I’m not particular about everything in my life, but when I get picky — oh boy! You’d better strap in. One of those particularities is coffee. I’m not a dick about it, though I’m sure I used to be. Ah shit… I’m having a memory.
Back when I was married, we hosted a woman from Brazil. She spoke a little broken English, but it was mostly a struggle to communicate. That’s not to say it was bad. It was a nice experience and I’m glad I had it. There was one tiny foible of mine that I still think about — when she asked how I made my coffee.
I’m cringing right now.
At the time, I was using a French press. What I should have said was:
“You just grind up the beans, toss ‘em in, and pour hot water over them. Wait six minutes, and you have coffee!”
Instead, I gave her what must have seemed like instructions for an ancient religious ceremony. I looked at a woman who barely spoke English and I rattled off how fine a grind to use, how many tablespoons of grounds to pour in, the specific temperature the water should be, and even explained how you should “bloom” the grounds by dousing them for a few seconds before filling the vessel. Christ, I mansplained it… Or is that when you explain something uncomplicated?
No, I’m pretty sure this counts as mansplaining. I don’t get a pass here.
I remember my ex-wife giving me the craziest look because, well, I deserved it. I’d taken someone’s interest and swiftly converted it into boredom at best, more likely confusion, and she probably decided that a French press was just too much work or too easy to mess up. That last one hurts.
I wasn’t trying to be a jerk, but this particularity can manifest some of my less desirable qualities. When I visit family, there are various ways to prepare coffee. Some of them are pretty fancy. My Mema has a coffee machine installed in the wall! Unfortunately, fancy doesn’t mean tasty. And don’t get me started on Keurigs.
My travel coffee game raised a level when a friend bought me an AeroPress. If you’ve never seen one, it’s basically a portable, one-cup French press. All I need is ground coffee and somewhere to heat water. To grind the beans, I have a remnant of my past: a hand burr grinder. I don’t use it for my daily cup (who has that kind of time?), but it’s nicer than carrying an electric grinder on the plane.
That leaves the problem of water temperature. You might think that requires a thermometer or a superpower (Captain Fahrenheit isn’t the most exciting guy, but he never undercooks the pork chops), but luckily there’s ancient knowledge that can suffice.
Is anyone surprised the Chinese have a way to tell the temperature of water by sight? The progression goes like this: shrimp eyes (160°F) > crab eyes (175°F) > fish eyes (180°F) > rope of pearls[1] (200°F) > raging torrent (you know this is boiling, right?). For coffee, you’re aiming for around 180-200° Fahrenheit, or right between the “fish eyes” and “rope of pearls”.
Even still, I don’t tote my perfect brewing setup to every breakfast. I don’t tell my Mema to shove her bitter coffee where the sun don’t shine. A few years ago, I kinda did that by pitching the merits of French pressed coffee. “Step right up, step right up! You there, the woman who gave birth to me. How would you like to put some pep in your step and lofty your coffee? Well, I can show you how to finagle a favorable flavor with less than ten minutes a day!”
I’m cringing right now.
Needless to say, this didn’t go as I’d hoped. But at least I knew how to make the perfect cup of coffee.
That foundation cracked when Adam got a Moka Pot (no, Microsoft Word, I do not mean a monkeypot). Eleonore also enjoyed coffee and, like any thoughtful husband, he wanted to try something new for her. Turns out, operating a Moka Pot is a bit too annoying and persnickety for him.
Now, who do I know that’s persnickety? You better believe I was fucking up grounds left and right without looking at any instructions online. That’s not a coffee thing, it’s just how I like to learn. The process seemed to yield different results every time, even if each move I made was just as it’d been listed on the dance card.
That was a year ago. While I’ve gotten slightly more consistent at brewing with the Moka Pot, the output continues to vary wildly. I’ve read some instructions and advice at this point, so much that I wonder if my physics are different than other people’s. Yet I’m still using it just about every day.
Some cups I make seem an insult to my former self. I wonder why I haven’t started weighing the grounds I use for brewing or noting the specific temperature. Why haven’t I continued to vary my method?
As I drink a stingingly bitter brew, dark as the morning around me, I chuckle that a younger me would have tossed it into the compost.
It’s all coffee.
From the Rift,
[1] If I have to take my lumps for mansplaining, can I get credit for not making an entendre here?
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