The Yemeni Coffee | قهوة يمنية
"She imports rare Yemeni coffee to Brooklyn. He's the roaster who insists she's doing it wrong. Their arguments become something else entirely."
The Yemeni Coffee
قهوة يمنية
Yemeni coffee is the world's oldest.
Monks in the mountains, centuries of tradition, beans that taste like nothing else. I've built my business importing it.
Hassan says I'm ruining it.
I'm Fatima.
Thirty-four, Brooklyn-born, Yemeni parents. I started a specialty coffee company to connect heritage and commerce.
Hassan is my competition. And my obsession.
He's forty-two.
Born in Sanaa, trained in coffee from childhood. His roastery is three blocks from my warehouse. We share suppliers.
And we hate each other.
"Your roast profile is destroying the beans," he says at a trade show.
"My roast profile won first place last year."
"American judges who don't know qishr from dishwater."
"You're just jealous."
"I'm correct. There's a difference."
Our arguments are legendary.
At industry events, supplier meetings, the occasional coffee festival. We can't be in the same room without fighting.
"Why do you care so much about my business?" I ask.
"Because you're giving Yemeni coffee a bad name."
"I'm giving Yemeni coffee a market. Something your traditional methods can't do."
One night, we're both at a supplier's party.
Too much arak. Too little restraint.
"Dance with me," he says.
"I don't dance with critics."
"One dance. Then you can go back to hating me."
The dance changes things.
His hands on my waist. My body pressed to his. The heat between us that we've been calling hatred.
"We shouldn't," I breathe.
"Probably not."
"This doesn't mean I agree with your roast profiles."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
We end up at his apartment.
Above his roastery, smelling like coffee and possibility.
"This is insane," I say.
"The best ideas always are."
He undresses me like I'm beans to be inspected.
Carefully, thoroughly, with the attention to detail he brings to everything.
"Beautiful."
"I'm not thin—"
"You're Yemen. Lush. Rich. Worth fighting for."
He makes love to me like it's an argument.
Intense, passionate, neither of us willing to yield. When I come, I'm screaming in Arabic I didn't know I remembered.
"Ya salam—Hassan—"
"Admit my roast is better."
"Never."
"Then we keep trying."
We try all night.
The coffee smell surrounding us. The competition becoming collaboration.
"This doesn't mean anything," I insist at dawn.
"Of course not."
"We're still rivals."
"Obviously."
One year later
We merged the companies.
His roasting expertise, my market access. We're the biggest Yemeni coffee importers on the East Coast.
"Still hate me?" he asks.
"Passionately."
"Good. Keep it that way."
We married three months ago.
The wedding favors were custom coffee blends. Our vows included roast temperature jokes.
"Mabruk," everyone said.
"Shukran." We said it together.
He makes love to me in the roastery sometimes.
After hours, while the beans cool. The smell of Yemen everywhere.
"Best business partner ever," he murmurs.
"Best rival."
"Same thing."
Alhamdulillah.
For coffee that connects.
For arguments that become love.
For rivals who become partners.
The End.