Bad-Ass or Badder-Ass?

Should I start out this episode by discussing what I do have (…at least I have some coffee.) or what I still don’t seem to have (an appointment to get my prostate shrunk to its normal size)? Let’s begin on a positive note because…, well, because life seems better when we’re all properly caffeinated.

When I found out that Brandon had taken the Bad-Ass blend he had created as a replacement for his unavailable house blend – necessity being the mother of invention – and made it even better, by replacing the Colombian coffee in it with Sumatran, the gold standard of coffee beans, it was only a matter of time before I would be striding purposefully into their shop, Power Coffeeworks, to obtain my supply and decide for myelf. New? For sure. Improved? Let’s see which Bad-Ass blend is better, or, more to the point, how are they different?

My take on things, after years of due consideration, is that, while people usually pay some attention to whatever it is they are eating, they are less likely to focus on what they are drinking. Most beverages seem to be consumed as a way of washing down whatever is being snarfed at the moment. That’s fine if the liquid in question is water, or juice, or something less than memorable, like Coke Zero – or not quite zero. But there are some beverages to which, ‘attention must be paid,’ to quote Willie Loman’s immortal cry of despair. Fine wine, whiskey, and specialty coffee certainly qualify as being worthy of our best consideration. And one way to do that is by comparison.

Here’s what we’re going to do. I have a full bag of the Bad-Ass blend version #2 and a little left of the original, enough to do a taste test. I’ll make a cup of each and carefully and thoughtfully taste one, then the other, then the first, and so on. Since both iterations contain 1/3 of a Mexican coffee and 1/3 of a Costa Rican, whatever difference I taste is in the final 1/3 – either Columbian or Sumatran.

Yes. I can taste the difference. (I really wish Barbara Levine of Rosé Review fame were here to participate, but since she’s not, my Barbara – admittedly no expert – was recruited as a stand-in.) First thing: can you taste any difference between the two cups? Now, can you tell what the difference is?

There was one difference, so obvious that almost anybody would be able to notice. The Sumatra in blend #2 lived up to its reputation as the world’s premium coffee, but it overwhelmed the other two varieties. Whereas the three Latin American coffees in blend #1 got along like tres amigos. Maybe lower the volume on the Sumatran, reducing its percentage in the blend. Would that work? What do you say, Brandon? You’re the head honcho in these parts. (Of course, there’s always someone to pipe in: I came for the Sumatra. The other two? They could be anything.)

Piss-Poor Service from the Urology Clinic

I guess the lesson here is that it’s easier to get the world’s best coffee than to get an appointment with a top surgeon. We were supposed to hear back from the hospital, but, come to think of it, they didn’t say when, did they? There was only one thing to do, put my Barbara on the case, or, more precisely, on the phone. If you’re looking for someone willing to spend untold hours on hold, then finally reaching the wrong person who would connect you to another wrong person, my wife is the one you want for this exercise in futility. It took her several days, sitting at her desk, playing free cell on her computer, before she hit pay dirt.

At first, Limor seemed like your typical Israeli with a chip on her shoulder. But not for nothing does Barbara have a master’s degree in counseling psych. First step: calm the woman down. Then explain the situation when she tells you, You don’t even have a hafnayah in the system. You need one to schedule surgery.

That’s the problem; we were never given the hafnayah by Dr. Muhamed. He told us he would get back to us after he saw my husband, but that was before the hagim. My husband is 84, and he’s had an abdominal catheter for months now. He needs to get taken care of sooner rather than later.

And then we got the other version of Limor, the one who understands your dilemma, who’s on the case, who’s on your side. It would be a lot easier for her to reach the doctor than for us. By the next day, we had two pieces of paper we would need to start the ball rolling: the referral that I needed the laser surgery and a statement that I would need to be kept overnight in the hospital. That was relatively simple. But Limor would have to speak to somebody who would speak to somebody else to get to Yuval, apparently the guy who does the scheduling.. Someone from the Urology Department would get back to us in several days.

Would you be surprised if I said that ‘several days’ came and went, just like the Hagim, and we hadn’t heard a peep from anybody? Of course not. Barbara was back on the phone but the line was continually busy. So she fixed the coffee table in the living room instead (several screws having come loose). There’s always tomorrow.

Barbara kept calling the next day and the next with the same result: either the line was busy or there was no one answering the phone. Piss-poor service from Urology, if you ask me.

If at first you don’t succeed… Let’s try reaching Limor again; maybe she can help. She wasn’t available, but at least there was someone else in the Admissions Office to answer the phone. Finally, someone was able to reach Yuval. And then we got the word, not exactly what we were hoping for. There are no appointments. We’ll call you.

Letting it all sink in

No appointments. They’ll call us. Let that sink in. (Sink, which is what my heart was doing.) At the rate we were going, I could be spending my days hooked up to a catheter. Not exactly what I had in mind for my projected life of leisure. It’s not as if I were in some pain, but it’s such a damn nuisance. There had to be some other way, some other facility, some other doctor somewhere in The Land who, for the right amount of money would take care of me. But where do we begin? Whom do we know?

Our first thought was of The Levines. Their son, Dr. Dr. Ari (MD, PhD) might have some ideas. Even though he’s an orthopedic surgeon – a very different specialty – he might know someone who knows someone. (It’s called networking.) But Richard Levine himself decided to pitch in. (It’s called using AI.) He looked for “Find a Urology surgeon in Israel that: Works with Maccabi health fund and שר”פ  Can perform laser surgery to reduce the size of the prostrate Has appointments available within 60 days.”

Sure enough, he came up with three possibilities. (BTW, I just found out that Sharap is one of those Israeli acronyms that you can spend decades here without knowing what it stands for, in this case ‘private medical services.’)

But what do we do with this raw data? Maybe we need to augment Artificial Intelligence with Ari Intelligence, so let’s arrange to give him a ring Sat. night. The good doctor, doctor had no immediate brilliant ideas, but he was willing to ask around in the urology clinic at B’nei Zion hospital in Haifa, one of the places where he works. The only problem was that in a few days he would be back in miluim for some two months. Maybe he has enough on his plate without worrying about my situation?

We had one other ace up our collective sleeve. There’s a woman here in Ma’ale Adumim whose profession is helping sad-sacks like us negotiate their way through the intricacies of the Israeli health system. Let’s call her Sun. morning; maybe she’s got some bright ideas.

Except that, when my wife turned on her phone that morning, there was a message from the hospital. Congratulations, (OK, it didn’t say ‘congratulations’) you (that’s me) are scheduled for surgery on March 1. It also mentioned the need for a pre-op appointment, which Barbara was able to set up by phone later in the afternoon. The biggest difficulty was wading through the instructions in Hebrew, listing all the things I need to do before the procedure. I guess every once in a while, someone does call you back. Talk about taking a weight off your shoulders. Barbara wouldn’t have to get on the phone, essentially starting from scratch with a whole new batch of people who would just as easily send you from one wrong number to another to set up an appointment sometime down the road in some strange facility. I wish the appointment would be sooner, but sometimes you have to take what you can get – and be grateful.

Why buy your beans roasted?

Gil and I were chatting in our salon Shabbat morning, discussing the apartment our kids and their kids moved into a few months ago. The location, much closer to Emek Refayim, the Hadar Mall, and a lot of their friends, sort of makes up for being in an old, run-down building, waiting its turn to be demolished and replaced with something much more impressive. Gil mentioned Jon, a friend and neighbor, who had invited him over for coffee the day before. Jon, being a top-notch coffee person, also gets his beans from Power Coffeeworks. Although my son-in-law can polish off a liter of cold brew in the two hours we spend over kiddush, he does not pretend to be an expert on the subject. He was trying his best to explain what Jon is up to, placing his beans in a small amount of water and letting them soak for up to a month before using them. WHAT???!!!

I try as best as I can to keep up with the latest in coffee nerdiness, but I was clearly out of my league. Are these beans already roasted, which makes no sense if he’s soaking them, or is he getting raw beans from Brandon, which means he’s roasting them himself, which almost nobody does. Can you find out after Shabbat?

I was more focused that motzei Shabbat on our conversation with Dr. Dr. Ari, but there on our family WhatsApp group was some more information that Jon had sent Gil. Yes, Jon was using raw coffee beans. HE HAS HIS OWN ROASTER???!!! Someone in his family gave him one as a gift. And then there was a link to a company that sells a home roaster from Gene Café, the one that our intrepid roaster is using. The next morning, feeling much better about things (see above), I opened the link. Here’s excerpts from their material:

“Enjoying coffee means roasting it.”

“Real coffee freaks don’t buy roasted beans, but roast them themselves in a homemade coffee grinder.” (???)

“The slogan of the home coffee voice says: You don’t buy your bread toasted. Why buy your beans roasted?”

Where do I start – ignoring the obvious questions about the syntax of the translation?

I don’t buy my bread toasted, but I do buy my loaves already baked, although I have a few friends who have made a sourdough or two in their time.. But neither these special people, or anyone who senses the intrinsic value of high-quality beverages, should be seen as an aberration of nature. ‘Coffee freaks,’ my left elbow.

“By roasting at home, you determine the flavor of the coffee you like. By creating different blends with different varieties, the flavor changes, you determine the kind of coffee you drink.” In other words, you adjust the settings and press the power switch. Everything is done automatically.

“Thanks to unique technology, ease of operation, and complete control over all roasting variables, roasting coffee at home as never been so simple.” But that is exactly what Brandon does not do. Turn the thing on, set some settings, and walk away, leaving the computer in charge. No, Brandon is in charge every step of the way, because humans have a better sense of taste and smell than computers. No disrespect to Jon, but I’ll stick with Brandon as my go-to roaster any time, any place.

But there’s one thing your favorite algorithm can do better than any human, and that’s hound you to death. Once I opened the link for Gene Café, my YouTube feed started having videos about the ‘Five Best Home Coffee Roasting Machines,’ assuming that I must be in the market for said appliance. But what’s this popping up on my YouTube feed? ‘The best kits to do prostate surgery in the home.’ Now that’s scary. A.I. is coming after you. You’ve been warned.