Welcome to my kitchen.

One summer my dad wanted to take my siblings and me out fishing. We left at 6am for a pond in Edgartown, right by South Beach. No boat, just the dock, the sun coming up.

He had his thermos with him, silver with a black lid, like always. Curious kid that I was, I asked for a sip.

I spit it straight into the water. I couldn't get the bitter taste out of my mouth for the rest of the morning, and all I could think was: why would anyone want to drink this?

That stuck with me for years. I watched what a real coffee habit looked like up close and knew I didn't want one. But I stayed a little jealous of everyone who had one, because they always had something to look forward to.

Then at my first job out of college, in sales at Yelp, there was a barista in the office. I started my own ritual out of it: Cappuccino Fridays. One cappuccino after lunch, knowing I'd be going out again that night.

I'd be bouncing off the walls by two and flat by four. I did it happily, every week.

Cafes with my wife were the same puzzle in a nicer room. She knew exactly what she wanted. I'd read the whole menu twice and order something I wasn't excited about.

Then I tried a chai latte. Bold, warm, a little unexpected, and the first thing on one of those menus that felt like it was mine.

The catch turned up fast. It tasted different at every cafe, and sometimes different at the same cafe twice. I started asking what concentrate they used, and half the time the answer talked me out of ordering.

So I started making it myself. That's sort of my whole personality: I built the gym in my basement, I cook most of what we eat, and I have a pickling phase every summer.

Chai concentrate took over. Years of small adjustments, one variable at a time, until it came out the way I wanted it.

Then people started showing up. I'd pour a cup for whoever was over, and watch them go quiet for a second before asking what it was. That turned out to be the part I actually loved. Not drinking it. Handing it to someone.

The problem was reach. It takes 45 minutes a batch, it lives in the fridge, it needs the one oat milk I like, and it's gone in a week.

This one happened a hundred times. Good week of work, so I'd reward myself with a grocery run, which is honestly one of my favorite things. Cart full, weekend meals planned, mood high.

One thing left. I'd walk over to the refrigerated case by the checkout wanting something to keep that feeling going.

Coffee. Cold brew. More coffee. Energy drinks, mushroom coffee, iced teas that taste like sugar water, kombucha that's too sweet for the moment I'm in. Nothing savory, nothing warming, nothing that felt like a reward.

I'd stand there wanting something and leave with nothing. It never ruined the day. It just quietly took the top off it.

Whole spices, brewed. Never extracts, never "natural flavors." Cinnamon, cardamom, ginger and clove doing the work up front, with less sugar than the competition so you can actually taste them.

And it tastes the same every single time. Not close. The same. That's the one thing a cafe pour, a store-bought concentrate, and even my own kitchen could never promise.

It's the treat I've been chasing since I was nine, in something I can finally hand to more people than fit in my kitchen.

— Chris, founder