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A neon and caffeine buzz, courtesy of Water Avenue Coffee in Portland.
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Why I love Portland, #3 — Coffeeland!
Carrie Brownstein and Fred Armisen sum it up pretty nicely, albeit Harajuku style, how we felt about coffee in Portland.
The proliferation of coffee is enough to want a second stomach: good, decent (but never bad) (or, at least, we never allowed ourselves that), hand poured, self-roasted, made-in-America stainless steel kone — everything that makes even the snobbiest of San Francisco coffee snobs sip and sigh.
Again, perhaps it’s thanks to the winter weather that encourages drinking, distilling, eating, and steaming your face and warming your hands with coffee.
The curse of buying whole beans is that you can’t buy a whole lot of it, unless you want to drink stale beans a month from now. Which makes Portlanders an instant envy.
But after numerous minutes waiting for pour-overs (and many trips to the bathroom later), I caved and came home with a single bag of Water Avenue oak aged Sumatra.
Which then brings me to the second curse of having to finish the whole bag within the week, instead of saving it for unhurried coffee appreciation. And that bums me out a lot.
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