I had the sort of Sunday in the city I'd imagined before. It started with meeting friend Rebecca and her friends for brunch: a few rounds of mimosas, chocolate chip and strawberry pancakes, and, just to give it all a touch of class, a box of Krispy Kreme doughnut holes I stopped for in Daly City. The fresh baked light was on! Glyn, who grew up in Dublin, had his very first one, and was able to see it proofing and floating along happily in the oil stream through the waterfall of sugar. It was very special.
We stopped at Cafe Organica on Grove Street, which was closing for the day but welcomed us in anyway. Rebecca told me this morning about her incredible, to-die-for, brilliant coffee made with mandarin juice and brown sugar. I wanted it. "Eton," she said to the tall, slim guy behind the counter, "this is um-" "Tejal," I reminded her, "almost like Bagel." And please, if you know of a better word to guide people with the pronunciation of my name, please, contact me. "Tejal. And this is Eton. He makes fabulous coffee."
Eton went on to explain that he was promoting coffee as a culinary art and livable wages for baristas, and I found myself agreeing with him passionately. Behind us, the multi coloured computers played scenes from an international Barista competition for which there were no rules other than: the drink must be espresso based and contain no alcohol. Eton made my caffeine headache fade into the batik printed background--and I didn't even have my coffee yet.
I told him to make me whatever he liked, obviously. So Eton peeled a lime and ground some beans, steamed the milk with the zest, and poured brown sugar into the espresso grounds. Then he pulled the shot--a cubano, he called it--poured the milk and foam over and sprinkled sugar that he bruleed with a torch. As if I wasn't already swooning, he pulled out the blowtorch. The crust held for at least five minutes, as thin and breakable as a proper brulee. And then he made individualized drinks for Glyn and Rebecca--one with blackberry syrup, the other plain, with soy milk--while I ogled.
I leaned against the random collection of books and magazines and broke the crispy layer with my spoon. It was delicious--a little cloud of slightly citrusy foam and a crisp of caramelized sugar. And when the foam was almost gone, I sipped the excellent coffee underneath through a rim of brown sugar, turning the glass like a margarita. We were the only people in the shop, and Eton was now sitting in a chair playing the cello with two others, one on flute, the other on piano. They played beautifully, stopping to critique each other with a classical music vocabulary far beyond me. I sipped quietly and planned a return visit, imagining desserts made with the same technique, the possibilities limited somewhat by the fact that Glyn's blowtorch was replaced with a small letter informing him it had to be removed for safety reasons somewhere between our long journey from London to San Francisco. It wasn't charged, honest.
Cafe Organica (Go!)
562 Central Avenue
at Grove Street
San Francisco, CA 94117
