with James, an engaging young man, one in our group mentioned that I make wine. James replied that he, too, makes wine, among many other pursuits. The conversation continued to reveal other interesting coincidences as well. It turned out that, though we had driven fifty or sixty miles from home to reach Wimberley, James actually lives just a mile or two from our own home.

I studied the various coffees James had available on a rack– somewhere between a half-dozen and a dozen varieties. As I looked them over I said to James: "French roast, Italian roast, and Espresso I understand, but what in the world is 'Drunken Bean Roast?'" He chuckled a little as he responded. "Well, since I make wine, and roast coffee, I thought 'Why not take some green, unroasted beans and ferment them just like making wine?' So I did, and then I rescued the beans from the must when the fermentation was complete. Finally, I roasted the raw beans, and here they are!"

James further surprised me by pulling out a white, five-gallon primary fermentation bucket, with its fermentation lock still in place on the lid. He removed the lid, exposing the nearly black liquid within, and said "Check this out!" I drew near the bucket, stuck my face within its confines, and took a slow, deep breath. The smell was clearly wine-like. It was not wine-like in the sense of grapey-ness, but wine-like because of the obvious use and strong activity of wine yeast, mixed with a quite intense aroma of ethanol. And there also lingered some other conspicuous, but unknown fragrances in the mix– I suspect these derived from the raw coffee beans.

The whole process astonished and intrigued me. It is refreshingly unusual to find someone with James's culinary spirit of adventure, so I had to buy a pound to try it out.

For a few hours we investigated several of the other fine art establishments in the heart of Wimberley, and then found our way back to our vehicle. Merely opening the door reminded us all that, inside, a bag of fresh-roasted beans was waiting to go home with us. The return drive through the Hill Country was savored again and arriving home we observed that the completed day had been richly enjoyed by each of us.

Eager to sample the unique coffee in my possession, I opened the bag. The whole beans were very deep brown, near black, in color. The aroma, while clearly coffee-like,  carries something different in its makeup, floating just above the roasted coffee base. While my wife believes she detects strong notes of fermentation (she describes it as "beer-like"), for some reason I don't get that at all. To me, the notes of fermentation, while clearly present in the fermentation bucket, seemed to vanish for me in the roasted product. I distinguish more of a forward, brighter aroma than that of fermentation. It remains something difficult for me to describe.

After grinding the beans to an almost black heap of grounds, I started brewing my first pot. Unlike the strong aroma of coffee that greeted us as we returned to our car in Wimberley, the brewing pot emanated a quite different aura into our kitchen. To be sure, this was the smell of coffee brewing, but there was another, and quite undefinable fragrance riding atop it. Pouring the coffee into my white-interior cup, I was startled by the lightness of the color in comparison to the darkness of the beans and grounds.

I poured the remainder of the pot into a quart Pyrex measuring vessel to better observe the visual aspects of the coffee. I was surprised yet again that in the large glass cup the coffee appeared fairly dark. A very deep reddish brown was evident, but more striking was the high clarity of the brew. The coffee nearly sparkled in the light of the halogen bulbs above it. It almost reminded me of the optical characteristics of a well-clarified wine.

All that remained was to drink a cup and attempt to describe it. I mention "attempt," as I yet find it difficult to pin down the experience of drinking the "Drunken Bean." Overall, I find it fairly light on the palate. Tasting a cup of coffee made from beans this dark usually involves most of the back of the oral cavity, extending even into the upper regions of the throat. The taste of this brew stands much farther forward in the mouth, and seems far brighter, fresher, than my expectations.

Further tastings over the remainder of the pound should reveal more of the subtleties of this distinctly unique and adventurous roast, but to sum it up– "Drunken Bean" is a delightful way to say "Good morning!" to the sun as it breaks the eastern horizon.