An arched doorway, warm light spilling onto weathered plaster at dusk. The bodega as sanctuary, a lantern that's been hanging there longer than anyone remembers, and the hum of after-work neighbors trading the day.
Field studies of resplendent quetzals, parrots, and the loud tropical regulars of memory, pulled from old natural-history plates and stained sweetly with foxing.
A dancer in silhouette under a single bulb. The long shadow that follows a song you've heard at every wedding. Dominoes slapping the table two floors down.
Notes on layering: liquor at the bottom, coffee, then milk swirling through. How to make a thing dark and gentle at the same time, and what to add when you want it loud.
Carajillo is a Spanish coffee that crossed an ocean and learned a hundred new accents. Add milk and it gets gentler, but it still wakes you up. We treat making the same way: roots that travel, sweetness that doesn't apologize, and a practice that asks to be spoken out loud.