I grew up watching my father—Mr. Lim—spend hours in front of that old furnace-like wok, sweat glistening on his brow, the thick smoke curling around him in the roasting room. As a boy, I never understood why he would stand there so patiently, stirring the beans again and again, almost as if he were coaxing them to life.
Sometimes, I would ask him, “Why do you have to do it this way? Why not buy a machine?” He would only smile, eyes crinkled at the corners, and say, “You’ll understand when you taste it.”
It took me many years, but now that I stand in his place—now that this roastery has passed into my hands as the fourth generation—I finally do.
Our work begins long before the beans meet the flames. Early in the morning, before the sun is too harsh, we sort through sacks of raw beans brought in from different plantations—carefully picking out the discolored or misshapen ones by hand. Each bean must be as perfect as we can make it. My father used to say, “A good roast begins with respect.”
Once sorted, the beans are cleaned and left to rest, allowing any excess moisture to evaporate. Only then are they ready for the wok.
Roasting is the soul of our craft. We load the wok over the charcoal fire, and the beans are stirred continuously with a large wooden paddle. The heat is unforgiving. Smoke clings to your clothes, fills your lungs, stings your eyes until they water. But you cannot look away—not even for a moment—because everything depends on the feel and the smell. The crackle of the beans tells you how far they’ve come. The aroma transforms, from grassy rawness to a warm, caramel sweetness.
At the perfect moment, we tip the beans out onto a cooling tray, letting the fresh air arrest the roast. When the beans are cool, they are ground to the right consistency—never too fine, never too coarse—so each cup will have that deep, smoky character that locals know so well.
I used to think all this toil was unnecessary. But now, when I pour a cup for an old customer and see their eyes brighten, I understand why my father labored so hard. Each cup holds not only the flavor of the beans but the memory of decades of patience, sacrifice, and devotion.
This heritage is more than a business. It is a living story passed from one generation to the next—a story told in the warm bitterness of the first sip and the lingering richness that stays on the tongue.
Today, as I stand in the same place where my father once stood, I feel both humbled and determined. I am ready to carry on this tradition, to teach my own children the value of discipline and care.
This is our craft. Our heritage. And I will see that it lives on for many generations to come.
