“We’ve got to look for the elephant sign!” I shouted with a bit of exasperation to an Australian couple who had joined me on this day in exploration of Kyoto.
We had just made a turn on Kawaramachi-dori Street, and I could not find the place. We went into one alley, only to find an art gallery and a subsequent dead-end. No coffee signs or elephants in sight.
We circled back again, and my determination grew stronger. “There’s no way I am missing out on this coffee shop” I spoke in my mind.
Finally, I saw it from a distance and hopped forward with excitement. “I see it! It’s here, follow me!” I shouted to the Australian couple who was likely getting weary from all this walking…
Elephant Factory in Kyoto is very hard to find. It’s like the coffee shop doesn’t want to exist. Once you are on the right path within the alley, you notice that there is no entrance nearby. The reason? You’ve got to take the stairs up. There is an arrow that beckons you upstairs, gently guiding you on the correct path…
I motioned to my Australian friends to follow me (they were taken aback and thought they had to keep climbing to another floor), which they did. On this particular visit, the coffee shop had a couple of spots open at the bar, and the proprietor (owner) of the coffee shop beckoned us to take a seat. You don’t come to Elephant Factory to get “to-go” coffee.
I wanted to “check in” my phone to this location, but compounding the notion of “Elephant Factory does not want to be found” is the very simple fact that this coffee shop has no web site, no Instagram page, and no Facebook presence. I suppose people find the coffee shop through word of mouth or some local guide books. But as Atlanta Coffee Shops traveled throughout Japan, Elephant Factory was elusive even to the most fervent coffee aficionados and coffee professionals with whom ACS interacted (in Kyoto, Osaka, and a few other cities).
…
The owner invited us to peruse the menu and came back to get our orders several minutes later. In the meantime, I walked about the quaint interior and marveled at the moody lighting, the tables, the books at the back of the shop, and some of the other curious decor on the walls of the coffee shop.
There is a simple aesthetic at Elephant Factory: wooden tables and chairs, a one page menu (yes, English menu is available), and bare-bones walls.
The go-to order was the medium roasted straight from Tanzania (700 Yen). Everything on the menu is pricey, but consider the sourcing of the beans. They are shipped twice a week to Elephant Factory Coffee after being freshly roasted at one of the most remote and distant regions of Japan: the northern tip of Hokkaido (near the town of Bihoro; see it on a Google Map). My Australian friends went with a dark roasted Mandheling (Indonesian Sumatran coffee) straight and the coffee of the month, in addition to a slice of cheesecake.
As the owner of Factory Coffee began his preparations, I politely asked him if it was alright for me to capture photos. He nodded.
I captured the photos below of the master at his craft. Every step of the process was planned and acted with purpose and deliberate action. This was a coffee ritual unfolding, with the master having perfected the process over a decade or more. Beginning with boiling the hot water, to grinding the beans, to pouring the water—it was a fascinating seven to ten minutes of display. The concentration of the master was fierce.
As I write this essay, reflecting back, I realize now that the nod of acquiescence for me to capture photos was one of politeness, likely met with (deserved) skepticism—would I intrude on his efforts? Would I spoil his concentration?
I was courteous in the process, using a wide-angle lens to capture the scenes and staying at least six to eight feet away. Nevertheless, the experience at Elephant Factory was perhaps the only one in all of Japan (having visited over twenty-five coffee shops) where I felt like I was overstepping my bounds with the photography, and for that, I apologize.
As I watched the coffee being prepared, I darted slowly back and forth to capture photos of the space. One of my favorites turned out to be the image below, a customer perusing social media, attention diverted away—while the master at his craft, focused on a singular task at hand. What a stark contrast between these two worlds.
One of my favorite elements was at the back of the coffee shop where there was this stack of books, pleading with a guest to be read. Perhaps this is a fine illustration of tsundoku (積ん読) —the Japanese word that has no English equivalent but roughtly translates to “an accumulation of books piling up without reading them.” I captured this photo and moved on, not wanting to disturb a family with two young children who were reading books together (to the right of frame).