The Coffee Beat
The best coffee in the highlands is served in a plastic chair
Three years of drinking cà phê sữa đá at roadside stalls has taught me more about Vietnamese hospitality than any tasting flight ever did — and considerably more about robusta.
Morning trade. A stall on the Pleiku road sells roughly 200 glasses before noon and closes when the ice runs out.
The stall has no name. It has four plastic chairs, one of them broken, a phin filter collection that would embarrass a specialty roaster, and a woman named Hồng who has been making the same drink since 1998. There is no menu because there is no choice. You get robusta, condensed milk, and more ice than seems structurally advisable.
I have spent a fair amount of money in third-wave cafés in three countries. I have watched baristas weigh beans to the tenth of a gram. None of it prepared me for the specific, tar-black, sledgehammer sweetness of what Hồng hands over in a glass still warm from the rinse bucket.
The received wisdom is that Vietnamese robusta is the cheap stuff — the filler in your supermarket blend, the bean you grow when you cannot grow arabica. That wisdom is roughly a decade out of date, and the people who are proving it wrong are not, for the most part, opening cafés.