It's About Coffee

"If a woman could not make a decent cup of coffee she was likely to be no good in bed"

I’m in the market for a new coffee maker, my current daily methods being, respectively, too fast and too slow.

By “too fast,” I mean the Vertuo Nespresso machine I bought on impulse with early mornings in mind, a contraption that repulses me with all its pre-packaged, aluminum-encased, black plastic efficiency. The process is shockingly simple, requiring the mere press of a button—as long as one has remembered to fill up the water receptacle and plugged in the machine. Ah, and ordered—ONLINE—the aluminum, pre-ground espresso-filled “pods” in advance. All this said and done, and within 30 seconds of waking up, you have fresh, hot, and very strong coffee. The taste is similar to decent coffee if only it were not composed of a delicately flavorful plant material, but a chemical compound used to make batteries.

By “too slow” I mean my beloved stainless steel Moka Pot, for which I somewhat strenuously grind beans by hand, pour water into the base, add grounds, screw on the top, and set the whole pot on the stove. The idea of this process is meditative. The reality is that the grinding of the beans often requires more effort than my half-asleep arms can muster. While I wait (approximately five minutes) for it to percolate, I’m left to gaze out the permanently filthy kitchen window and think about the day ahead. When it finally gurgles, announcing its achievement, I turn off the stove and pour about half of the total into my smallest cup for a yield of about three ounces—of deliciously balanced, just-strong-enough coffee. Minutes later, my cup already empty, I wish for gallons more without having to repeat the entire process through again.

I’m sure if I were less of a romantic, aesthete, sentimentalist, my search would already be complete. The plugged-in, pre-ground “pod” scenario depresses me every time I use it; surely life was made for more than such a tasteless non-routine? If I were less dependent on the drink itself to get me out of bed each day, I’d have nothing to complain about at all—my tiny cup of percolated espresso would more than suffice.

In the end, this is not a request for recommendations, but a mostly pointless exercise in self-reflection. Maybe it is time I switch to tea.