이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
Chapter 133: The Judge’s Seat
The invitation to judge arrived in January—from the World Barista Championship. Not to compete (the competition years were behind; the 92.4 and the second place and the thirty-two seconds of global silence were—completed chapters). To judge. The WBC’s selection committee requesting that Yoon Hajin join the judging panel for the upcoming championship in Taipei. The request recognizing: the barista who had competed and who had written the books and who had taught the workshops was now being asked to evaluate others the way others had once evaluated him.
“Judge,” Hajin said. At 3:00. The Wrong Order. The bergamot approaching. Sooyeon across the counter. The invitation’s email on the phone between them. “They want me to judge the WBC.”
“The judge’s seat.”
“The judge’s seat. The other side of the counter. The evaluation seat rather than the performance seat. The seat that the four judges at Melbourne occupied while I made the Wrong Order and waited thirty-two seconds and the room went silent.”
“The four judges who tasted your 관심.”
“The four judges who tasted and who scored and who gave me 92.4. And now the organization is asking me to be—one of them. To taste. To score. To evaluate whether the next competitor’s cup contains the thing.”
“Can you evaluate the thing?”
“The thing being—the attention? The 관심 that the rubric approximates but doesn’t fully capture? Can I sit in the judge’s seat and taste a competitor’s cup and know—through the tasting—whether the attention is present?”
“Can you?”
“I’ve been tasting attention for ten years. Every cup at this counter. Every cupping on Saturday. Every workshop in Tokyo and Portland and Jeju. The tasting of attention is—the practice. The practice that the cafe has been training for a decade. The question is not whether I can taste the attention. The question is: can the rubric score what I taste?”
“The rubric scores the shadow.”
“The rubric scores the shadow. The rubric scores: technique, presentation, flavor balance, creativity. The rubric does not score: attention. The rubric does not have a category for—관심. The judge who tastes the 관심 must translate the tasting into the rubric’s categories. The translation is—approximate.”
“The original is always louder than the translation.”
“The original is always louder. But the judge’s job is—the translation. The judge translates the tasting into the score. The score is the translation. The tasting is the original. The judge lives in the gap between the two.”
“The gap between the tasting and the score.”
“The gap that every evaluation creates. The gap that the chalkboard’s fifth line describes—’the cup is louder than the score.’ The judge knows the cup is louder. The judge scores anyway. Because the scoring is—the system. The system that the competition requires. The system that produces the number that the world reads.”
“And you’ll score—how?”
“I’ll score what the rubric asks me to score. Technique. Presentation. Flavor. Creativity. The categories that the rubric measures. But I’ll also—listen. For the thing that the rubric doesn’t measure. The 관심. The attention in the cup. The thing that I tasted in the Kenyan’s blueberry and in Taemin’s metronomic pour and in the chairman’s thirty-four-second bloom. The thing that I’ll taste in the competitor’s cup. And the thing will—inform the score. Not replace the score. Inform it.”
“The 관심 will inform the score.”
“The way the bergamot informs the cup. Present. Hidden. Influential. Not separately scored—but present in every category. The attention that produces the technique. The attention that produces the presentation. The attention that produces the flavor. The attention is—in everything. The judge who tastes the attention tastes—better scores. Because the attention produces higher quality in every category.”
“Will you accept?”
“Will I judge the WBC in Taipei?”
“Will you sit in the seat that judged you?”
Hajin looked at the chalkboard. Nine lines. The fifth line: 88.3 → 91.8 → 92.4. The cup is louder than the score. The line that described the competition trajectory. The line that acknowledged the score while declaring the cup’s superiority. The line written by a competitor. The competitor who was now being asked to be—the scorer.
“The cup is louder than the score,” he said. “And the judge is the person who hears both—the cup and the score—and who translates one into the other. The judge is—the translator.”
“The translator.”
“The translator who knows that the original is louder. The translator who translates anyway. Because the translation serves—the system. And the system serves—the community. And the community serves—the practice.”
“You’ll accept.”
“I’ll accept. Because the judging is—the next expression of the practice. The practice expressed through: the cafe (making the cup), the academy (teaching the cup), the book (writing the cup), the workshop (sharing the cup), and now—the competition (evaluating the cup). The evaluation being: the fifth expression. The fifth way to practice 관심.”
“Five expressions.”
“Five expressions of one thing. Making, teaching, writing, sharing, evaluating. Five verbs. One practice. 관심 expressed through—everything.”
The Taipei WBC was in March. The competition held at the Taipei Nangang Exhibition Center—the venue that the Taiwanese specialty coffee community had produced and that held, in its glass-and-steel, convention-center architecture, the same structure that every WBC venue held: the stage, the judges, the competitors, the audience. The structure that Hajin had experienced from the competitor’s side in Melbourne and that he was now experiencing from—the judge’s side.
The judge’s table was—different from the competitor’s stage. The judge’s table was: close. Four seats. Three meters from the machine. The proximity that the judging required—the proximity to the cup, to the pour, to the competitor’s hands. The proximity that allowed the judge to see the extraction the way the barista saw the extraction. To observe the circles. To count the seconds. To detect—the attention.
“The proximity is the practice,” Hajin said. To the other three judges—coffee professionals from Colombia, Italy, and Australia. The pre-competition judges’ briefing. The briefing where the judging panel aligned their evaluation criteria. “The proximity of the judge to the competitor is—the same proximity of the drinker to the maker. The judge is—the ultimate drinker. The drinker whose tasting is the most consequential.”
“The most consequential tasting,” the Italian judge agreed. “The tasting that produces the number. The number that the competitor’s career depends on.”
“The number that the competitor’s career depends on. Which is why the tasting must be—honest. The same honesty that the cafe applies to the cup. The honest tasting that detects the attention and the honest scoring that translates the detection into the number.”
“How do you detect the attention?” the Australian judge asked. “The rubric doesn’t have an ‘attention’ category.”
“The rubric doesn’t need an ‘attention’ category. The attention is in every category. The technique that is performed with attention produces a higher technical score because the attention produces precision. The presentation that is delivered with attention produces a higher presentation score because the attention produces clarity. The flavor that is made with attention produces a higher flavor score because the attention produces—the thing.”
“The thing?”
“The hidden thing. The bergamot. The note at the end that the measurement cannot capture but that the palate cannot miss. The thing that the cup carries when the maker’s attention is fully present. The thing that the cup lacks when the maker’s attention is divided or absent or performing rather than practicing.”
“Performing rather than practicing.”
“The distinction that the judge must detect. The competitor who is performing for the judge produces a cup that sounds good. The competitor who is practicing at the competition produces a cup that is good. The sounding and the being are—different. The judge who hears the difference scores the difference.”
The competition proceeded over five days. Sixty-two countries. Sixty-two competitors. Sixty-two fifteen-minute performances. Sixty-two cups that the four judges tasted and scored and discussed and that Hajin evaluated with the palate that ten years of daily cups had trained.
The competitors were—varied. Some performed. The performance visible in the rehearsed gestures, the practiced words, the specific, I-have-trained-for-this-moment-and-the-training-is-showing quality that performance produced. The cups were—good. Technically proficient. Presentationally polished. Flavorfully balanced. The scores were—high. The performance earning the points that the performance deserved.
Some practiced. The practice visible in the quiet. The specific, the-competitor-is-not-performing, the-competitor-is-making-coffee-and-the-making-is-enough quality that the practice produced. The cups were—alive. The same aliveness that the bloom produced. The aliveness that the technique could not manufacture and that the attention could not avoid producing.
The competitor from Thailand—a twenty-six-year-old barista named Napat from a cafe in Chiang Mai—practiced. The fifteen minutes that Napat performed were not a performance. The fifteen minutes were—a morning. Napat made coffee the way Napat made coffee every morning at the Chiang Mai cafe. The gestures were not rehearsed—the gestures were habitual. The words were not scripted—the words were spoken. The cup was not prepared for the judges—the cup was prepared for—whoever was drinking.
The bloom. Napat’s bloom. Twenty-eight seconds—not thirty-two (the bloom duration was the bean’s, not the barista’s; Napat’s single-origin required twenty-eight seconds). The twenty-eight seconds of silence that the Taipei audience produced—four hundred people, silent, for twenty-eight seconds. The contagious bloom. The same contagious bloom that had happened in Seoul and Busan and Melbourne and Copenhagen. Happening in Taipei. Through a Thai barista. With a different bean. At a different duration. But the same silence. The same attention. The same—thing.
Hajin tasted Napat’s cup. The cup that the twenty-eight seconds had produced. The single-origin—a Thai coffee, a northern-hill-tribe coffee, grown at altitude, processed naturally. The flavor: lychee, jasmine, a finish that was—the hidden thing. The bergamot’s Thai cousin. The note at the end that the full journey produced. The note that said: the maker paid attention. The maker was present. The maker was—practicing.
The score. Hajin’s score for Napat’s cup—translated from the tasting to the rubric, from the original to the translation. The score reflecting: the technique (precise), the presentation (honest), the flavor (alive), the overall impression (the thing). The score being—high. Not because Hajin was biased toward the bloom. Because the bloom produced quality. And the quality deserved—the score.
The final results. Napat finished third—89.7. The same score that Hajin had received at his first WBC. The coincidence that was—the practice. The practice producing the same number through different people in different years at different championships. The number that said: this is where the practice begins. 89.7. The threshold. The entry point. The score that the practiced competitor received on the first global attempt.
First place went to the Australian—91.3. Second place to the Colombian—90.8. The rubric’s rankings. The translations. The scores that the world would read and that the world would interpret as: first is best, second is second-best, third is third-best.
But the judge—the judge who had sat three meters from the cups, who had tasted the sixty-two cups, who had detected the attention in some and the absence of attention in others—the judge knew what the score did not say. The score said: Australia first, Colombia second, Thailand third. The judge knew: the Thai barista’s cup was the most alive. The most present. The most—practiced. The Thai barista’s cup was the cup that contained the thing. The 관심. The attention that the rubric approximated and that the palate confirmed.
The cup was louder than the score. Always.
After the competition. The judges’ room. The four judges—decompressing, the five days of sixty-two cups producing the specific, palate-fatigue, the-tasting-is-done exhaustion that competition judging generated.
“The Thai barista,” Hajin said. To the other three judges. “Napat. Third place. 89.7. The cup was—the most alive cup in the competition.”
“The most alive?” the Colombian judge asked. “The Australian’s technique was—superior. The Colombian’s presentation was—more polished. The Thai barista’s cup was—”
“Alive. The distinction being: the technique was not the most refined. The presentation was not the most polished. But the cup was—alive. The aliveness that the rubric scores as ‘overall impression’ but that is, in reality, the sum of something the rubric cannot decompose. The sum of—the maker’s attention.”
“You’re saying the rubric missed something.”
“I’m saying the rubric translated something. The rubric translated the attention into technique points and presentation points and flavor points. The translation was—accurate. The translation produced 89.7. The accurate translation of a cup that was—alive. But 89.7 does not communicate ‘alive.’ 89.7 communicates ‘third place.’ And ‘third place’ is—the translation. Not the original.”
“The original being—”
“The original being: the cup. The cup that the Thai barista made. The cup that carried the attention from Chiang Mai to Taipei. The cup that produced twenty-eight seconds of silence in four hundred people. The cup that the judge tasted and that the judge knows was—the most present cup in the competition.”
“The most present but not the highest scored.”
“The most present but not the highest scored. Because the score measures—the components. The components being: technique, presentation, flavor. The components are individually lower than the Australian’s and the Colombian’s. But the sum of the components plus the thing that the components don’t capture is—higher. The thing that the components don’t capture is—the attention. And the attention is—the cup’s soul.”
“The cup’s soul.”
“The cup’s soul. The thing that the barista puts in the cup that no rubric measures and that every palate detects. The soul that the judge tastes and that the judge translates into the score’s language and that the score’s language—approximates.”
“All translations are approximate.”
“All translations are approximate. And the original is always louder. The Thai barista’s cup was—the loudest cup in the competition. Third in score. First in—the thing.”
The judging was—the practice. The same practice expressed through a different verb. Making, teaching, writing, sharing, evaluating. Five verbs. One practice. The judge’s seat being—the fifth expression. The expression that recognized the attention in others’ cups. The expression that said: I taste the thing. I know the thing is there. I translate the thing into the score. The score is approximate. The thing is exact.
Hajin returned to Seoul. To Bloom. To the counter. To the daily that had continued in his absence (Serin behind the counter, the same everything, the daily that did not depend on the barista). To the chalkboard—nine lines, written by Serin in Serin’s handwriting, the same words in different handwriting. The original in the translation.
He rewrote the chalkboard. His handwriting. The same words. The daily restoration.
At 3:00, Sooyeon arrived. Same seat. Wrong Order. The bergamot approaching.
“How was the judging?” she asked.
“The judging was—the practice. The same practice. Different seat. The judge’s seat. The seat that tastes rather than makes. The seat that scores rather than performs. The seat that knows—” He placed the Wrong Order in front of her. Both hands. “The seat that knows the cup is louder than the score. Always.”
“Always.”
“Same everything. Including the judging. Including the knowing. Including—the cup.”
The bergamot arrived. 58 degrees. The same 58. In Seoul. After Taipei. After sixty-two cups. After the Thai barista’s alive cup and the Australian’s refined cup and the Colombian’s polished cup. After the scores and the translations and the approximations. The bergamot. The original. The thing that no rubric measured and that every palate knew.
Same everything.
Always.