The rise and fall of Beim Coffee, part three: Scaling and Supply

Scaling a coffee operation is easier than scaling a snack operation. Coffee only has one ingredient. Although each step has its nuances, it's relatively straightforward to source the beans, lease commercial roasting equipment, and package it for sale online. Coffee has excellent shelf stability, although I'd recommend consuming it within a few months of roasting for the best taste.

Snacks are more complex. To begin with, if you sell coffee, everyone knows what you are selling. But for snacks, after you come up with a clever name, the customer's first question is still, "what is it"? A snack can be made from practically anything. It can be a sugary, guilty pleasure or a puritan examplar of health. There are as many snacks as there are opinions.

Adding to the complexity, Amy found that our own snack worked well with different kinds of flavorings. One variety was "taco", which adults liked, and another was "blueberry", that kids liked. The varieties represented completely different demographics and marketing strategies.

How many different varieties could we commercialize, and what equipment was required? We were concerned that experimentation on Amy's home equipment wouldn't translate to commercial scaling. The home process was cumbersome and we needed additional expertise.

"Ghost" kitchens were on the rise, supporting food startups without physical retail storefronts. We emailed several prospects. A typical message read, "We've developed a vegan, patent pending snack based on cascara (dried coffee cherry). We are looking for a contract kitchen to produce the snack."

One company we contacted was "Cloud Kitchens", headed by Travis Kalanick, a founder of Uber. But I later read that many of their clients were unhappy, with 70% terminating their contracts within a year. We decided not to move forward, and as it turned out, the company shuttered its New York operations a few months later.

We did a trial shift with another company that had a location near my apartment in Brooklyn. The interiors were freshly renovated, the equipment brand new, and the staff helpful with our newbie questions about the mysteries of the Blodgett convection oven. Just like a perfect apartment building with concierge service, everything about it was perfect - except for the price.

My local beer club had a "food startup whisperer", and in exchange for a pint, he pointed us to Cook Collective, a Brooklyn incubator for food startups. Cook Collective had a broader array of equipment and better prices than the "concierge" company.

In addition to the contract kitchen we wanted a reliable source of cascara. The "NY Coffee Fest" at the Javits center seemed like a good place to start.

We traded business cards and samples with coffee roasters from Maui, Vietnam, Puerto Rico, Peru, and Haiti. A Peruvian grower referred us to a contact who wasn't at the festival, but available by phone. "Danny from Peru" later mailed us a package from Canada. There was a pound of cascara inside - but no documentation at all.

Later we learned that most farmers aren't able to legally export cascara to the USA because their equipment isn't built for it. Cascara is typically mixed with other waste from a coffee harvest. Unless a farm is specifically designed to process cascara, it is probably not the safest thing to eat. To be approved for retail sale, the FDA requires a "certificate of analysis" for such ingredients - and Danny's shipment had no such certificate - or even a return address.

Uncertain of Danny's product, we turned back to traditional importers for the cascara supply. One option was to buy milled cascara - also known as "coffee flour", as opposed to the dried husks.

I bought a few pounds online and we ran experiments with the milled ingredient. Eureka! The flour vastly improved the taste and texture of the snack - turning the snack from a somewhat chewy "chip" into a delectable "truffle".

Eager to start another batch, I went online to order more. Strangely, the listing for coffee flour had disappeared. Had we unwittingly bought out the last dregs? I contacted the seller, but they had no further information, only that the item was discontinued. It was like discovering gold and then being told that pick axes had disappeared from the earth. Of course, we could mill our own cascara husks, but that would mean additional equipment and complexity.

Frustrated, I turned to LinkedIn to find the CEO of the supplier. Were they even still in business? I pressed "send" on my plea, doubtful that it would be visible.

Remarkably, the CEO wrote me back - and we set a meeting.