Bourbon Ají Coffee Explained: The Rare Colombian Variety That Tastes Nothing Like Chili

 Has anyone else noticed that we haven’t heard much about “Bourbon Ají” lately? In fact, I’m sure plenty of coffee drinkers still have no idea what it is. Looking back at my previous posts, I usually only mentioned Bourbon Ají in café visits or in a dedicated flavor review, but I never really wrote about its background in detail. Recently, though, I found myself thinking about it again, so I figured it was finally time to dedicate an entire article to this “coffee aristocrat” whose name has seriously held it back.

Bourbon Ají had a brief moment in the spotlight a few years ago, largely thanks to its impressive performance in the 2021 COE (Cup of Excellence), where it placed sixth. I still remember having the chance to taste some of the competition samples before the event itself. During a blind cupping session, Bourbon Ají immediately stood out to me and left a lasting impression.

So where exactly does this strange name come from? And does it actually have anything to do with chili peppers?

Well, not really. The coffee isn’t “spicy” at all. It’s simply a coffee variety that resembles chili peppers. In Colombia, growers noticed that the cherries were long and pointed, much like ají peppers, and even the green beans carried a faint spicy-herbal aroma. That’s how it earned the name “Bourbon Ají.”

What makes it even more interesting is that despite the word “Bourbon” in its name, recent genetic testing has confirmed that Bourbon Ají is not actually part of the Bourbon family. Instead, it’s an ancient Ethiopian landrace variety, genetically much closer to the legendary Geisha.

Honestly, when I first evaluated Bourbon Ají myself, the dry fragrance immediately revealed a noticeable spice character — something reminiscent of lightly charred peppers. But once brewed, the cup settles back into a much more familiar and elegant coffee profile. I often find juicy notes of apricot and peach layered together with bright, refreshing acidity that makes your mouth water. Some Bourbon Ají lots also carry delicate hints of ginger, lemongrass, or Earl Grey tea-like spice. Overall, it’s best known for its refined florals and remarkable complexity.

That said, have you noticed how little people talk about Bourbon Ají these days?

It reminds me of varieties like Sidra or Pink Bourbon, which were once considered trendy and exotic but have gradually become more common everyday specialty coffees. Coffee varieties, in many ways, follow trends just like fashion. Different years bring different obsessions.

A couple of years ago, Bourbon Ají exploded on social media and within the specialty coffee scene thanks to its unusual name and fascinating backstory. It quickly became a highly sought-after “internet-famous” bean. But once the excitement of novelty faded, it naturally returned to a smaller niche audience of dedicated specialty coffee enthusiasts, and demand dropped accordingly.

There’s also a more practical reason behind its disappearance from the spotlight: Bourbon Ají is still an extremely rare variety. Although ancient in origin, it was only relatively recently rediscovered and is currently grown in limited quantities within specific micro-regions of Colombia. Production volumes are incredibly small. For most roasters, it’s more of an occasional limited-release gem rather than a consistently available staple coffee.

From a farmer’s perspective, planting high-yield, disease-resistant varieties simply makes more economic sense. Bourbon Ají produces lower yields and is more difficult to cultivate. Without strong enough market prices, there’s very little incentive for farmers to switch over to large-scale production.

And then there’s the name itself — both its greatest advantage and its biggest weakness.

The word “ají” helped the coffee go viral in the beginning, but it also created confusion among consumers. Many people naturally wondered, “Wait… is this coffee actually spicy?” Once the novelty wore off, the unusual name may have even become a barrier preventing repeat purchases.

So to clarify once again: the “spice” in Bourbon Ají does not refer to the burning heat of capsaicin. That’s exactly why I always emphasize that it isn’t actually spicy. Instead, it carries a gentle herbal sweetness and aromatic spice character somewhat reminiscent of green peppers, bell peppers, and fresh herbs.

If you’re interested in exploring rare coffee varieties with unique flavor profiles like this, keep an eye on limited releases from specialty coffee roasters. Finding a great Bourbon Ají often requires a little luck — but when you do, it’s absolutely worth the experience.

The Coffee Freshness Revolution: How Vacuum Packaging Changed Coffee Forever (1900)

 Today, vacuum packaging is a perfectly ordinary way to keep food fresh. But if we turn the clock back to the early 19th century, preserving coffee over long-distance transport was a serious challenge. Once coffee beans are roasted, they oxidize easily and lose their flavor quickly. If someone could solve that problem, it would be nothing short of a technological revolution. That’s exactly what we’re exploring today: who invented vacuum packaging for coffee, and how this invention went on to carry a coffee brand through more than a century of history.

Before we get to the invention itself, we need to understand a coffee brand with over a hundred years of heritage—Hills Bros. Coffee, from the United States. As early as 1873, Old Austin Hills, a shipyard worker, traveled from New England to California with his two sons, Austin Herbert and Reuben Wilmarth. After settling down, the younger Austin and R.W. (as Reuben was usually called) began selling coffee, tea, and dairy products from a stall in the Bay City Market. By 1882, their coffee stand had grown into a full-fledged retail shop on Harrison Street known as the Arabian Coffee and Spice Mills.

By 1900, during the course of running their business, they realized a harsh reality: once coffee is roasted, its peak flavor window is extremely short. Roasted beans constantly release carbon dioxide, a process that carries away many aromatic compounds. Once that CO₂ is exhausted, oxygen rushes in, causing the coffee to oxidize rapidly, leading to staleness and off-flavors. As a result, they had previously been forced to roast and sell coffee locally, relying on small neighborhood grocery stores or roasteries. This effectively limited their customer base. Shipping roasted coffee over weeks or months by sea meant that, by the time it reached consumers, the flavor was long gone, leaving behind little more than bitterness.

This is where the story takes a decisive turn. R.W. Hills was not a traditional coffee merchant. He was a well-educated chemist, and he naturally brought scientific thinking into the family business. He began looking for ways to extend the shelf life of roasted coffee through systematic improvement. He identified oxygen as the root cause of the problem: if roasted coffee could be isolated from air, its freshness could be preserved for much longer. The challenge, however, was that at the time, there was no reliable or industrially scalable solution. Through experimentation and persistence, he eventually succeeded in turning theory into practice.

The first breakthrough came with sealing coffee in sturdy metal cans made of tinplate. This material effectively blocked both oxygen and light, while also providing protection during transportation. Using a special process, all the air inside the can was removed, creating an almost vacuum-like environment, and the can was immediately sealed shut. This method did not attempt to stop the coffee from releasing carbon dioxide. Instead, the degassing occurred within a sealed space. The CO₂ released by the beans filled the can, but because the container initially contained very little air, the pressure remained low. At the same time, the carbon dioxide further displaced any remaining oxygen, creating a protective atmosphere around the coffee.

In 1900, Hills Bros. Coffee patented this vacuum packaging technology and began selling vacuum-sealed canned coffee under the Hills Bros. Coffee brand. This was a truly revolutionary upgrade. It broke geographic limitations on sales: for the first time, roasted coffee could travel thousands of miles and still retain an acceptable level of flavor. This allowed Hills Bros., based in California, to sell its products on the U.S. East Coast and even export them overseas. More importantly, it established a clear sense of brand identity. Before this, consumers were simply buying “coffee” as a commodity—much like buying nuts from a bulk food shop, with little awareness of brand. Vacuum-sealed cans changed that. No matter where consumers were, as long as they recognized a Hills Bros. can, they could expect a consistent and reliable product.

Through this revolutionary shift, we can clearly see the early blueprint of modern coffee retail. Grocery stores no longer needed expensive roasting equipment or skilled roasters on-site. All they had to do was stock shelves with branded, canned coffee—an early model of the supermarket-style coffee retail we know today. This innovation also forced other coffee merchants to follow suit, rapidly adopting and improving vacuum packaging technology. As a result, coffee brands expanded nationwide and eventually worldwide, pushing the entire industry into a new era of industrialization. This technology became one of the foundational pillars of modern commercial coffee. Even today, despite continuous advances in packaging materials and convenience, one principle remains unchanged: keeping oxygen out is still the golden rule of coffee freshness.

The Dark Humor of Coffee History: Sweden’s King Who Tried to Prove Coffee Was Deadly

 Coffee has long been one of the most important threads running through European history. But what many people don’t realize is that coffee also has its own “dark history.” When coffee first arrived in Europe in the late 16th century, it immediately raised alarm within the Christian church. This black beverage from the “infidel” Muslim world was once condemned as “the devil’s drink.”

By the 18th century, this suspicion was still very much alive in Sweden. King Gustav III firmly believed that coffee was harmful to the human body and regarded it as a kind of poison. In order to prove coffee’s dangers, he organized what would later become one of the most infamous human experiments in coffee history. Although the scientific validity of this experiment is highly questionable by modern standards, it nevertheless revealed something remarkable: as early as the 18th century, humans had already discovered that coffee was, in fact, non-toxic.

To understand this story, we first need some historical context. Coffee was introduced to Sweden around 1674. In 1746, the Swedish government issued a royal decree banning the consumption of both tea and coffee. Heavy taxes were imposed on coffee, and those who failed to pay faced fines and confiscation of their cups and utensils. Before long, coffee was completely outlawed.

Of course, people continued drinking it in secret—because let’s be honest, who could resist something that delicious? It wasn’t until the late 18th century that coffee gradually became fashionable again, especially among the wealthy.

During Gustav III’s reign, however, the king remained deeply concerned that coffee posed a serious threat to public health. Determined to prove its harmful effects, he ordered a controlled experiment. Two identical twins who had been sentenced to death were selected as test subjects. Their sentences were commuted to life imprisonment on one condition: one twin would drink three pots of tea every day, while the other would drink three pots of coffee daily for the rest of his life.

To ensure proper observation, the king appointed two physicians to monitor the twins’ health and report regularly to him. In simple terms, everyone was waiting to see who would die first.

And then came the irony.

Years passed, and both prisoners remained alive and well. In a twist worthy of dark comedy, the two doctors assigned to observe the experiment died before either of the twins. Even more ironically, King Gustav III himself never lived to see the outcome. In 1792, he was assassinated by a disgruntled nobleman at a masquerade ball and died from his wounds. With his death, the experiment lost both its supervisor and its original purpose.

With no king and no doctors left to observe them, the twin brothers continued drinking their assigned beverages in prison. Eventually, the tea-drinking twin passed away first—at the age of 83, an astonishing lifespan by 18th-century standards. The coffee-drinking twin lived even longer, though his exact age at death is unknown. What is certain is that he outlived his brother.

What was intended as proof that coffee was dangerous instead became unintended evidence that coffee was harmless—and perhaps even linked to longevity. The entire story is steeped in black humor and historical irony: everyone who expected coffee to be deadly—the king and the doctors—died first, while the experimental subjects themselves lived long lives.

Gustav III’s experiment was flawed, unethical, and deeply disturbing by modern standards, yet it remains one of the most thought-provoking episodes in coffee history. After coffee bans were eventually lifted, coffee went on to become Sweden’s primary daily beverage, helping the country become one of the highest per-capita coffee consumers in the world.

After hearing this story, doesn’t the coffee in your hand somehow taste even better? Go ahead—take another sip. Here’s to long life and good coffee.

The Monologue of a Coffee Bean — Geisha

 

“Once, I was their moonlight — pure and rare.

Now, the moon still shines, but no one looks up anymore.”

1. A Name Written in Gold

My name is Geisha.
Most people think I’m a coffee variety.
But the truth is far more complicated — and far more human.

In the chronicles of Specialty Coffee, my name is written in bold, shimmering ink across the opening pages.
They call me legend, queen, benchmark — a measure of whether a cup of coffee is worthy of the world’s finest tables.

At auctions, I’ve set prices that made headlines.
My flavor has been called divine: a burst of jasmine, the sweetness of citrus and bergamot, and a tea-like body as smooth as velvet.

And yet, tonight, as I gaze up at the stars over a quiet estate in Baoshan, Yunnan, I feel a strange sense of confusion.
Is this the same sky that watched over the village of Gesha, Ethiopia, seventy years ago?
My name is the same — but I, somehow, am not.

2. The Forest and the Mistake

My story began with a beautiful mistake.

In 1931, a team of British botanists trekked through the misty forests of Gesha, in southwestern Ethiopia.
I was nothing remarkable then — just another wild coffee shrub breathing in the wet forest air, hidden under thick leaves, listening to the hum of life.

They collected me — labeled “Gesha” — as material for breeding stronger, disease-resistant plants.
From there, I traveled: to Kenya, to Tanzania, and finally to the New World —
to the highlands of Central America, where destiny waited in the soil.

3. The Forgotten Guardian

In Costa Rica and Panama, I was not a star.
I was a guardian.
My tall, slender branches offered shade to fragile Typica and Bourbon trees.
My natural resistance to leaf rust was my only worth.

No one cared how I tasted.
I was an old, practical piece of furniture — tucked away in a forgotten corner of the estate, quietly living, quietly blooming, quietly bearing fruit.

4. The Awakening — 2004

Then came 2004.

In Panama’s Boquete region, the Peterson family of Hacienda La Esmeralda rediscovered me — almost by accident.
They entered me into the Best of Panama competition.

And that year, I stunned the world.
Judges described my flavor as “something never experienced before.”
My cupping scores shattered every record.

Overnight, I went from an anonymous shade tree to the queen of coffee.
It was my brightest moment — and my loneliest one.

Humans, after all, prize rarity above all else.
My beans were sold by the gram.
My prices climbed to the heavens.
I became the world’s most expensive coffee.

From Gesha I became Geisha —
no longer a place, but a legend.
A myth.
A golden label stamped with luxury and profit.

5. The Global Migration

Once my value was proven, humans began to move me.
My seeds traveled across the oceans —
to Colombia, Guatemala, Costa Rica, and finally, to Yunnan, China.

At first, they believed only the terroir of Panama could give me a soul.
But then came the Colombian Geishas, the Guatemalan Geishas — each with their own voice.
I realized I could sing different songs of terroir on different lands.

And so, “Geisha” became not a place, not even a plant —
but a phenomenon.

6. The Dilution

That was when my troubles began.

In pursuit of yield and adaptability, humans began to reshape me — crossing and selecting, mixing and remaking.
There emerged “Gesha 1931,” seeking the purity of the original,
and many others, bearing the names of estates.

My lineage grew large and tangled.
My purity faded.

And the land under my name multiplied a hundredfold.
Especially in Yunnan, where eager farmers carved new Geisha gardens into the hills.
They experimented with anaerobic fermentation, carbonic maceration, enzyme washing —
hoping to unearth ever more dazzling layers of flavor.

But in doing so, they made me… common.
Once, I was a rare whisper on auction lists;
now, I appear on café menus everywhere.
A “Hacienda La Esmeralda Geisha — Auction Lot” may still command a breathtaking price,
but right beside it sits a modest, approachable “Yunnan Geisha.”

The myth was democratized.
And in that democracy, I began to fade.

7. From Rarity to Routine

When the first waves of Colombian and Yunnan Geishas entered the market, people still spoke my name with awe.
But then came the second wave, the third…
Production soared, my price plummeted.

“Geisha? Oh, that’s everywhere now.”
“This one tastes… kind of normal.”
“Nowhere near as good as Panama.”

Their words sting more than frostbite.
I — once a singular name — have become a mass identity.
My divine complexity has been diluted by the endless pursuit of quantity.

My genes, once wild and fragile, are now endlessly manipulated.
My soul, once whispered through forest wind,
is vanishing in the noise of globalization.

8. The Mirror of Catimor

I look beside me — and see Catimor.
I remember its story: once celebrated for its strength and resilience,
then condemned as “coarse,”
pushed to the edge of the specialty world, branded commercial.

How alike we are.
Both created for human ambition.
Both exalted.
Both multiplied.
And then… discarded.

At least Catimor still has the earth —
its roots sunk deep,
its life force raw and real.

But me?
When my rarity fades, when my flavor no longer thrills,
when I am just another industrial crop —
what will I become?

9. The Fading Light

Once, I was their moonlight —
the precious glow they held gently in their palms.

Now, the moonlight spills everywhere,
touching every cup,
every café,
every shelf.

No one looks up anymore.

Will I be the next to vanish beneath the tides of time?

Brazilians Got Their Coffee Because of an Affair

 Coffee is originally from Ethiopia, with its use documented only in the 15th century. It is said that Sufi monks in Yemen were the first to drink coffee, which helped them stay awake during their night prayers. 

In the early 15th century, coffee spread to Mecca and subsequently throughout the Middle East. Travelers later brought coffee to Europe. In the early 17th century, some Catholics suspected coffee was the devil's drink and urged Pope Clement VIII to ban it. However, the Pope tasted the drink himself and, to their surprise, gave it his blessing. Coffee then gradually became popular in Europe.

 

In his book, *The Travels of Four Englishmen and a Preacher into Africa, Asia, Troy, Bythinia, Thracia, and to the Blacke Sea* (1612), William Biddulph described his first impression of tasting coffee in Turkey:

"The most common drink is one called Coffa, a black drink made from a paste called Coaua, which resembles peas. The preparation involves grinding the beans and boiling them with water, and the locals enjoy it as hot as possible. Their lives are simple and crude, and they find drinking this beverage enjoyable, believing it aids the digestion of the herbs and raw meat they eat." 

Italian explorer Pietro Della Valle elaborated on Turkish coffee in his work, *Travels in Persia* (published in English in 1658):

"The Turks have a black drink, which is refreshing in the summer and warming in the winter... I remember this drink is made from the grains or fruit of a certain tree that grows in the Arab region near Mecca. The fruit is called Cahue, which is also the name of the drink. The fruit used to make Cahue is oval-shaped and about the size of a medium olive. When preparing the drink, the locals sometimes use the soft peel of the fruit, and sometimes they use only the kernel, which is like a bean. They believe the two drinks, one made from the peel and the other from the kernel, have different properties—one being warm and the other cool. But I forget whether the refreshing drink is made from the peel or the kernel." 

By the end of the 17th century, major European cities had thousands of coffee houses, and public demand for coffee was increasing daily. The Arabs attempted to monopolize coffee, but the Dutch stole seedlings, took them to Jakarta, and established coffee farms. In 1714, the Dutch presented some coffee tree seedlings to King Louis XIV of France, who planted them in the Royal Botanical Garden in Paris. Later, a naval officer named Gabriel de Clieu secretly clipped some coffee tree cuttings from the garden and transported them to the French Caribbean island of Martinique, where coffee flourished. Fifty years later, the number of trees had grown to 18 million. These trees were later taken to other parts of the Caribbean and the New World. 

As for how coffee reached Brazil, there is an anecdote. It is said that in 1727, Francisco de Mello Palheta, a Portuguese official from Brazil, was dispatched to French Guiana in an attempt to negotiate for coffee seedlings to take back to Brazil, but he was firmly rejected. However, Palheta's handsome appearance captivated the French Governor's wife, and the two began an affair. As a farewell gift, the Governor's wife gave him a bouquet of flowers, secretly hiding coffee seeds within them. This is how coffee was successfully introduced to Brazil.