May 11th, 2019
Tokyo
Subtlety is a classic feature in Japanese cuisine - embodied in the tradition of consuming unadulterated leaves in tea ceremony, but extending into other aspects of the culture as a way of being. It requires a quiet foundation to pay attention to what otherwise might be undetected on nose, tongue, and mind.
But there exists a dark current alongside pop-Japanese tastes, where the black hearts of a fervent few have dived deep into the world of coffee. Kissaten, as the original cafes practicing the dark arts are known, serve coffee strong and black, a thick jet fuel that wakes you up like a drug. It’s so strong, that in recent years these abodes have added a watered down version of the drink dubbed “American coffee”; a teasing title that just begs the question, “Hey! Are you not Japanese enough to order the real deal?”
These days a third wave of coffee is swelling up all around the world and has landed on Japan’s shores. This approach emphasizes single-origin sourcing, processing in creative ways to bring out different flavours, lighter roasting to highlight terroir rather than the roast itself (ie: the Italian this tastes burny roast), and the freshest beans possible. All in all it amplifies subtler notes that dance across the palate, and a new generation of Japanese are stepping up onto the world stage with their work.
I have admittedly dived deep into the dark art of coffee over the years, though these days it’s only an occasional dalliance as my nerves are jittery enough due to the current state of the world. It began with a local shop in Winnipeg named Parlour. Working at an office a few blocks away, a colleague had convinced me to go get a coffee. I liked the guy so I went, even though I could count on one hand how many coffees I’d had in my entire life up to that point.
The first sip was revelatory: I hadn’t known what coffee could taste like until this moment. Now, it was me talking my colleague into daily coffee breaks at the shop, where the owner taught me the trick to a good pourover. Since then, I have brewed coffee in everything from a flannel sock to an industrial grade espresso machine - but in all of it, the most important aspect has been appreciating carefully sourced, freshly roasted beans.
While I’m easing out of these dark circles, I know how to appreciate a good cup. I may be a recovering member of the society of the dark art, but still card carrying.
I am somewhere (street view) in the backstreets of the Omotesando neighbourhood in Tokyo. An overgrown infill lot to my right is the most distinguishing feature amidst dense rows of homes. The narrow, one-way road is a single lane, but it seems to be used more by schoolchildren than cars. Clusters of kids in their neatly pressed uniforms and overloaded backpacks plod past me as I stare at my phone.
I have walked past this spot twice already and am confused. Google Maps brought me here on a friend’s enthusiastic recommendation. There is apparently a coffee shop not to be missed here, but here I am missing it.
And then, a waft of coffee. I pivot to my left: there is a minimalist entranceway marked by a single green plant against worn wood. Curious, I step lightly up the stone path and poke me head in to the right. “Koffee Mameya?” I ask, fully expecting to be shooed away for interrupting someone’s morning routine. But I am beckoned in.
The room is small and dimly lit. As my eyes adjust I see that there are three men in lab coats standing behind a counter. A wall behind them is filled with cloth bags full of coffee. One of them slides a paper on the counter between us, with a grid of 5x5 squares on it. In each square, the details of a coffee in the shop’s library is listed - plant varietal, farm, processing method, roaster…all the important steps taken to get the coffee to the point where it is ready to be brewed.
At my personal mad scientist’s recommendation, I order two anaerobic cups - each from different Italian roasters who are gaining a reputation for experimentation. This processing method is an emerging one that involves sealing freshly picked beans in a pressurized, oxygen-free tank to ferment before depulping.
He brews a simple pourover and gently sets down the fresh cup in front of me. The placid black surface hints at none of the magic that is the intoxicating aroma gently drifting from it. Taking a sip, the flavours are beguiling, casting a spell over my experienced tongue like nothing I’ve ever tasted. Uh oh, the dark arts are pulling me back in.
As I stand at the counter, slowly savouring each sip, we start chatting, excitedly sharing passion and appreciation for all of it. It turns out this scientist-barista-coffee-bean-whisperer went to university in Toronto, so he was eager to speak English and talk more about the bean. “Anaerobic processing is the future,” he tells me. “In a couple of years it is going to be everywhere!”
A food scientist that happens to be sipping next to me chimes in excitedly, “Yeah! And with the fermented nature of it, it will be able to add both flavour and value to beans that get overlooked for not being the best of the best. Good for the planet, and good for all the people involved!” We all lift our glasses to that.
30 minutes later I step back out into the quiet street - somewhat enchanted, but definitely caffeinated.
The only signage at Koffee Mameya is the shifting nature-as-art display at the doorway, and so it is easily overlooked except for those who know to make the pilgrimage. This covertness is intentional: the shop owners are very devoted to showcasing their meticulously sourced beans and operate more like a coffee lab than a coffee shop. They value the time they spend in each interaction with their patrons and if too many people came through their doors then this tenet would be compromised.
I daresay that this hidden away room on the backstreets of Tokyo is a treasury holding the best bean selection in the world. And I can’t help but wonder what other little gems are tucked away, existing quietly in the side streets of this city.
D