A note on matcha.

The plants spend their last weeks under shade, which slows growth and pushes up the amino acids that give matcha its savoury, brothy sweetness. The leaves are steamed, dried, destemmed, then ground slowly between granite wheels into a powder fine enough to hang in water.

Because the whole leaf ends up in the bowl, everything about the field shows up in the cup — terroir, shade, harvest and milling, exactly as it does with a coffee lot.

Volcanic soil is one of the reasons many of the coffees we buy taste the way they do. Andosols hold minerals that feed the tree slowly, and at altitude the cooler nights stretch out ripening and concentrate sugars. The result is clarity: bright acidity, clean fruit, a long finish — in Central America, in the Andes, and in a tea field just the same.

The same logic applies to wine and tea. Volcanic terroir tends to produce intensity without heaviness — a kind of mineral tension that keeps a drink interesting from the first sip to the last.

The matcha we drink at the roastery comes from Rokatea: a Korean producer making a volcanic matcha that tastes as serious as the coffees we roast. We met them at a festival, tasted across their range, and have been paying customers ever since.

It is grassy without being harsh, creamy without being dull, and it carries the same stony brightness we look for in a good Salvadoran lot. If you visit the roastery and see a bowl on the counter, there is a good chance it is this one.

Our own shelves stay coffee only — matcha is a bowl we drink rather than a product we sell, and we share it purely because it is good. We have no affiliation with Rokatea beyond being happy, paying customers. If you try it, let us know what you think.