A Seattle Night of Coffee

And the Chef Who Changed My Life

I should begin with a confession. I did not particularly like Bryan-David Scott when I first met him. More accurately, I did not like what I thought he represented.

Seattle has always had a complicated relationship with coffee because coffee is woven deeply into the identity of this city. People here have strong opinions about what constitutes a great cup. We know our favorite cafés, our preferred roasters, the origins we enjoy, the styles of roasting we respect and the places we believe deserve attention. Some of us take those opinions entirely too seriously.

I was one of those people. I call myself a coffee snob, and I mean it. So when I began hearing about a chef claiming to produce what was being described as some of the finest coffee in the world, I was skeptical before I ever tasted a drop.

Actually, skeptical may be too generous a word. I thought the whole thing sounded ridiculous.

Seattle had already given the world Starbucks. The Pacific Northwest was filled with serious roasters, independent cafés and people who had spent decades developing sophisticated palates. I had tasted excellent coffee in Seattle, throughout the United States and while traveling internationally. I certainly did not need someone telling me that I was about to experience coffee differently.

Then I met Bryan-David. That did very little to improve matters. He was confident. Arrogant as hell. He spoke about coffee with an intensity that bordered on outrageous. He talked about standards, sourcing, sensory experience, service and the pursuit of quality as though the accepted boundaries of coffee were simply suggestions someone else had made.

Then came the claim that made me roll my eyes internally: The best coffee in the world.

Really? In Seattle? Good luck with that, sir.

My husband and I attended a private event hosted by Justin Bentley Reed, chef to the Seattle Seahawks and Seattle Sounders FC, with VIPs at KeyArena and members of two of the dining clubs Mario and I belong to. The room included executives and leaders from throughout Seattle and the Eastside, including people connected with some of the companies that had come to define this region. Microsoft. Nintendo. Amazon. Professional sports. Business leaders. People accustomed to extraordinary restaurants, private clubs, international travel, fine wines, luxury hospitality and expensive things presented with great confidence.

Seattle has no shortage of big names.

Neither did Bryan-David. What I remember most clearly, however, is that he did not spend the evening trying to convince us. He simply said, “Experience for yourself. The coffee will do all of the talking.” Let me tell you, it did indeed do that.

The first cup reached me while I was standing with Mario. I smelled it before drinking it. That caught my attention. The aroma was unusually developed and surprisingly expressive. I remember pausing because it was already different from what I had expected.

Then I tasted it. OMG!

There are moments when your opinion changes gradually. This was not one of them. The first sip immediately disrupted everything I had prepared myself to think about Bryan-David Scott and his so-called greatest coffee in the world.

I looked at my husband. Then I looked at Bryan-David. I am reasonably certain my expression gave me away.

The coffee was remarkably clean and deeply flavorful, with a structure and finish I had never associated with coffee before. I could recognize familiar characteristics, yet the total experience was unfamiliar to me. The flavors seemed to develop as I drank rather than arriving all at once. Dark chocolate. Crème. Silk.

I finished the cup. That should have been sufficient. It was not. I had a second. The second cup fascinated me because my experience of it changed. The coffee remained recognizable, yet I noticed different dimensions. Perhaps my palate had adjusted. Perhaps temperature changed the expression. Perhaps I was simply paying closer attention.

Whatever the explanation, I stopped thinking about whether I liked Bryan-David. I was thinking about the coffee. That was probably the moment he won me.

By my third cup, resistance had become rather pointless. Three full cups. From the woman who had arrived prepared to dislike the man and dismiss the claim. I still remember Bryan-David watching my face. He knew. I suspect he had seen that expression before.

What surprised me even more was watching similar reactions appear throughout the room.

These were sophisticated people. Many were accustomed to evaluating businesses, products, investments and experiences professionally. They were surrounded by high standards every day. People kept returning for coffee. I listened. They asked questions. They compared reactions. They smelled the cups before drinking. They stopped conversations long enough to taste again.

And they returned for refills. That interested me.

Compliments at private events are easy. People are gracious. They say kind things. They thank the host. Going back for another cup is different. Going back again is even more interesting, I think.

The coffee became one of the subjects of the evening rather than another beverage being served during it.

I began watching people experience what I had just experienced. That was when my curiosity about Bryan-David changed completely. I wanted to understand how he had done it.

I learned more about his standards and his approach to coffee. I learned how seriously he treated sourcing, roasting, preparation, presentation and hospitality.

I also learned that respected figures in coffee had evaluated his work and responded very positively to it. Names such as Alfred Peet, Ernesto Illy and Carlo Di Ruocco were part of the history surrounding his coffees.

By then, it was almost secondary. I had already tasted the coffee. That became the central fact.

Over time, my husband and I came to know Bryan-David better, and my initial skepticism became genuine admiration for what he was trying to accomplish.

I also began introducing him into circles where I believed his coffee belonged. The Rainier Club was one of them.

The Columbia Tower Club was another.

We introduced it to friends at The VUDE who fell madly in love with it.

These were environments where members were accustomed to exceptional food, wine, service and hospitality. They were people with access. People who traveled. People who knew quality.

I wanted them to experience what Mario and I had tasted. That eventually led to another opportunity that remains particularly memorable to me.

I arranged for Bryan-David's coffee to be tasted by a friend of mine, an attorney at Starbucks.

There is a certain absurdity to bringing someone into Seattle and essentially saying, “I would like you to taste this coffee,” when the person on the other side of the table is a brass legal eagle.

Yet I believed in what I had experienced strongly enough to make the introduction. She tasted the coffee. She was impressed.

Bryan-David also shared his thinking around an exclusive coffee-club concept. I remember the conversation because the idea was compelling: creating a highly selective membership experience around extraordinary coffees, access, discovery and hospitality.

Elements of that concept later appeared elsewhere in the coffee world. Bryan-David has his own feelings about that history. My interest here is simpler. I had reached the point where I was willing to place my own credibility behind his coffee. That is a remarkable distance to travel from where I started.

That is part of what makes the memory amusing to me now. I arrived ready to reject the entire proposition. I disliked the claim. I was suspicious of the confidence. I was perfectly prepared to dislike the man making it. Then I drank three cups of his coffee.

Life has a sense of humor. Coffee apparently does too.

The experience also changed the way I thought about luxury.

Luxury is often confused with expense, exclusivity or surroundings. Those things can contribute to an experience, certainly, but they cannot rescue an ordinary product.

Bryan-David's coffee required very little explanation once it reached the cup. The aroma invited attention. Its flavor held it. The finish prolonged it. Then curiosity just took over. That sequence happened to me, and every face I observed told the same story.

Over the years, I’ve seen it happen many more times. Some people responded analytically. Others simply smiled. Many immediately wanted another cup. Those reactions spoke more to me than any marketing statements ever could.

I doubt the chef needs marketing statements. His talent and coffee do the speaking for him.

Seattle is a difficult city in which to make extravagant claims about coffee. We have heard them before.

We have tasted enough coffee to know that vocabulary can outrun quality quickly.

Eventually someone has to drink what you are selling.

That night, we did.

And the coffee survived the claim.

For me, it did something more.

It changed me.

Bryan-David appears arrogant, but listen to the man, watch him in action, taste what he creates. Especially his coffee. I learned that kindness, humility, and respect are greater than snobbery.

I have tasted many good coffees since then, yet I still remember standing beside my husband, looking at Bryan-David after that first cup and realizing that I had badly underestimated both the coffee and the person responsible for it.

Then I had another cup.

And another.

I suppose every self-respecting coffee snob should be humbled occasionally.

That first evening was my turn.

For many of us who experienced Bryan-David Scott's coffees during those years, they became among the finest coffees we had ever tasted.

Hearing connoisseurs describe his coffee as the finest in the world used to upset me. Once upon a time, I would have dismissed language like that immediately. After three cups, many introductions, years of watching people react and one particularly memorable Seattle evening, I understood where it came from.

I had experienced every reason.

And yes, chef, I still remember my face.

You were right to smile.

A. Forsythe
Laurelhurst, Seattle

© 2026 A. Forsythe. All rights reserved. Published by Bryan-David Scott Studios with permission of the author.