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What So Proudly We Brew

4 Jul

My Friends,

A great many years ago, in 1776, after long and challenging debate that required many early mornings devoid of adequate caffeination, the Continental Congress voted to declare independence from England.  The next night John Adams went back to his rooming house in sweltering, sticky Philadelphia, as yet unpopulated by even so much as a La Colombe to quench his thirst and quell his trembles, and proceeded to write, by candlelight, the most famous letter in American history. Addressing his beloved wife Abigail in far-away Boston, itself centuries away from the single origin offerings of Barismo or George Howell, John Adams delighted in the afterbrith of a brand new nation:

My beloved Abigail,

It is with pride both beaming and booming, gleaming and zooming that I impart upon you this blessed news: We finally did it! The English shall smash our grapes no longer, and cease with the busting of our ball bearings forthwith. But oy, it took forever! That Thomas Jefferson, I tell you what, he’s a genius, sure, but distractable and a somewhat unsavory character. Yesterday I watched him take down two bottles of Beaujolais to himself on our lunch break. His wooden teeth took on this piquant, pithy, tannic glow, and honestly, I wanted to say something to him, but the rest of the Delegation of Five was sitting right there, and you know what an asshole that Roger Sherman can be. Anyway, we finally finished the piece, and I think it’s pretty good; Jefferson is gonna touch it up before we print the “Fair Copy”, which, you know, I always get so neurotic about working with him as an editor, but it’s for the greater good. I’m really ready to get out of here and come home, because Philadelphia is disgusting in the summertime and I miss you, baby.

Your hunka hunka,

John Adams

Thus was born the greatest nation ever known to man. And since these momentous words were issued, we’ve grown as a nation, and become a legion of liberated coffee libationists the likes of which the world has never seen. We’re truly a Shining Beacon On A Hill, a marvelous redoubt of individualism and freedom, a bunker of buttressed betterment, a summer house replete with brew bar and cupping table, overlooking a finca of opportunity, with a well-functioning filtration system of checks and balances and a Robur-E of robust discourse. The freedom we brew is sweet indeed, gaining balance and clarity as it cools, pleasing to even the staunchest and paunchiest pundits of judges’ table jurisprudence. Can we just agree that today is a day for liberty, freedom, maybe a nice Chemex to start off the morning, a little afternoon baseball, and some sort of sweetened dessert, emblazoned in frostings of red, white and blue?

No. No we can’t. For unfortunately we do not live in a country of reasonable ideals. We live in a country where partisanship cannot be placed aside for even a day, even a moment, for the duration of one single roman candle or the gentle flutter-down of a solitary paratrooper firework. We live in a country half-populated by liberals, and as you well know, liberals hate America. They are willing and eager to spit on her birthday candles, stomp on her pizza party, over-extract her doppio and poop in her patriotic punch bowl on even this, the most bunting-tastic of our nation’s Happy Days.

Harvard University long ago found that July 4th parades help to form beliefs and increase participation in the Republican Party. Democrats don’t care about the nation’s founding! The founding of this nation was a conservative event, and liberals don’t care! They only parade when their freebies are about to run out! They only parade when they get a sniff of legal weed, or a new war to Doth Protest, because it’s an undeniable truth, my friends – to Republicans in the coffee community, every day is July 4th, our cupping table overfloweth with liberty and freedom and peaberry for all. Meanwhile Democrats, of thee I zing, even those who sip the finest brews alongside you cannot be trusted, not to mention the smarmy professorial types sniveling in their Ovaltines, teas and tisanes. Because to them, every day is April 15th – that is to say, Collection Day.

So my friends, when you prepare to attend this afternoon’s well-earned pomp, circumstance, bomp and brilliance, or this evening when you stand proudly beneath the fly-overs of our patriotic super planes, considering steeping a heaping helping of cold brew to take along with you. And be sure to make enough to share with your fellow Americans, for like the sweetest toddy of Nano Challa, freedom quenches a mighty thirst, and those beaming faces beside you, bursting to the Chemex bump with patriotism and joy, may just be the next member to stand alongside you, and myself, in the Conservative Coffee Movement.

God bless freedom, equality, washed coffees and America! In Brewtbart we trust.

Of Trolls And Trotskyites

18 Feb

Greeting my friends, ’tis I, Andrew Brewtbart, Americano Patriot and paragon of the Right, reporting to you with gravitas in my demitasse, bringing you a wordy shipwreck of talent on loan…from God. A three bean blend of Fidele, Intelli, and Fonzarelli, published author and memoirist, thrice banned from speaking publicly by the SCAA, the man who leaves the BGA Besotted with Great Anxiety.

These are dangerous times we’re living in. If Oliver Strand’s recent article on manual brewing in the New York Times Magazine has made anything clear, it’s that geek bloggers have no idea what’s going to happen 5 minutes from now. Chance are you are not familiar with geek bloggers – it’s the Gregs, Marks, Tonxes and Mikes, a regular gulag archipelago, itself a simpering smorgasbord of ex-home-barista circular jerkitude, each more negligable and irrelevent than the last. Geek blogs offer a near-constant stream of hup-tupping and tut-tutting that would make King Tutenkahmen blink. It’s a truly terrible niche, in which the authors time and again aim for the corrective, only to wind up nearer the rectal. This anal-retentive approach to coffee writing is the sort that only a proctologist could love, undoubtedly best left to the poop-deck of Captain Pollard’s whale-sunk Essex.

How many different versions of Satan, the devil, have you seen in your life? I mean, the comic book devil with the red face and the horns, seen that one. We’ve seen the Satanic devil of the horror films. We’ve seen the devil portrayed as just an average man, a human being, in the movie “Rosemary’s Baby”. We’ve seen the comic devil of TV shows. We’ve even seen the smooth, tempting devil in Hollywood moves. Are coffee geek blogs simply another way to portray Beelzebub?

I know: ‘Brewty, how could you? You don’t say this about anybody! Oh, Brewtbrewt, please back off, don’t go too far, you’re going to come off as so, oh, no, Brewty, please don’t. They’re so laid back, the trolls are so soft-spoken in person, they’re so friendly, how could you say that, please.”

To this I say, “my friends, if not for the grace of God go I, then whom?”. These websites are blithering, bilious balderdash of the worst order, exactly the sort of line-caught trolling chum best left to rot with Davy Jones.

As for you people in the third wave— don’t ever measure your success by how many know-nothing Geek Blog reports you see that are fair to you. Never going to happen. Don’t measure your success by how many people like you, and always remember one thing: these geek blogs, the Gregs of the world, they may drive with all their torque and muster from the same 5-wood platform as you or I. But they invariably swing to the Left, force themselves into bellicose bunkers of unbuttressed bunk, and wind up putting from the rough.

Thank you all very much. In Brewtbart we trust.

Balderdash! Extracting Poppycock From Coffee Talk

20 May

by Andrew C. Brewtbart, Esq, LLC

My friends, like the noblest of all creatures, the hermit crab, I write to you today from sunny Boca Raton, Florida, safely ensconced within the multitudinous comforts of my hermitage. Like all and sundry of the great thinkers in human history, I’ve been saddled with many dubious titulars throughout the course of my mortal coil shuffle: fusspot, charlatan, figment, pseudonym, beefbud, mackinaw, roustabout, and even insouciant. My reclusive ways led me to be dubbed “the J.D. Salinger of Specialty Coffee”, although, given my earthly designs and desires, I feel a comparison to Norman Mailer would be more apt. But you must never lose sight of what’s truly important, dear readers and fellow travelers: when it comes to the International Coffee Zeitgeist, mine is the only voice you can trust.

That’s because I’m unswayed by the bloat, unmoved by the bile, and profoundly disengorged from the oogling orgy of organizational Orwellianism that calls itself the SCAA. I’ve heard, through that edifice most distasteful known as “the grape vine”, that my absence at this year’s Anaheim pat-on-the-backathon was greatly felt; the dearth of my countenance invited reverberations that shook that Convention Center to its very core, opening up the great screaming maw of the San Andreas and threatening to swallow whole Walt Disney’s pantheon to Germanic values. There may have been brewbars, but there was no Brewtbart.

Why? Why did I stay home at my palatial grand Floridan estate, with my wife, our standard poodle (“Nancy”), and my small army of aides-de-camp? For one simple reason: only simplistic minds attend symposiums for simpletons. It’s all a bunch of balderdash! I needn’t sally forth to the concrete enclave of Anaheim just to be bombarded by so much bombast, dross and piss-poor pish-posh. There’s already quite enough of that sort of hive mind swan dive swine drivel available online.  I instead chose to take my sabbatical into the jungles of Venezuela, to commensurately refuel my appetites and refill my prescriptions. Suffice it to say, I stand by my itinerary.

And so, my friends, the world moves on. It spins away from the nonsense of Anaheim and back towards topics most prescient; namely, me. My identity cannot be bought, and it most certainly will not be sold, not for all the dirty money found in a thousand Dirty Cups. I’ve heard all the rumors, of USBC judges ruining their palates and chances at salvation with salacious behavior most egregious. I know the score, having kept daily tablature rasa of the crimes and sins committed by faux facilitators of coffee calabash who pass themselves off as “upstanding”. You can book your buttboys first class, swaddle them in finery, and force them into by-the-shot indentured servitude, but you cannot buy legitimacy and you shall not tempt me out of hiding to attend your fête. Buttons to you, SCAA 2010. Buttons.

No, instead I journeyed to Latin America, site of nearly a dozen Brewtbartian conquests, political and otherwise. But fear not, my friends, for this sojourn was not merely some single-engine Cessna joyride through Cuban airspace; it was a “working vacation”. You see, my absence at this year’s SCAA has a fundamentally American entrepreneurial inspiration at its chassis. I’ve been hard at work, drafting, blustering, and conjuring up heretofore unimagined applications of the English language for my first full-length treatise on the state of our coffee nation. With talent on loan from God Himself, I’m in the final stages of completing my tome. The inspired title? “SCAA-NDALOUS: Righting the Wrongs of America’s Coffee Taliban”.

This bone-jarring appellative alone has doubtlessly set your heart aflutter. But fear not, my osteoporotic, palpatudinous cohorts, for decisive action awaits you! This stunning volume can soon be yours: I’m now currently accepting pre-orders for the first edition of “SCAA-NDALOUS”. For a mere $10 USD (no pesos), you’ll earn the right to wait patiently at the top of the list for your very own first edition of my groundbreaking page turner. Help put the “f.u.” in the downfall of the mellifluous SCAA by pre-ordering your very own copy today. But that’s not all! Your $10 advance placement also earns you lifetime allegiance in the Brewtbart League of Rights, including an autographed membership card stamped by yours truly. You’ll also be entered into a drawing to secure purchasing rights for a rare remaining copy of my earlier works, including titles such as “Jimmy Carter: A Nation’s Disgrace” (1982 Conservative Book Of The Month Club Selection), and “The Conservative and Consuelo”, my fictional account of one man’s love affair behind the Sandinista burlap curtain. Lastly, you’ll receive exclusive updates from me, Andrew Brewtbart, as a member of my exclusive “Red, White and Brew” e-mail circular.

All this can be yours for a mere $10 USD. Order today, and make the world safe for concerned coffee conservatism.

In the meantime, know that I am here, safe within the automated security perimeter of my suburban compound, pen in hand, COE on the in-season siphon, drafting and crafting as I gild the literary lily atop my shocking tell-all exposé. The truth shall be revealed. Sip your coffee, send me $10, and remember: in the International Coffee Zeitgeist, there is no Right and Left…only Right and Wrong.

In Brewtbart we trust.

Andrew Brewtbart, signing off.

(Note: due to several dozen ongoing Federal indictments, I, Andrew Brewtbart, am currently disallowed from accepting instantaneous payment via the web. Please contact brewtbart@gmail.com for pre-order information, and pray for a speedy downfall of the Internal Revenue Service)

OverZellous: On Intelligentsia’s Bubbling Vac-Pot Of Righteous Leftism

6 Feb

From the Desk of Andrew Brewtbart, Esquire, LLC

My friends, I write to you today perched upon a precipice of perspicacity undoubtedly unrivaled in the field of Specialty Coffee. I may have “peers”, but I’m most assuredly without peer in this community. I know that you and ONLY you, oh loyal readers, can fully grasp the caffeinated cufflessness with which I offer my unfiltered opinions. Others may drip, drip, drip their bilious bile unto the bloated blogosphere, but only I, Andrew Brewtbart, am engaged in the perilously salacious slaying of latte laymen, using 30 grams of editorial wherewithal…on loan from God.

As the leading voice in the conservative coffee movement, I know that God resides not only in the heavens, but also in our hearts, our minds, and most importantly, our cups. Oh, I know that some of you Godless third-wavers will start tut-tutting your tutelage and fluffing your peacockles at the mere mention of any relevant reverence for a higher coffee power. But be forewarned, ye heathens; your atheistic aesthetic amounts to an atonal acidocis acetate, a carb-free carbon coffee copy of truth and light and REAL knowledge. It takes a truly forgiven man, a man like myself, to cast the first stone and expose your truly idolatrous idioms.

And so, dear readers, cast stones I shall. You worship false idols! You who read blogs, who write comments, you have bowed forsooth before the pall of a golden calf! For there is a pretender, a great Satan, a false idol in your midst. He makes ludicrous claims. He tells you that he and he alone has died and risen for your freeze-dried macroroasted sins. He may claim “not to want to boast”, he may claim to be righting wrongs or “setting the record straight”, but he is a snake oil salesman, a back roads huckster, and a serpent charmer most egregious. He is the David Koresh of cappuccino, the Jim Jones of java, and a blaspheme of the highest order! His words amount to nothing more than verbal Kopi Luwak of the poorest grade; at best they should be left to rot like feces on the forest floor!

This false prophet is none other than Doug Zell, coffee titan, common Chicago gangster, and kingpin of Intelligentsia Coffee and Tea. His magic is not real; you should not believe in him. He may very well be a Communist, or at the very least a Communist sympathizer. His recent chest-puffed blog boasts expose his true nature: Doug Zell is the fifth column of the third wave, and he ought to be blacklisted like so much french roast!

He claims to have invented the Latte Art Throwdown. Poppycock! Balderdash!

He claims to have pioneered Direct Trade practices. Lies! Obfuscation!

The Latte Art Throwdown was invented by me, Andrew Brewtbart, alongside Alodocious Slade and a like-minded consortium of coffee cohorts, at a meeting of the John Birch Society (Marietta, Georgia chapter) in December of 1980. “The Empire Strikes Back” had just been released, Jimmy Carter’s pathetic administration lay in ruins, and together we poured American flag rosettas and toasted the inevitable collapse of International Socialism. Alodocious won $15 from Jim-Bob Thornton, “Boll Weevil” Branson, Mr. John Snerdly and myself. Upon being declared the victor, Allodocious engaged in braggadocios bravado without brevity, clucking and strutting his bragging rights for the duration of both glorious Reagan terms, thus setting the tone for all future barista competitions.

“Direct Trade” practices were also invented by me, Andrew Brewtbart, during covert ops infiltration of the Sandinista National Liberation Front in Nicaragua, 1979. I can’t tell you whom I was working for, dear readers, or how handsomely I was compensated by the American taxpayer… but I can tell you that, as the Somoza regime lay in ruins and the FSLN threatened to bring Kremlin realpolitik to the Western Hemisphere, Andrew Brewtbart was on the ground protecting your freedoms and liberties, and all the while striking up equitable green buying practices with eager Finca farmers. Much of this history is still classified, and I’ve long since made a habit of ignoring the subpoenas piling up outside my palatial South Florida estate, but suffice it to say, I was there first and not Doug Zell.

As for his other boasts, regarding seasonality and micro-lots, I’m scarcely able to muster the breath and breadth to delve into Mr. Zell’s interminable jabberwock. It goes without saying that I, Andrew Brewtbart, invented the concept of the micro-lot. The year was 1988. I was stationed deep in FARK guerrilla territory in the coca soaked hinterlands of Colombia. There I was approached, at threat of bayonet, by a socialist Finca revolucionaire who answered to only the name “El Jordan”. Unwilling to give up my coordinates, I was very nearly tortured to within an inch of my life, until I remembered the Visa card nestled in the back pocket of my Tommy Bahamas. God bless Capitalism! I purchased a “micro-lot” of his truly primo stuff, escaped with my whims and fathoms intact, and returned home through Miami International Airport with a smuggler’s doubloon ransom of high quality beans. Mr. Zell’s contradictory claims on this matter amount to a mere micro-lot of mumbo jumbo.

And regarding seasonality, I cannot for the life of me comprehend a more myopic misanthropic misuse of coffee cache than an insistence on imposing dates and deadlines from above. This is not your Soviet, Mr. Zell, and you are no First Secretary. Coffee does not ascribe to the rules of man, be he Doug Zell or Karl Marx; coffee lives only by the rules of God, by which I mean the rules of free market Capitalism. Not a day goes by where I don’t indulge my senses in a pour over of Guatemala Antigua;  I may deign to pair that with Jamaica Blue Mountain, or something purchased from the Aceh rebellion in Northern Sumatra. Who are you to impede my overflowing pocketbook? I earned that money defending your freedom, Mr. Zell, in the Contra-infested jungles of Latin America. This is not your Eastern Bloc; you cannot build a Berlin Wall of seasonal oppression to keep me from my crema hedonism! I’ll buy what I want when I want it, Sir, and you just try and stop me. I’ve got the most informed readership in the free world, and they won’t stand idly by while you propagandize and grandstand from your wooly bully pulpit.

In closing…I know a thing or two about big egos. I’ve gone toe to toe with South American dictators, shouted down the women’s libbers, and contradicted  leftists of every stripe and epaulette. But dear readers, I’ve been utterly goaded here before you today by the unmitigated gall of Comrade Zell and his Intelligentsia intelligentsia. Coffee is global; innovation happens at a moment’s notice. This is a movement, and at the risk of sounding counter-cultural, “We’re all a part of it, man”. To tie significant advances in coffee culture to a single man, a single company, a single historical narrative…well, it reeks of a personality cult best left to Lyndon Larouche or Joseph Stalin. Let’s leave this empty empire building to the 20th Century, where it belongs, and move forward with egalitarian entrepreneurial elan. You don’t need to indoctrinate the masses, Mr. Zell. Your empire is absolute and you answer to no one. L’estat c’est Intelligentsia.

Mr. Zell, you have your millions, you have your fame, you have your empire…but have you no humility? Have you no shame?