How we roast: a Tuesday at the drum

The roaster's alarm goes at 5:20, because the drum needs an hour to warm and the building needs twenty minutes to stop being a fridge. Alberta in February does that to a workspace. First job is always the same: fire it up, then clean yesterday's chaff before it finds a fan.

Tuesday's board lists six batches, Side Door blend twice, the Huila twice, a decaf, and a test roast of a Guatemala we're still courting. Production first, experiments last. Customers at the bar can watch through the glass; the first batch is the show nobody asked for but everybody stares at.

The batch never roasts itself

Profiles live in the roast software, charge temp, turning point, first crack, drop. But software doesn't smell the smoke. Around first crack the calls get manual: stretch the development thirty seconds if the aroma leans grassy, drop early if the drum's running hot because the afternoon batch sits in a warm room.

Twelve kilograms per batch is the ceiling we chose, not the machine's. Smaller than that and you can't pay rent; larger and you lose the ability to correct mid-roast. Somewhere in there is the line between a roastery and a coffee factory, and we picked our side.

The roast log is handwriting on purpose, pen catches what sensors miss.

What ends up in your cup

Espresso rests four days before it hits the grinder, the CO2 needs out or shots gush. Filter coffee is ready in two. Bags on the retail shelf carry their roast date; anything past five weeks goes to staff beans. It's a policy that costs us some inventory and saves us every argument about freshness.

Want to taste the difference a week makes? Thursday cupping sessions often run the same coffee at three ages, it's the fastest palate lesson we know.