How to Discover Third Wave Coffee
In Which I Look Like an Idiot So You Don’t Have To
Note: I wrote this nearly two years ago, but never published it. A lot has happened since then: I’ve joined “the movement”, enjoy occasional coffee tastings, can actually tell different smells apart and take part in the wonderful Third Wave Wichteln, which is a world-wide Secret-Santa-style coffee exchange. Nevertheless, I thought this would be a fun read, so I polished it up. Grab a cup!
Today is the day I try Third Wave coffee. It’s my first time and I have no idea if you’re meant to capitalize Third Wave. Alongside wine, cheese, craft beer, macarons — and apparently, toast — coffee has joined the league of the fine artisan crafts. In essence, “Third Wave” is a growing movement of coffee houses and individuals trying to produce the highest-quality coffee imaginable. And as is usually the case, I’m late to the game. Let’s find out if the newest craze is worth the hype.
I don’t know much about Third Wave coffee except for a few scraps of information spread across Monocle-esque lifestyle magazines and NYT articles, and the tweets my hip Berlin friends would occasionally share. This was back in the late 2000s, when the scene was still an obscure underground thing. Some might argue it still is.
From what I gather, the term “Third Wave” is a reference to the latest wave of coffee culture. The first wave was the 19th-century surge of home-brewed coffee; think Folgers and your average pre-ground supermarket brand. The second wave found its manifestation in the form of regional coffee labels and popular chains such as Starbucks, which introduced such creative achievements as the Grande, Iced, Sugar-Free, Vanilla Latte With Soy Milk.
The pioneers of the Third Wave movement see coffee brewing as “half art, half science”. They rely on complex procedures, precise temperature regulation and timing, and a source of carefully roasted, organic, direct trade coffee beans. Instead of being content with espresso machines worth more than your car, many Third Wave baristas utilize strange — and sometimes intimidating — looking equipment to realize their version of what specialty coffee should be. The coffee is meant to be enjoyed in its natural form, relying on its own rich aroma rather than the abomination that is milk and sugar. The lyrical names of mixed coffee drinks have been replaced with the technical details and taste notes of the obscure coffee beans they source, such as “AeroPressed single-origin Kenya Gondo AB, washed SL28 & K7 varietals, grown at 1900m in Murang’a County, Mathioya District. Bright and floral with notes of pineapple, grapefruit and black cherry.” Right.
In case you hadn’t noticed, tiny independent coffee shops have been popping up left, right and center. You know how it goes: they start out in the trendier capitals, the cities that harbor the artists and bohemians, a sort of subculture based around a common interest and the usual gentrification processes. It catches on and starts to make its way into the smaller cities, each spot attempting to be superior to the one that came before it. They’re the kinds of places where you can’t help but feel judged the moment you walk in, as both the staff and the other guests assess if you are alternative enough to be part of their crowd — let’s not pretend you’ve never felt like that. Everyone has, but of course — and thankfully — things are rarely as they seem.
So here I am, standing outside Woyton Roast Inc., the first coffee shop to introduce the Third Wave movement to my hometown of Düsseldorf, Germany. It’s situated in the Altstadt, the old part of town known primarily for two things: first, for being the longest bar in the world, if you took all of the bars and lined them up — a fact that has tragically caused hordes of young men and women from across the region to swarm in and take siege, dressed up as oversized penises and other meaningful characters, gleefully harassing weekend party-goers in the form of drunken bachelor parties, and finally, partaking in the traditional dance with local law-enforcement. Second, for hosting an annual Christmas market, which has been interpreted as an open invitation for half of the Dutch population to cross the border and occupy the narrow streets in a shopping and Glühwein-drinking frenzy for several weeks at a stretch. One thing the Altstadt is not know for: harboring the finer indulgences of life. Yet here we are, about to try what is said to be some of the best artisan coffee in town.
I stare at the main entrance and it dawns upon me that I’m about to enter entirely new territory. Since my being here is a snap decision, I haven’t prepared appropriately by reading up on the ins and outs of the scene. I look up “how to order third wave coffee” on my phone. You know, just to avoid looking like I have no clue at all. To my dismay, nobody has thought of writing that article. I continue to have no clue at all. Looks like I’ll have to wing it. I’ll just order something off the menu. Easy, right?
They work through the queue at lightning speed. I have about three minutes to study the large wall menu, which clearly isn’t enough time. So far, all I can spot are the kinds of drinks you’d expect in any regular coffee shop. Third Wave, let’s see…
Latte. Unlikely to be it.
Espresso. Nope.
Flat White. Hmm, getting closer?
Cortado… no. Come on, where’s the special stuff?
Ding — !
Time’s up. It’s my turn to order. I watch helplessly as my last hope of getting an edge on the barista shrivels up. Damn. The lights dim, all eyes are on me. I hesitate. C’mon, Jerome, you’ve got this. Nope, I’ve got nothing. Really? Really. Sigh. Yeah, sorry. Alright, let’s just get this over with.
“Hi. I… uh… I’d like to try some of that third wave coffee, but I have absolutely no clue whatsoever about any of it. Haha! So anyway, can you recommend something?”
The barista facing me is slender and petite, wearing a dark green t-shirt, decked out in hipster glasses, and sporting an undercut with short, curly black hair on top. She doesn’t appear to be fazed by my request. I find this strangely comforting, and assume she’s used to hearing it. With a blank expression, but a friendly voice, she recommends the Sumatra… something something, and points to a small clipboard on the counter in front of me. Ah, so that’s where they keep the secret menu — hidden in plain sight. Great. Behind it, three daunting glass vials tower, looking like they were nabbed out of a secluded underground science lab at an undisclosed location.
I glance over the menu, picking up on a few words… ‘a hint of licorice and tobacco… hand picked…’ I nod, overwhelmed. “Uh, sure.” I sense a smirk coming from the tall, brown-haired twenty-something, who is standing to her left and focused on slowly — and I mean slooowly — pouring hot water in controlled circular motions into a coffee filter suspended above a fine glass decanter — with what appears to be a watering can. Mesmerized, but clearly shaken, I mumble an awkward “thanks”, drop a coin in the tip jar and find a place to sit.
That wasn’t so bad, I convince myself, and I have a look around as my brain gets to work rewriting the previous minutes into something more tolerable. The shop is small and doesn’t look particularly remarkable with its painted gray walls and scattered wooden crates. Six small tables line the length of the locale, populated by fashionable young students, chatting away and slurping coffee out of fancy-looking vessels. Louis CK would have a field day. Most people are sitting outside on the cobblestone walkway, basking in the rare spring sunshine. There’s a familiar, pleasant scent of roasted coffee in the air. The usual soundscape closes in on me: coffee grinders grinding, steam frothers frothing, baristas barist…ering, all trying to assert themselves against an unperturbed base layer of dreamy electro-pop music. I grab my iPad and decide to start documenting this experience, because why not?
A few minutes later, my coffee arrives in a tall, curved glass vial that itself is placed inside a regular cup. It looks… complicated. Why is it served like this? Am I meant to first swirl and sample the coffee from the vial, in the style of a wine tasting? Then again, its shape is not particularly conducive to a good swirling. Perhaps I am meant to wait a few minutes as the brew develops its divine aroma inside the magic flask? For all I know, it could just be part of the show, an act to make the guest feel like they are receiving something truly special. Where’s the program brochure? Unschooled in the Third Wave etiquette and realizing that I might be overthinking it, I opt to skip the wait and mimic my neighbor at the table next to me: I pour part of the dark brew into the cup, leaving the rest in the vial for later. Simple enough.
The coffee smells like… coffee. Good, aromatic coffee. That’s the best I can do in terms of describing smell, really. The temperature is so perfect that I don’t even notice it. As for taste, I’m pleasantly surprised. The cup is full to the brim with flavor, but instead of overflowing my senses, it lovingly coats them in a gentle embrace. Yes, you can quote that. Try as I might, however, I seem to lack the finesse required to recognize the licorice and tobacco. Sometimes I wonder if the world just makes this stuff up to mess with me. In any case, the coffee is delicious. And it looks exceptional, too. This is not your average diner’s thin black fluid, but a subtle, translucent body, with a deep, reddish, earthy-looking color and an ever so slight thickness. Quite frankly, it’s a beautiful thing.
This is coffee without the yuck.
Okay folks, confession time: I rarely drink coffee without milk, because I’ve always found it unbearably bitter on its own. Blech. This coffee, though, this is something else. Sumatra something something is seriously working for me. There’s none of the terrible bitterness that I’ve come to expect. This is coffee without the yuck. It would be a shame to add anything to it. Either my palette has grown, or this stuff is a lot better than anything else I’ve tried. I drink slowly, enjoying every sip. I take my time as I’m writing this text, to the point that the final sips are cold — but strangely, still marvelous.
Thirty minutes later, I’m still sitting in the coffee shop on a caffeine high, typing away frantically and enjoying the distinct aftertaste on my tongue. (Even hours later, while proof-reading these words, I remember the taste as though it were still present. I also remember the caffeine high vividly because, unlike the taste, it’s actually still present.)
I wonder if this is what the Third Wave is all about. Really good coffee, clad in layers of showmanship and artistry, and accented with a hint of vanity. Then again, it would be presumptuous to condense the motivations of an entire movement into a few nouns. One might say that there are as many individual reasons to meticulously craft a coffee of this quality as there are drinkers of said coffee. I just know that if the Third Wave is always this tasty, I might be ready to start drinking coffee as it is, without the construct of a Flat White around it. Hey! I still love you, Flat White! Wait!
I make it my mission to come back and gradually try everything on the secret menu. Before I leave, a young man walks in and joins my neighbor at his table. “So,” he asks with an inkling of uncertainty, “what are you meant to order in here?”
I’m a German-Canadian digital nomad, designer and I totally love coffee. Feel free to follow me on Twitter and check out my other Medium articles. Thanks for reading!
