#vietham

This summer, I've gone down the rabbit hole on a story about how good coffee got in Vietnam.

If you want to find out, quickly--get yourself to Workshop coffee at 27 Ngo Duc Ke and just order everything. 

I have literally lost my mind in this place, which I treat as some bizarro-world opium den. I'll come in and just spend my entire day loading up on wonderful Red Bourbon and Lao Typica and Indian Peaberry. 

Some days, I seem to drink gallons of the stuff and disappear into what I have no doubt are the borderline stages of Caffeine-Induced Psychosis. 

On Saturday, I celebrated the return of one Will Frith with a coffee bender that included a single-origin ristretto, an espresso, a cappuccino and what probably amounted to a liter and a half of assorted filter coffee (Kenya, Laos, Vietnam).

Here, Mr. Frith poured me an El Salvadoran bean roasted by some Singaporean muckity mucks. The names are all gone--along with most of the specific memories of the day.

I hope I never forget how goddamned good this cup tasted.

The words "plum," "cloves" "vanilla bean" and "maple sweetness" were printed on the label.

But none of those really suffice to describe the flavor.

One of the things I hated most about American culture--prior to my departure--was my generation's nostalgia for the garbage that filled our vacant childhoods.  

Things aren't looking pretty for this generation of urban Vietnamese kids, either.

More and more parents opt to send their children to spend their early years growing up with grandparents in the countryside.

Every day, this dude gets up before dawn and straps a pair of stools to his thighs.

After buying a mess of lottery tickets in Nha Be district, he boards a bus to District 5, where he spends the day sitting on a curb, breathing exhaust.

Every two minutes, when the light on Trạn Hưng Đạo turns red, he lifts his arms and waves the paper tickets at hundreds of motorbike drivers who generally ignore him.