One · The Alley After Dark
Long after the cafes close,
the drum is still warm.
There is a moment, after the last cup is pulled and the alley empties, when the roaster has done its work and the bags sit cooling on the shelf. That is the hour this little roastery lives for. Barking Irons does not roast for a continent. It roasts for the block — small lots, dated by hand, gone before they go stale.
The dogs that give Woolly Dog Alley its name pass by all day with their people, and the roaster has learned most of them by sight. The list of coffees grows; the website has not kept up. This page is a draft of the one it could have — an essay in espresso and ember, built around the part of the day the roaster likes best.

