Folsom Street Coffee Company

Location: Folsom Street, Boulder Colorado.

Sorry no pictures of this one yet. Forgot the camera today. Boo.
But it's not about the pictures right? ....right?

It's an oddly brilliant day in Boulder Colorado. Bright, clear, and 60+ degrees in the dead of winter make it an ideal day to test cappuccinos. Actually, I think any day would be ideal to test cappuccinos. I'm not exactly picky when it comes to weather. In fact, I really like cold, dreary, snowy days. Point being, I am going to drink a cappuccino at Folsom Street Coffee Company today.

I arrive on my motorbike to find no parking, the bane of the modern commuters existence. Fortunately, being on a motorcycle makes any small amount of space a suitable spot to dismount. As I approach the door to the foyer of the coffee shop I am greeted by the delicious smell of coffee beans being ground, brewed, infused, poured, and served. I enter the foyer and the smell is all the sweeter. I walk into Folsom Street to see the reason why I have to park between two dumpsters. It's packed. Every chair has an ass, and it seems that for every 3 asses, 2 of them have a computer, and are furiously typing away. I walk up to the bar, which is fairly confusing because the place you pick up your drink looks like the place you would order your drink, and the place you would order your drink looks like the place you would stand if you were bored. A quick glance around with the intent of finding some signage to solve my problem of position reveals...nothing. My only cue is the line of people looking bored standing in the place I mentioned earlier that one might stand while performing the act of boredom. I get in the line of boredom. The air I get from the employees is one I would expect of a shop twice as full as this one. They look up seldomly and rush about behind the bar performing various unseen tasks. Maybe it's training day. After hurriedly taking my order and receiving my payment, the cashier scuttles off to do something that surely is imperative to the operation of this café.

Now the wait. If I knew exactly what I was waiting for the wait would seem less. Instead I am haunted by the stinging reality that I may receive an awful piece of cappuccino that will make me wish I had ordered a cup of drip. You see, for me a cappuccino is a piece of art work. In musical terms I could liken it to a beautiful number by a trio of violin, viola, and cello. So when I receive a terrible cappuccino it's as if I've asked for this sweet sweet piece of melancholy classical music and I've been handed a song by a talentless hack like...say...Jet.

As I stand in line waiting for my piece of art work I see something that makes my spirits soar. Perfect micro-foam is being POURED into the lattes and mochas being made before my drink. WITH LATTE ART! I even watched as the barista poured a rosetta into a latte and then covered it with whipped cream per the customers order. I am encouraged, but try not to let my emotions get too carried away. It's my cappuccinos turn. The conductor taps his baton, then his arms begin to sway. The shot is poured into the waiting cup with saucer. It looks a little short but the crema looks good. Then I take note of something I'd noticed before, but hadn't paid much mind to. The barista pours milk from the pitcher he'd just used to make a mocha into another pitcher and begins to swirl. Normally I wouldn't mind this so much except that I remember milk being poured from the pitcher before the mocha and 1 thought comes to mind. Burned milk. This milk has been steamed and re-steamed. It's as though the cello forgot to tune himself before beginning. The tones are very low and so less noticeable, but they are still there all the same. But, the show must go on. The swirling of the pitcher is encouraging and so is the fact the barista begins to pour the milk and foam into the cup. And then it happens. The viola has just broken a string. A giant clump of bubbly foam plops out of the pitcher in to cup causing a splash. This iceberg of foam isn't quite deserving of the bubble-bath award, but it's no microfoam. My heart sinks a little as I grab a demitasse from the cup of spoons next to me on the counter and take my forlorned string movement out to the patio.

The Capp:

Overall presentation: pretty good. A nice white cup is accompanied by a modernesque egg-shaped saucer. I have included my own demitasse spoon from the counter and it's time to dig into the technicalities:

First the cup. A perfect cappuccino cup will be between 6 and 8 ounces. This cup is easily 9 or 10. It's a little too big for a cappuccino and little too small for a latte. It's not a terrible grievance, but little things add up.

Next we will examine the proportions. A perfect cappuccino will have 1/3 espresso 1/3 milk, and 1/3 foam. I firmly grasp my demitasse and part the foam from the edge of the cup. There is at least enough foam. Typically cappuccinos will go without the full amount of foam. This cappuccino, however, has the opposite affliction. The cup is easily half full of foam. No doubt due to the leftover glob of foam that fell out on the pour. No matter. We still have the taste to go. By sight it looks like there is a good espresso/milk ratio. Now the taste.

I spoon a little foam into my mouth and am not surprised. As expected, the foam has a slightly burned taste to it. I take a sip of the espresso and milk and let it sit in my mouth a bit. What am I tasting? Peanut Butter and Jelly? Really? That's odd. I swallow the sip. Fairly smooth. Yep, there it is. Remember I noticed the shot was a little short? The espresso has a left a slightly burned aftertaste. Probably partly the fault of the over steamed milk as well. The burned taste is not terribly overwhelming. A few more scrutinizing sips and it all comes together. I can't tell if it's because this is the first cappuccino of the day, or because it's mostly palatable, but I finish my evaluation, light up my Rocky Patel Edge maduro and actually enjoy the rest of the drink. The cigar helps to alleviate the burned flavor.

We have heard that the owner is very meticulous about his espresso. Now if only his baristi could carry this on.

Re-Capp

Price: $2.71

Presentation: Decent. Cup to large, but it's a nice one. Saucer is cool. I have to get my own spoon...but they have them.

Proportions: A bit too dry.

Taste: slightly burned, but overall not bad. Strangely reminiscent of a PBJ.

Atmosphere: Comfortable. Roomy. Business casual.

Overall: I'd say this is a good experience. I'd like to come back some time when it's not “busy” to experience Folsom Street at it's relaxed best.

Espresso Roma Café, Liquid Culture

Location: The Hill, Boulder Colorado

Let's begin with what the signs suggest on both store front walls of this corner café:

“Espresso Roma Café”-

This name denotes the owners desire to make people think of their café as rooted in the quintessential tradition of the eternal city. Scooters, hand gestures, spaghetti, and Audrey Hepburn are readily accessed and projected from our cache of American-harbored stereotypes. This coffee must be wonderful if it is from Roma, right?

“Liquid Culture”-

A phrase meant to further insinuate that within the café is practiced the art of infusing, incorporating, and presenting espresso that is essential to Italian culture. Or, perhaps it's meant to suggest a certain camaraderie or sense of community bustles inside this great corner café and overflows out on to the tables and chairs in the fenced-off patio outside.

Alright. We're set up. We are now envisioning this
little piece of Italian paradise right smack dab in the middle of little 'ol Boulder Colorado. Now let's walk inside. Reality bites us in the ass much the way the serpents of Poseidon do Laocoon and his sons in their frozen agony inside the Vatican museum. Instead of being greeted warmly with the pleasant aroma of delicious delicious coffee, we are accosted with the smell of a fellow who gave up personal hygiene for lent three years ago. We are acknowledged, less than hospitably, by a poor young woman who is most certainly impoverished beyond our understanding so that she can not even buy a shirt suitable for covering her belly that slides sweatily across the counter repeatedly as she works. Dedication to the cause prevents us from stumbling back out across the completely destroyed and grimy wood floor, and we order the single-shot cappuccino we came for.

The Cap

The order being placed and the wasted $2.50 transaction having been completed, of course the remaining 50¢ being deposited on the tip plate, we take a seat at one of the 5out of 6 open tables inside the cafe and begin to take notes. A psychological phenomena of snobbish consumerism ensues. The forthcoming cappuccino is going to be terrible. It doesn't matter if it actually is or is not, it's going to be. Even to a fledgling connoisseur of this vast world of refined vice, the entire experience has been ruined. This is just another, if not less than the standard, college town coffee shop. As we hear the milk being un-ritualistically slaughtered in the background, we discuss the obvious aforementioned shortcomings of the shop. The drink arrives and I think to myself, if this cup smelled of lavender I might just get in and soak for a bit. The foam would easily make a wonderful bubble-bath. I do my best to be fair and take a sip. Expecting a rather cleansing acid wash to flow over my tongue I am almost pleasantly surprised to find the espresso, with only a mild burned flavor, only slightly abrades my palate. I express the predictable dissatisfaction, we leave the cup half full in the bus bin, and take our leave.

Thank god that is over.

And as we walk down the street to our next destination I sigh and remark, “I need some water after that....no wait...whiskey.”

The Re-Cap

• Price: $2.50

• Presentation: Terrible. Broken cup, no saucer, no spoon.

• Proportions: hard to tell. 1 inch layer of bubbles moot the point of proportions

• Taste: Espresso un-remarkable. Milk nearly turned and burned.

• Atmosphere: Dirty

Overall: Caffeine administration device. Good for masking the alcohol/puke taste in your mouth as you take the stumble of shame home after a night you'd rather forget.