Ghost Roast

COMMUNITY: Koba

LOCATION: Uraga, Guji, Ethiopia

ALTITUDE: 2316 MASL

VARIETY: Ethiopian Landraces

PROCESS: Natural

Tasting Notes: Raspberry, Apple, Fig Newton, Hibiscus

In life, Igor was a scientist.  Certainly not the "mad" kind, he'd often found himself insisting, though the frequency by which he had to protest this point might suggest otherwise.  He suspected often, as he passed the unquantifiable scope of his afterlife coasting through the Night Swim roastery, that this had led to his fate as a ghost.  He'd spent so much of his consciousness thinking about life and what caused it and how strange and impossible it all was that it seemed unfathomable that he should ever make a true exit.  There was still so much here to see.

He'd happened upon the roastery one night long after his quite timely demise, after years spent meandering.  He'd tried haunting houses, as was recommended in the pamphlet he'd received upon his initial departure, but that felt intrusive.  A couple of restaurants almost drew him in, but ultimately they just made him envious.  So for awhile he floated aimlessly, seeking a place that had room for him, until he found himself outside of a black brick building.

The aroma emitting from the chimney stacks was what first attracted him–he hadn't smelled anything in a century.  It smelled of brown bread and cooked fruits and chocolate, and once inside, the space was easy to settle into.  The whirring equipment and sense of precision reminded him of his old laboratory.  It was comforting.  And, most importantly to Igor, it was utterly novel.  He watched data and graphs of temperature readings be crafted into a drink–a different kind of science he hadn't even known about.  Though the craft was centuries old, to him it was brand new, and the idea that he could still be part of something new, a science nonetheless, invigorated him.

So, he has found his eternal home in the Night Swim roastery, watchful and curious, often including himself in the work.  He tumbles alongside the coffee in the roaster, cruises through the pneumatic tubes that lift the coffee from machine to machine like it's a roller coaster–and sometimes, in a swirl of steam rising above a mug or a cupping bowl, one might glimpse a spectral figure with eyes wide, simply admiring.

All this to say: your coffee is haunted.  But it's only due to the reverence of a benevolent mad scientist.