It was the Summer of 2018 when my peripherals first grazed the words: Lemon Cold Brew, at a La Colombe in midtown Manhattan. I was ultimately not into the idea of it, but curious enough to allocate my $4 to trying something new.
Upon the first sip, I remember feeling…unsure about it. I didn’t hate it; I didn’t know I loved it.
Fast forward one year later when I grew an imminent craving for the extra-pithy draft that I couldn’t shake. Hell, I wanted to crave it.
It was hot out, and the familiar, thick scent of Manhattan lay heavy in the midmorning exhaust. “That’s it,” I slam both palms down at my desk, swivel out and walk over to La Colombe.
“Do you guys still make that lemon cold brew thing?” I asked the barista looking over both shoulders for strange looks from the behind-the-ear-itching caffeine heads waiting anxiously in single file behind me, which brings me to the concept of coffee etiquette which I’ve not thought of until this very moment, but that seems like another blog idea–I digress. Point is, I remember enjoying this mock shandy of sorts, simultaneously appalled by the sound and thought of coffee with lemonade and was trying to stay inconspicuous.
“Coffee culture is slowly becoming craft beer culture’s morning counterpart.”
“Not yet on tap, but we have it in cans,” for the confused out there, yes, coffee is served on tap in NYC and other hipster-riddled cities with coffee nuts craving a spectrum of icy options from nitro-infused for a more frothy effect to 24-hour steeped cold brew concoctions blended with a slew of syrups like lavender for calming effects to rose water syrup for who-the-fuck knows why. Coffee culture is slowly becoming craft beer culture’s morning counterpart.
“Lemony zing cuts through beany bitterness with the zesty sweetness of Meyer and the puckering pleasure of citrus flesh.”
I grab a can of the lemony stuff and ask for a cup with ice. Crack, hiss, pour, gurgle, sip. Ahhh. The familiar bite of my morning ritual is there all the same, but wait, what’s this? Lemony zing cuts through beany bitterness with the zesty sweetness of Meyer and the puckering pleasure of citrus flesh. It’s exactly what I was craving. Not quite as intense as a cup of straight-up black, but certainly not lacking in next-sip-seducing flavor. In short, it’s a fucking delicious revelation and belongs on the chalkboard right under Arnold Palmer.
The only thing that could make cold brew shandy any better, maybe, is some light carbonation. You know what, no, ignore my snobeity. This shit is so damn good as it is over ice, it doesn’t need anything else in it. Get your CBD Petri dish away from me, this is all I need.
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