Flagstaff is a special place. a liberal bastion among a mostly conservative base. This high altitude college town represents so much for myself. Its where I spent my freshman year of college. Its where I found and lost my first love. Its where I go to be reminded that there is more to Arizona than just Cacti and retirees.
Greg and I hit the road this weekend in an attempt to avoid the impending heat and delay the inevitable torture of summer. With friends a plenty we re-hashed the nostalgic memories and follies of our youth. Flag is like the tree fort in the forest. The place where you and your friends go to play and tune out the world. The pace and flow is on a much lower tempo. One that begs you to look inward. Maybe that's why there is so much creativity and artistic expression here.
It may seem like a cliché but college was where I met my mistress Java. Her warm embrace galvanized my spirit as I trudged through the snow banks only to be met by my endless course work. College was tough. I wasn't particularly smart nor motivated, which made every class feel like a marathon. I wanted to quit everyday... and when my focus seemed to dim, coffee was always there to enrich my life and give me the edge I needed for survival.
My palate, preference and tolerance was non-existent, so I did what any teenager does. I followed my friends. They seemed to know what was going on and in time I started to pick up on types of brews and styles of roasts. I was hooked. Everyday was an exploration of this liquid magic.
Then it happened. The day when I tasted a true dark roast coffee.
Late for the Train
I was sitting on the floor of my friends house. We had drank the town dry the night before and were in desperate need of salvation. My friend Larry handed me a cup (one that he himself made) and told me to "try that"
*Note: Larry is a utilitarian potter. His outlook on life is special and so is his cooking and coffee. His offerings of food and drink tend to lean on the spectacular side of things in my book.
The stoneware cup with its wood fired glaze was warm and soothing to the touch. I peaked my hungover face into the well of caffeine and saw the magical oils swirling from the recent French press pour.
I remember it being hot but not scolding. The rich bold flavor overwhelmed my meek palate and the warmth from the cup was helping me stave off a shiver. Like easing into a dream the caffeine euphoria drifted over my hangover relieving the pounding headache and upset stomach. I knew coffee felt good... but never this good.
For the past 13 years I have been falling deeper down that rabbit whole. A journey in which remarkably started right here in flagstaff. Greg and I decided to revisit this roaster and peer once again into that very same well. Would it live up to its fame? Will I still be smitten with its complexity?
So here we are. Its Saturday afternoon Greg and Nicole just steamed into town after a fantastic day at the Grand Canyon. I had just wrapped up lunch with my Friend Glen and we settled into a breezy patio outside the Late for the Train Café.
Greg went with the cold brew on tap and I choose a triple shot French espresso with a little raw cane sugar and some half and half. I learned that they no longer serve their roasts in the classic green coffee cans. Apparently they still honor refills using them but newly minted ones are limited additions and come out only as promotional items.
Our conversation was lively that afternoon. We discussed a little politics and Russian antics. Future travel plans and even immigration to Canada. The highlight of the discussion came when we loosely made plans to buy houses on the same cul de sac. This concept brought a smile to my heart.
The coffee was solid. The flavor and balance was all there. We went a little bit outside the box but on a hot afternoon like it was you can't exactly drink 175 degree drip. We looked at each other and started to dissect the product. The cold brew was smooth and tasteful but Greg thought it lacked body. He wanted more. More power more gusto just more. It was a dark roast but in a lite fashion. I on the other hand had committed molestation by adding sugar and some fatty milk to cut the bitterness of the French roast. Late for the Train is good. Its so good in our minds that It can probably do better. Granted when we first tasted this recipe we were young and dumb. 13 years does a lot to a person and to a brand.
Maybe they softened the roast. People used to complain that their coffee tasted burnt and overly bitter. However over the past few days I have drank the Sumatra and the Flagstaff roast drawing none of those conclusions. In fact I feel they have moderated their original product. I remember the vintage Smoke Jumper being closer to the edge. These feel more inline with mainstream mega brands. Then the thought hits me... maybe this is simply a case of a big fish in a small pond.
With the modern day affinity for light roasts and caffeine injections maybe the draw to dark roasts has diminished. This may just be a symptom of this rapid spreading trend. The age of dark roast coffee could be behind us and with that the depth and complexity may vanish
To me Late for the Train coffee will always have a place in my heart. However this experience has placed its beans on the mortal level. They are not the Gods of roasting as once believed, but on a cold Flagstaff morning I wouldn't take anything else. I recommend anyone in the area to swing on by and grab a cup. Draw your own conclusion and feel free to always leave a comment. Till next time. Keep drifting.
Paid 16$ and some change for this pound.