A beautiful beginning
The story didn’t start in a boardroom. It started with a phone call, a plane ticket bought by a stubborn friend, and a feeling that life needed… something. In early 2024, I—Pasenadee—went home to Sri Lanka. Sun on skin. Grandma’s laughter. Maalu paan in the morning and thambili in the afternoon. The kind of trip that makes you remember who you are.
The girl with the coffee tattoo
Colombo felt new and familiar at once. On a dusty day, I met a traveller with a coffee branch tattooed on her arm. We wandered Galle Face. We talked about nothing and then about everything, and as she lifted her sleeve she said, almost offhand, “The coffee’s really good here.” A throwaway line. A seed in the mind.
A door that wouldn’t open (until it did).
Curiosity has a way of becoming a map. I called around and found myself at a place with a Japanese name—Kiyota Coffee. The director told me, politely, that he wasn’t looking for foreign involvement. Prices were messy. Timing was bad. Then he asked me a question that should’ve ended the meeting:
“Do you like coffee?”
I told him the truth. I liked mocha. I liked chocolate. I wasn’t “a coffee guy.”
He blinked. I shrugged. “I don’t want anything,” I said. “But if exporting helps Sri Lanka, I’ll learn what it takes. Let’s try.”
It should’ve been a few forms and a friendly goodbye. Instead, it became a maze: BICON, DAFF, certificates, phone calls. One parcel returned. Another held in customs. Then—finally—a bag of green coffee in my hands. A small victory that felt like a sunrise.
A Sip of Humility
If you’ve ever fallen for a craft, you’ll know that your first real lesson arrives like a splash of cold water. Mine arrived at Coffee Commune in Brisbane, under the exacting nose of Karl Lee. Two hours of cupping. Slurps, notes, more slurps. Brutal honesty requested and delivered.
68 points.
A “wet mop” note. (Yes, I tasted a mop to check.)
Most people would have called it. I called someone else.
Enter: The red roaster and a second chance
Jazz poured my coffee at a local café, moustache like a poster from the seventies and a grin to match. “I just bought a roaster,” he said, fishing out his phone. Fire-engine red—shiny, proud, ridiculous in the best way. I asked if he’d like to be the first to roast Sri Lankan beans for me. He said yes before I’d finished the sentence.
We roasted. We took notes. We learned to prefer sweetness over scorch, to listen to the curve and not the ego. I stopped hiding behind mochas. I learned to love a short black. Somewhere in the repetition, the coffee started telling the truth.
Bronze, and what it really meant
We entered Golden Bean almost as a dare—to gather feedback from people who knew more than we did. The “Head Bean” called to say it was the first time Sri Lankan coffee had entered. We drove to Port Macquarie on nerves and petrol fumes.
Row after row of cups. Judges with palates like tuning forks. We tasted until our tongues forgot their names—and then the announcement:
Kalu Coffee. Bronze. Milk-Based. 30.5/40.
I hadn’t even tasted it in milk yet. I did a few days later. It was… beautiful.
And that’s why we call it “Kalu”.
Kalu—for us—means beautiful. It’s the lotus in our mark: a flower that rises through murk to meet the morning. Beauty as something you do, not something you label. Care in the sourcing. Patience in the roast. Honesty in the notes.
Why we roast.
Sri Lankan coffee belongs on the same shelf as its famous tea. We’re here to help it get there, one small lot at a time.
Transparency is beautiful. Roast dates on every bag. Lot notes that don’t spin. If we miss, we say so—and make it right.
Sweetness over scorch. We roast for clarity: cups that sing as espresso and glow in milk.
Farmers first, always. Fair pricing, real feedback, and a commitment to come back—because stability is built, not wished for.
The beautiful through-line
This was never about chasing a trend. It started as a gesture: Let me help if I can.
It grew into learning, then into partnership, then into purpose.
At every point where the credits could’ve rolled—returned parcels, awkward cuppings, self-doubt—we stayed for one more scene.
That’s Kalu. Not luck (though we had some). Not hype (we’ll leave that to others). Just the practice of making something more beautiful than it was yesterday.
An invitation
If you’ve read this far, come taste with us. Ask questions. Hold us to our promises. Tell us what you find in the cup, and we’ll carry it back to the farm. From Sri Lanka to Australia, from serendip to sip—let’s make something beautiful together.
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