Dana brought the notebook on a morning I was teaching Cole to taste origin.
Not pull shots — taste. The difference between a Huila and an Ethiopian. The altitude in the cup. The way a bean from nine thousand feet carries the soil and the rain and the hands that picked it, and a trained palate can taste the difference between a mountainside in Colombia and a hillside in East Africa the way a sommelier can taste the difference between a Burgundy and a Bordeaux.
Cole was getting better. Not good — better. His palate was developing through repetition and correction and the patience of a man learning something new because the woman teaching him made the learning feel like devotion.
"This one," I said. Setting a cup in front of him. "Tell me where it's from."
He sipped. Closed his eyes. "Fruit. Dark. Like dried cherry. Body is heavy."
"Where?"
"Colombia."
"Close. Nariño. Higher altitude. The dried cherry is a tell."
