Zen And The Art Of Roasting Coffee

Living, as I do, in Java (itself a slang name for coffee) and just a short jump from Sumatera, home of one of the legendary coffees of the world, I decided it was high time to roast my own. I was also motivated by my deep and abiding hatred for Starbucks and those California cutsie chains that are not only taking over the world, but sell more political agendas than coffee.

My wife and I have decided to get into the business of selling raw, green coffee as part of our online empire. We have a plan to retire to our mountain retreat and spend our feeble years running a business on the internet while living well outside the madding crowd of over-dense cities.

We found several very good sources of raw coffee from Bali, Java and Sumatera, and we received enormous bags full of samples, ranging from mountain Robusta and Arabica beans, to the precious Kopi Luwak that sells for up to a few thousands dollars per kilo.

Having never done it before, I was a bit intimidated at the prospect of learning to roast coffee. What with all the mystique and legend built up around the little greenish-white beans, I figured this must be some occult ritual that required years of training and perfect alignment of the Heavens.

I was wrong.

If you've ever popped corn before, you can roast coffee. Yes, there are some timing issues and you have to pay close attention to the process, but you certainly don't have to be a magi to do it. There is a learning curve, but it is blissfully short and with a little practice, you can have the precise coffee you want every morning, fresher than anything you will EVER get from a store front, and the flavor of self-satisfaction is unmistakable and oh-so-sweet.

To roast coffee beans, I use a very high-tech and mystical device called a pan. It is vital to have a heat source, so I use an incredibly up-to-date propane stove. Turn the stove on to medium, throw a couple of handfuls of beans into the pan, shake it around for about 5 minutes, and POOF!

OK, it's a little more delicate than that, but not much.

First, DO NOT use oil or water, just beans. Second, anything that can make popcorn can roast coffee. If you use one of those hot-air poppers, though, remember that the fan noise can mask the "crack" sound, the importance of which will become apparent in a moment.

There are two important events during the roasting process that are vital to the outcome:

First Crack: at around the 3-5 minute mark, you will hear the distinct sound of the beans popping, just like popcorn. Again like popcorn, it will start with one or two pops, and then pick up speed. This is a critical moment. For lighter roasts, you will stop when the cracking stops. If you want darker roasts, you will go a few SECONDS to 1 MINUTE longer, until...

Second Crack: this time, it's not so much of a "pop" noise as as "sizzle" noise. If you go this far, stop immediately or you will be drinking charcoal water for breakfast.

Anything past the light roast phase is somewhat of an art form. Knowing precisely when to stop to get the exact level of roast you want is a trial-and-error process. Because each reader will use different equipment, live at different altitudes, et cetera, you will want to get a "feel" for how much longer past First Crack you want to go.

Lighter roasts give you a "smoother" flavor because the beans retain more of their natural sugars and starches, making the result a bit more naturally sweeter. This is the point of peak caffeine, as well, which for some of us is a major concern.

Darker roasts take on a more "full bodied" flavor, but also get increasingly bitter. They also get oilier, which some folks don't like.

Back to the process.

Once you decide to stop the roast, you will need to get the beans out of the heat and onto a cooling surface. This can be a cookie sheet, spread-out newspaper, or a wok like the one I use. The point is to cool the beans quickly by maximizing the airflow around them.

I suggest doing this outside, as the roasting process causes an ash-like chaff to burn off the beans. Coffee beans, like peanuts, have a skin on them that turns to burn-paper like ash when cooked. Rolling them around on the cooling surface and lightly blowing will remove the chaff and aid in cooling.

You're not quite ready to grind, though. The roasted beans will out-gas CO2 for up to 24 hours after roasting, and it's important to get rid of the gas for the best result. After cooling, I usually put the beans in a Tupperware container with an air-tight seal, but don't snap it all the way shut overnight. That will allow the gas to escape while retaining as much of the essential oils as possible, giving you the best results.

When I'm ready to use the roasted beans, I take only as much as I need, leaving the rest whole. You may not care, but I figure this preserves the essential oils and flavor better over time.

One note here: if you are roasting coffee because you think it will fill your house with the mouth-watering smell of fresh coffee, forget it. The smell is more like burnt sugar or chocolate, and it can be rather smoky and unpleasant in unventilated spaces. I like the smell, but it is entirely an individual thing. About an hour after you cool the beans, the familiar coffee aroma will start wafting through your humble abode.

That's it! You are now an amateur coffee roaster. With experience, you could rise to the level of Master and speak in mystical tones about the occult aspects and techniques that you have acquired. You could even get into the art of blending beans and roasts to get that Ultimate Cuppa Java. Until you get the hang of it, though, I wouldn't jump right into the Kopi Luwak that you just paid US$300/pound for.

In the past few years, there's been a green coffee fad with all sorts of magical health claims made about it. Personally, I think if it were that healthy, it wouldn't have taken several thousand years to figure it out, but that's up to you. Additionally, I don't particularly like the flavor, but again, that's entirely up to you.

My wife prepares it by taking the whole green beans, putting them in a glass container, and adding warm - but not hot or boiling - water. You must then let it set as least 24 hours and strain the liquid into a glass. She tries to get me to drink a glass of it every day for the anti-oxidants and other health y stuff, but I am hard-pressed to do so when I have piles of glorious hand-roasted beans just waiting for my loving attention.

Depending on your needs or tastes, having a supply of green coffee beans on hand can provide hours of palette-stirring excitement, both for the rich flavors and from the satisfaction of knowing you are far more talented than any Starbucks barista, and don't need fanciful foreign titles to make the job appear to justify the bloated prices.

If you want this glorious feeling of achievement every morning to start your day, then contact us at Radio Far Side (luap.jkt@gmail.com use Subject "Coffee") to get prices and shipping times for some of the most sought-after beans in the world, delivered directly to your door from Indonesia.

Soon, you will be serving premium, hand-roasted coffee to your guests at Maxwell House prices, and blowing them away with flavor, aroma and delicacy. Imagine the story you can tell them when they invariably ask, "Where did you get this coffee?"

Keep an eye on our D-Tube channel for a coming real-time (yes, it's that fast) how-to video for roasting your own coffee.

Bule Kampoeng

This past weekend, we balik kampung, or returned to the village.  We spent the past four days in Tegal, so that I could be introduced around to the rest of the family, as well as the childhood friends.  Needless to say, I took the kampung by storm, becoming a minor celebrity by the end of the trip.  It didn’t hurt that I was able to speak a little of the local Javanese dialect.  That was a major ice-breaker and within minutes, I was fast friends with just about everyone we met.

It’s traditional for the children to care for the parents, so we brought money and oleh-oleh (gifts, usually food, from other places).  At first, mother-in-law was a bit icy, but by the end of the weekend, she was worrying about me (a good sign, I’m told) and when we left, I was calling her mami and was given cium-cium (double-cheek kiss).  Apparently, where my wealth and status had failed, my personal diplomacy had won the day.

We spent four days in Tegal, seeing the sights and meeting a thousand people.  We were so popular that we were double-booked for every meal, and everyone wanted to take us to this place or that.

Tegal is a small city of about 250,000 people, and it is also the equivalent of the county seat.  It has a mixed population of Java, Sunda and Chinese.  The local dialect is a confusing mixture of all three languages, and the culture is dominated by the Chinese.  In the center is a large traffic circle with traditional markets all around it.  At night, there’s a pasar malam, or night market, which is a distinctly Chinese thing.  There are food stalls and a small carnival, as well as hawkers of all kinds of trinkets.

Tegal is a very old seaport that has been taken over by Chinese, Portuguese, Dutch, and Japanese at various points in history.  Its primary agricultural product is sugar cane, which grows in dense fields all around the city.  It also has an area called Japang Indonesia, which is widely known for back-engineering Japanese machinery and making local knock-offs.

The city also hosts part of the Indonesian naval fleet, and there is a large compound on one side of Wati’s old neighborhood.  In fact, their band led the parade, which I’m coming to in about 43 pages.

I mentioned oleh-oleh before, which is typically some kind of specialty food from any given town or region.  Typically, when people travel to a place, they are expected to return with oleh-oleh for the folks back home.  It’s a regular cottage industry, especially in Tegal, which is famous for a number of foods.  In fact, even the restaurants that are peculiar to Tegal have become ubiquitous around the country.  They are called warteg, or warung tegal.  They are semi-permanent sheds built off the sides of houses that are known for being cheap, delicious and having good portions.  Various warteg specialize in one or two types of food and become well-known for it.

The street where Wati grew up is quite famous for its warteg.  They completely line the cobble-stone lane that stretches about five or six blocks.  There’s a morning market, where you can buy all sorts of cakes and rice dishes, as well as fruits and vegetables, and ginger coffee.  Around the corner is the Buddhist temple, which celebrated it’s 40^th anniversary this weekend (more on that in a minute) and the hotel where we stayed, about three blocks from Wati’s home.  In the center of all this is a massive grey building with no windows, or door that I could see.  It looks at first like a factory, standing about four stories tall and spanning a full block.

Turns out it’s a bird house, and there are a couple of smaller ones (only two-story) nearby.  The Chinese love birds and consider having them live in the house to be very lucky.  Not only are there massive buildings dedicated to birds there, but many of the houses have roosting huts on the roof to encourage the birds to move in.

Wati’s mom, being somewhat ornery, chased the birds out of the house after Wati’s father died, because she was tired of cleaning up after them.  She’s a feisty little white-haired woman in her late 70s, and everyone is afraid of her (except me).  She has an opinion on every topic and is not afraid to speak it.  She lives with her maid in a large house, which is typical of Chinese design.  From the street, it looks like a small, simple brick house, but when you enter, it just seems to get bigger and bigger the longer you sit there.  It goes impossibly far back with a split second story facing on to a central commons that was probably open originally, but has been roofed over.  There’s probably six or seven bedrooms, plus formal living room, family room, dining room, and maid’s quarters.  When you step outside again, it’s hard to imagine how all that gets stuffed into the tiny façade.

We arrived in Tegal on the train.  This was my first train trip in Indonesia.  Tegal doesn’t have taxis.  The only form of public transportation, besides the usual angkot (small buses) are becak, which are the famous pedal-powered rickshaws one sees in movies.  Being so big, I had to take one by myself, along with the luggage, while Wati and her daughter Vanny followed in a second.  They delivered us to the hotel and the whole time I felt deeply sorry for the poor driver.  He was barely up to my chest and about as big around as my thumb, but he managed to get up a pretty good head of steam despite the load.

The hotel owners are friends of ours, so we stayed in their house at the back of the property.  This was also due to all the rooms having been taken by people coming for the temple celebration.  Their house was a large, breezy place full of plants, fish, birds, dogs, and a monkey.  It was like staying in the deep jungle, especially with the birds making all sorts of sounds that could have been the soundtrack to a Tarzan movie.

On Saturday morning, hour hosts loaded us in the car and took us to Guci (goo-CHEE) in the mountains northwest of town.  They have a mountain home there, on a ridge overlooking a broad valley, at this time full of cabbage, green onions and strawberries.  It was blessedly cold there, possibly the coldest I’ve felt in three years.  The views were jaw-dropping and the air was snapping clean, and it was blessedly quiet.  If our land ever gets a decent road, it would be a lot like this.

After spending a short while there, we proceeded up the mountain to Guci, which is a famous resort centered around a number of hot springs.  There are several high-end hotels that have a large swimming pool fed by the springs, but the poor folk go to another area of natural springs, falls and pools that are all steaming hot.  People flock to the area for the health benefits of the springs and the fresh air of the mountains.  I took a good soak in the pool, which was very refreshing, and even more so when I had to get out in the cold mountain air!

Going back down the mountain, we stopped at a restaurant famous for its sate kambing (goat satay).  They only use young kids, slaughtered and butchers on premise, and grilled to juicy perfection in the back.  Sate kambing is always served with kecap (where we get out English word), sweet soy sauce, and a salad of half-ripe tomatoes, cucumbers and chili peppers.  Sate kambing happens to be one of my favorite dishes, so I’ve become somewhat of a connoisseur, and I have to admit this was one of the finest I’ve eaten.

After gorging ourselves, we continued down the hill, stopping to buy durian, red rice (a special variety) and various other local goodies.

When we got back to the house, it was mid-afternoon, so we took a nap before meeting up with some of Wati’s family and friends for yet another round of sate kambing, which was also delicious and again we were rubbing our swollen bellies.

After coming back to the hotel, we went out to look at the festivities at the temple.  This was only the second time that the temple had been allowed to celebrate Sejit Kong Tjo.  Normally this is an annual type of festival, but the local wali (city government), being heavily slanted to Islam, had banned the annual parade for many years.  Two years ago, a more moderate group had been elected, and the temple had been allowed to celebrate with a parade.  For the occasion, groups had come from 42 other temples around Java.  There were literally bus-loads and truck-loads of people and stuff that had been arriving through-out the day.  Each temple had sent a toa pe kong, which are somewhat smaller versions of the old royal sedan chairs, carried on the shoulders of four to eight men.  They are intricately carved and painted, and each temple’s is unique.  There was even a small one from a temple in Bandung that was carried by children.

All of these were arranged around a large courtyard, and in the center was a massive incense burner.  It stood about 12 feet tall, and at the base was five feet wide.  It put out so much smoke that the entire neighborhood smelled of jasmine and sandalwood.  In the big hall, there was a shadow puppet play acting out the life of Buddha, which I had seen before in Houston, but never this elaborate.  The area in front of the stage was jam packed with food offerings from various families.  On a smaller stage were performances of dance and music put on by the various temples.

The next morning, we were supposed to go to the beach with more of Wati’s friends, but we were so exhausted from the day before, that we had to wave off in favor of sleeping a bit later.  By the time we got out, the parade was already forming up the street.  There was an incredible racket of drums, bells, cymbals, gongs, and fireworks.  Each temple had assembled in groups with the centerpiece being the to ape kong.  In most cases, there were flag-bearers, a push-cart with drums and bells, and a large group of ‘walkers.’ 

We watched as the parade led off with the Navy band, followed by a traditional Javanese band.  Then the first dragon came through the gate, followed by all the temples.  People were singing and banging anything that made noise and setting off strings of firecrackers on sticks, with little or no concern for anyone standing nearby.  Needless to say, we were pelted with shrapnel on a couple of occasions.  As each temple group came through the gate, they performed various things, such as flag-waving or group drumming or swinging the to ape kong back and forth while people timed themselves to run up and put offerings inside.

Finally, the last dragon came through and the whole parade began marching over the entire city.  There was a formal route, but at the end of it, the groups broke off and went in different directions, covering the town.

Wati and I took a position on a corner, because when the reached the wide spot in the street, they would perform various things, like swinging the to ape kong, or running around in circles, or various other feats, which you have to keep in mind, these things are quite heavy, made of jati and stuffed with offerings.

Unfortunately, the leader of one of the groups from the Tegal temple was Wati’s cousin.  When he spotted me (being the only six-foot tall white boy in the entire town), he ran over and recruited me to be a mikul (carrier).  He did this just as the group was reaching the intersection, which meant that, never having done this in my entire life, and being blind to boot, I was stuck in performance mode.  The lead mikul was barking directions and we all had to start running in a circle with the sedan car being the focal point.  Immediately, an entire herd of photographers appeared to document the bule mikul, as we marched another block or so, before they mercifully let me go.

The unfortunate part was, seeing that I was a good sport, three other groups recruited me, as well.  One was very heavy, with only four mikul, and I had to walk sideways with this thing.  At the intersection, they started dancing back and forth while swinging the to ape kong.  I had already lost my sandals while walking sideways, and the pavement was extremely hot.  I followed the guy next to me while the leader coached from the side.  People were running out to pour water on the street to cool my feet off while yet another herd of photogs and video cameras surrounded us.

The crowd went crazy seeing this giant white boy jumping into the festivities.  After that, I couldn’t walk ten feet without someone wanting to take a picture with me.  I’m sure there are several hundred of them floating around the internet by now.  Poor Wati was very patient and made jokes about people paying for the photo ops.  After the fourth to ape kong, Wati and I slipped away, before I died of heat stroke.

Needless to say, I’m now an honorary citizen of Tegal.

Even at 5 o’clock this morning, as we made our way by becak back to the train station, I heard several remarks to the effect of ‘there he is.’  As I sit here writing, my shoulders are bruised and battered, but none the worse for wear, and it was a good way to work off all the food we had eaten over the weekend.  I’m now, officially, bule kampung.

Lagi Apa, Mas?

In Texas, every man is his own king, and every woman, his queen, so we use "sir" and "ma'am" when addressing pretty much anyone but a Yankee or Dallasite. Also, as Thomas Jefferson famously said, "An armed society is a polite society." In Texas, it's safe to assume anyone you meet is armed, so it's wise to be polite to anyone you meet.

Here in Indonesia, there is a very complex system of social address that perplexes most Westerners, at least those who haven't lived here for a while, or commonly, don't learn Indonesian.

Much of the confusion stems from the plethora of cultures and peoples across the archipelago. By most estimates, there are around 300 separate groups, tribes and ethnicities here. There are as many languages and customs, as well. The island of Java tends to dominate national culture in a way that New York tends to dominate American (and Dallas) culture.

Where all of this is leading, is to survey the means of addressing others in social and business situations. By way of explanation, one must keep in mind that Javanese culture was strictly feudalistic for centuries, with two royal sultanates surviving to this day: Yogyakarta and Solo. Of course, the Batak claim that all Batak are of royal blood, since there were ten kings, and every Batak was related to a royal family.

Generally, when one meets someone of obvious greater age or social rank, one addresses them with "Bapak" or "Ibu," which more of less translates as "sir" and "madam," though ibu also means "mother." Bapak also means "father," but in common usage, one uses the Arabic word "ayah." Now, that seems simple enough, except that the language has separate words for addressing older and younger siblings, and these words translate into social discourse. A younger man or one of lesser rank is referred to as "Mas," which really just means "older brother." Younger women are addressed as "Mbak," or sister.

It gets worse. In Sumatra, one generally uses "Amang" and "Kakak," which depending on which source you listen to, mean more of less the same as "older brother and sister." However, in a lot of the Batak dialects (there are ten of them), "amang" means father, while "inang" means mother. There are similar variations across the islands, with most being more egalitarian than Javanese.

The Founding Fathers of the Republic, Soekarno and Hatta, insisted on using "bung," which is a generic term meaning "brother," but without any consideration for age or rank. One thing the revolutionaries wanted was a classless society, much like Texas. The effort was all but abondoned under Soeharto, who wasn't so much a dictator, as he was a revival of the monarchy. Steeped in Javanese culture, he was unable to conceive of any form of leadership that didn't involve social ranking and subservience to the superiors.

The revolution in Indonesia was a protracted one. It began in earnest in the 1920s, with a concomitant effort to unite the islands under a single language: Indonesian. It reached a fever pitch in the 1940s, immediately post-WWII, with leaders such as Soekarno and Hatta. The date is marked as August 17, 1945. However, it is an on-going process. This is not the homogeneous society that appears to those outside.

There is a lot of resentment outside Jakarta and Java, because one perceives that power, resources and culture center here. It's not unlike the resentment of the "fly-over" country in America to the hegemony of New York and Los Angeles (we in Texas couldn't give a damn about the Yankees, Fruits and Nuts, of course...). The primary difference being that American culture is bi-polar, while Indonesia is mono-polar.

It's quite interesting to learn these things as an outsider looking in. Indonesians are aware of these issues, though it is virtually impossible to extract one's self from one's culture and look at it dispassionately. As I have explored before, the Javanese culture has a certain inherent power because it has the benefit of planning and future awareness that is virtually absent from other regional mentalities. Java culture, being historically dependent on rice production, had to plan for the rainy season and storage for the dry season, in much the same way Western cultures had to plan for winter. This one seemingly simple difference gave the Javanese a cultural edge.

Consequently, Javanese culture is exported to the rest of the nation through the media, which is obviously centered in Jakarta, as it is in New York and Los Angeles in the States. For that reason, terms of address like Bapak, Ibu, Mas and Mbak pervade the national culture. This promulgates the class structure, which is very strong here, in a way that many Westerners can't even comprehend.

Because language and culture are inextricably interrelated, it makes sense that hierarchy in one enforces it in the other. It stands to reason that changing one would translate into changes in the other, as well. Perhaps returning to the salutation of "bung" would serve to level society, and subsequently serve to open society to participation by all members, not just the privileged few. Thinking follows vocabulary, and culture follows thinking. Just as Hollywood has coarsened American life with nothing more than movie dialog, a simple change to social titles would open Indonesian society to greater upward mobility.

Of course, that assumes that there is a will within the culture to bring everyone up, rather than, as in the States, to bring everyone down to the lowest common denominator.

The danger lies in the American glorification of coarse, uneducated gang-slang, which is anathema to an educated society seeking to elevate its members. Slavery takes on many forms, and language is a tool for maintaining it.

My upbringing taught me to address all men with "sir" and all women with "ma'am." Thus, my thinking is that all people are worthy of respectful address in a classless worldview. Indonesia would do well to consider the concept of their Founders, would forged their relationships in the common desire for liberty and the struggle for independence. Perhaps it's time to revive the title of "Bung," and to consider what their society and culture holds as its ideals.

A true Republic thrives on egalitarianism and education. Indonesia has taken great strides in the realm of education, with most people seeing education as the stepping stone to wealth and properity, and social mobility. Converting that desire into language would further the cause and install the idea within the thinking of all people.

Know what I mean?