Essays: Scented Memories and Ethiopia
The other day, when walking down the street, I caught a whiff of perfume. It was the same scent that my first girlfriend used to wear, a girl I dated on and off from seventh grade through ninth, and smelling the perfume again brought waves of old emotions back. Remembering my first kiss, and really, the first sort of connection I had to another person that evoked some sort of false signals of love.
I get the same way every year when I smell coffee from Yirgacheffe. There’s something so beautiful in those candied fruit and floral aromatics. I was sitting at the bar counter at the Millennium Park Coffee Bar the other day on my day off, and as soon as a batch of coffee was dropped in the Guatemala for a cup of the pour-over coffee of the day, the scents drifted seductively across the brew bar and curled up around in my nostrils. My palms started sweating, and I wondered if my co-worker was going to introduce me to the beautiful new coffee that just arrived in the store, or if I’d have to stumble into some sort of weird pick up line on my own.
“So, you come here often? About once a year, eh? But you’re staying for a few months?”
So there’s a chance for a light, late summer romance! Just don’t tell my wife.
There are many coffees I anticipate year after year: Finca Santuario in Columbia blew me away last year, Finca La Maravilla in Guatemala is perennially a staff favorite, and coffees from Kenya are undeniably super delicious (especially the Thiriku lots). But none of them hold a candle to the excitement I get when Ethiopia season rolls around.
You see, Yirgacheffe was my first love, as well. Brewing sludgy french roasts in a french press and eating fried, cheese smothered potatoes every morning was the pinnacle of my coffee appreciation for years. And then, one day, a co-worker at the record store suggested that I try an African coffee. So I eschewed geography, and chose a Sumatra coffee, because it was also a dark roast. Plus, who knows where that actually even is? It could have been an African country.
After that fail, a helpful fella at the Broadway Intelli suggested an Ethiopia coffee, and why not try the Yirgacheffe? This would have been 2005, if I remember correctly.
Even back then, in my old subpar auto-drip coffeemaker, the Yirgacheffe was sweet, fruity, floral, and there was something specific that I just couldn’t put my finger on —and that’s when I looked at the bag and made my first connection. Melon rind. The bag had the words “melon rind” in it’s description of the finish, and that’s exactly what I was tasting. Then that was that.
The power that scent has over us is hard to explain or describe. The same way that a perfume can hold sway over your romantic inclinations, the smell of an amazing coffee can get your adrenaline flowing. But there’s something specific, and indescribable about the way that Yirgacheffe smells. And Charles said something about it the other day.
He was speaking to a customer about how the Yirgacheffe micro-region is probably the first coffee that really developed most of its flavors through its terroir. The soil, the climate, the processing — they all add up to unmistakable flavors and aromas: soft lemongrass, candied fruits. And it’s one of the only places in the planet where the coffee is immediately identifiable. Sure certain growing regions contribute to certain flavor profiles — you’d be hard pressed to find a Kenya coffee without that sharp, bright grapefruit acidity — but the flavors from Yirgacheffe are so specific that you can’t help but fall in love all over again.
There are new coffees in my life, and I’m married now, but as humans we’re all slaves to our senses, and I’ll never be able to forget my first girlfriend, and I’ll never be able to forget the love I have for coffees from the Yirgacheffe region of Ethiopia. The power of scent seems to rake up something primal inside.
Here’s the thing, though: my favorite coffees to drink are always coffees from Kenya or Central America. I really enjoy Yirgacheffe coffees, but they’re never my favorite once brewed. So my sense memory is betraying me. But I suppose that carries the metaphor on a bit further, as well, since my relationship with my first girlfriend wasn’t generally a pleasant one with a happy ending.
I suppose this speaks to the concepts of anticipation and memory fairly broadly — when you wait for something, it’s hard not to be even a little disappointed. And when you remember something, you tend to remember only the best parts. I’m not sure what it means overall, but I thought the sentiments were worth sharing.
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