Guatemala Las Cuevitas

We didn’t set out to feature this coffee.

An importer we’ve worked with for a long time passed it along quietly—as a potential blender. Nothing flashy, just a clean sample, no origin, no backstory, no price tag. We like it that way, actually. Keeps us honest. Keeps us focused on what’s in the cup, not what we think we’re supposed to like.

So we cupped it. Blind. A few times, actually.

And yeah—it seemed like a solid fit for the blend we were working on. Good structure. Balanced acidity. Nice little fruit notes peeking through. Clean. Sweet. Approachable in the best way. But then we stopped and asked ourselves, like we sometimes do: Why blend this at all? It’s kind of beautiful on its own.

That’s the moment we ask for the details—farm, region, variety, elevation, processing, price… all the things that help complete the story.

That’s when things got a little weird.

They didn’t have the information. Turns out, they’d picked it up from another importer. And before you imagine some shady deal over a loading dock—this wasn’t that. No secrets. Just sad news. The original buyer—another roaster—had apparently shut their doors. Broke the contract. The coffee needed a new home.

That part hit us hard. Because this year’s been brutal on small roasters. On growers. On everyone trying to hold the line. Sometimes you forget how thin the margins are in this industry until someone disappears. And here was this really good coffee—sitting in limbo. Roasted by no one. Tasted by no one. Not because it wasn’t good enough—but because the person who believed in it couldn’t keep going.

That stuck with us.

So we kept going. Dug into what we could find. Based on markings on the bags and a little help from the importing trail, we pieced it together: Las Cuevitas, from the Villaure region of Guatemala, specifically Huehuetenango, grown between 1,500 and 1,700 meters. Fully washed. Produced by a third-generation farmer—though we still don’t know their name. That’s the hardest part. Because someone, somewhere, grew this with care. We may never get the full story, but the cup speaks volumes.

And what’s in the cup?

Rich caramel. A little apple, maybe dried apricot. There’s a softness to the acidity—baking spice warmth without getting dusty. Just clean. Unfussy. A kind of honesty in flavor that we chase after but don’t always find.

We almost blended this one. Instead, we’re sharing it straight.

Sometimes coffee finds you. Even when you weren’t looking. And when it does—you make room for it.