Reissue Post: How to pair your coffee
AKA when the self-care bar is in the dish pit
February 2024 update:
Hello new followers! I’m resending a newsletter originally sent two Februarys ago. One of my most liked posts and a good sample of the style of writing I like to get into for longer form newsletters. Now also available under the Sipp Palette section as we are talking beverages here, I hope y’all enjoy!
When I was 21, I got to spend some time in Coorg, a district in Karnataka that was both mountain and jungle, and altogether it’s own identity, where you might find yourself drinking some of the best coffee you’ve had while the shock of a snake skin greeting your balcony door starts to thin. It was my last year in college, and we had a thing called, “Jan-term”, literally just a semester by itself within the month of January. You could travel, create your own curriculum, join an elective class and so I traveled. I was making a documentary about the people of Coorg, the fringe idea of seceding from India, interviewing some notable locals all while being fueled by amazing history, food, coffee and Honeybee brandy. Coorg is known, among other things, for its agricultural prowess, especially in coffee.
Chai feels universally Indian to the world at large, but in South India, coffee is the caffeine pusher of choice. Known affectionately as Kaapi, a filtered coffee with a slight blend of chicory and coffee, and served with milk. And like Chai, drank at all times of the day, always hot, rich with milk, and unless specified, sweet like a pastry. Coorg is responsible for supplying the coffee for many of these Kaapi Houses. Growing up in a South Indian immigrant household, it’s coffee in the first part of the day, followed by Chai around 4.
I stayed on about 4-5 different coffee estates that January, often owned by singular families learning bits and pieces of history, about colonialism in the region, famed tiger hunters egged on by British overlords wanting a picture to send home and eventual tiger ceremonies to help bind souls with the hunted and the hunter. It was challenging in the way life could be challenging with the absence of trauma; it was getting to be surprised everyday by mountains, the Kaveri river, 500 year old temples in jungles constructed of bells, and whispers of big cats. I knew this time was important to me, but I just assumed life and how I took my coffee would always feel this euphoric; and like coffee, perspective is a hell of a drug.
A few pictures I took, on an actual camera with film that I stole from my sister:
A coffee estate seen here, drying beans in the sun, and a very good Mahindra truck owned by a retired Coorg general:
I started staging, in 2010, in a highly decorated restaurant in Dallas, old school Italian in the then, newly burgeoning Bishop Arts District. I had never been a part of a professional kitchen, and to say I was lacking skill would have been generous. To say it was a hostile work environment would have been generous, as well. But the world is unfair, and if you wanted fair, you wouldn’t be the only small, brown woman in the kitchen, or only woman in the kitchen, I guess.
I was slow, I was constantly behind the prep list, but I was there, solely present to learn as much as I could, for free. I learned a lot, became faster, and yet, would continue to be and feel alienated in my time there.
And sure, there were many terrible things about the work environment but tolerating mediocre men making a lot of mediocre jokes centered around women they could never talk to always seemed a worse offense at the time than the unnecessary head chef tantrums and all around sad and repressed, doom kitchen vibe. I eventually left for Austin, when I decided that lying about getting in a car accident just so I didn’t have to show up to my job that I worked for free for several months was a bridge too far, somehow the panic attacks weren’t as obvious.
Around 4, coffee service would happen, a veteran server would kindly insist on bringing me coffee, asking how I like it and I knew there was only one right answer, no creamer, no sugar, just bitter. And because I was always behind, always berated and always feeling lacking, that small black cup of coffee would grow cold. I’d shoot it down when I remembered it in the corner, now mixed with a bit of dishwater and herbs, thankful for its existence. And so I changed my coffee culture to suit my kitchen culture. And it continued even when I started to thrive in Austin. Now worn like a badge of honor, cold coffee, mixed with your station’s garnishes, while washing dishes, stacking coolers, a bitter, cold drink devoid of a hint of comfort now a symbol for my commitment to supporting unchecked authority, and patterns at the helm of professional kitchens, though nobody, in my own experience, ever came close to the highly venerated, doom, dismal kitchen of Dallas.
I tend to overcorrect, and a new coffee habit emerged starting with my own supper club and continuing to this day. I want an inordinate amount of cream in my coffee. Every cup of coffee has the quality of flan or burnt caramel, slightly bitter mixed with richness and fat of cream, drank hot, sometimes grown cold, but not a drop of dishwater.
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An all new cocktail recipe + Sipp Palette video
Newsletter with a new twist on Chicken Paillard, regarding food as a cultural evolution
New podcast episode this weekend
And now a recipe that has nothing to do with coffee, but plenty to do with burn. This is technically a cake, but could work on top of your favorite graham cracker crust. It’s origins are part Basque in the cooking technique of it, part American and always South Indian. I highly suggest making it in a cast iron.
A little about Pandan- feels inherently sweet but it isn’t, a custard and grass like flavor from this incredible plant found in a lot of Southeast Asian and in some South Indian cooking. You can order from the internet, (as you can with anything), or visit your local Asian markets.
Acorn Squash Pandan Basque Cake
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