There was a time when I thought that the most important thing in life was sex. Then I thought the most important thing in life was money. Now I realize that the most important thing in life is coffee.
Java. Joe. Dirt. Mud. Cupped lightning. Whatever you call it, it’s damn good and without it I’m not sure that I would get through a day without killing someone.
I really do love it. I love it here, I love it there, even when I’m in my underwear. I love it at home or wherever I am. I even love it with green eggs and ham.
I go to sleep at night with a smile on my face because I know that the next time I open my eyes I’m getting another cup of coffee. The first cup of the day, which may be the greatest. Everything comes alive. As soon as that deep aromatic smell hits my brain, my entire being knows the day is about to improve. Whatever happened in that bed last night, no matter what evil monsters visited me in my dreams, despite how many times I got up to pee, coffee is the reset button and all that is wrong will once again be right.
When I’m home I have several methods that I’ve perfected for the creation of this mighty drink. Each of these options is designed for a single cup, which is all I need in my house, as I’m the only coffee drinker. The women I live with seem to be living a very different life under the same roof. They don’t like coffee, eat meat, smoke cigars, or listen to John Coltrane. Those are moments I enjoy on my own, unless I’m grilling a steak, in which case I’m joined by a very enthusiastic dog.
My first method is a small Nespresso machine that makes a solid espresso in as little as thirty seconds. It’s a reliable device that really does the trick, especially when I have only enough time for a single shot and a quick slice of sourdough toast. I also like that it has an Italian-sounding name. For a kid from New Jersey, it makes me feel like I’m doing something European, which must be right.
When I have more time, I prefer the slower but more satisfying single-cup pour-over method. It takes extra steps, but those steps are almost as enjoyable as drinking it. First you get to put a pot of water on the stove and boil it. There’s something about the timelessness of the fire, the pot, and the time that has a real primal effect on me. They didn’t use a Nepresso or Keurig pods in ancient Greece, but there has always been fire and a metal pot.
While that boils, I move on to grinding the coffee beans, which creates an aroma that’s so deep and rich, I’ve thought about putting a little behind my ears like a fine cologne.
When the beans have been ground, I pour them into a cone device with a metal filter that sits on the coffee cup, and the pour-over begins. It’s like filling a funnel, in that you can do only so much at a time as the water heads down over the beans and into the cup.
This takes probably four to five minutes in total, much longer than the instant coffee machines, but like all things in life that take a little more time, it is much sweeter. The flavor is fuller and echoes over the back of your tongue for minutes afterward, letting you savor the coffee and the wise choice you made to slow down and truly enjoy yourself.
I’m aware that I’m getting a little carried away here, but it’s the taking notice of these small, attainable things in life that cuts down on the malaise. It creates a memorable experience out of the mundane. Coffee is like wine for people playing it straight.
I also have a Keurig machine that brews larger American-size cups. I bought this one for when my father visits. The European size of the smaller machine doesn’t satisfy his American habit. He refers to the smaller cups as “Girl Scout size.”
The Keurig makes what he calls “a normal cup of coffee.” He buys the strongest stuff he can find, with names like Double Black Diamond, Hair Raiser, and Coal Mine Sludge. He’s not looking for anything fancy. He wants it hot. He wants it black. And he wants it fast.
My mother reported that recently he’s been waking up in the middle of the night, walking into the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, and returning straight back to bed. It helps him sleep. For most people this would have the opposite effect, but he’s really not like the rest of us.
He doesn’t understand this fancy coffee craze either. He comes from the 1960s and 1970s, also known as the Great American Coffee Depression. They had some really bad coffee back there. I’m not sure how they survived. They had only two options: Thick & Black or Watery & Sad. Everything came in Styrofoam cups or, when they were entertaining, those paper cups with the cardboard handles on the side.
There were no coffee shops back then. The closest they came to a coffee shop was a doughnut shop, but let’s be honest, that wasn’t about the coffee. You’re not thinking about coffee when you are scratching your tummy, trying to decide between a jelly doughnut and a bear claw.
They got their coffee in places like muffler shops, hardware stores, and police stations. People back then hoped to be called for jury duty because they knew there’d be coffee there with names like Sanka, Maxwell House, and Chock full o’Nuts. It came in big cans and was scooped into machines with names like Mr. Coffee that were sold by retired baseball players.
This was a time when coffee was made by the pot.
“I’m making a pot.”
“Will you stay awhile? I’m going to make us a pot.”
An uncle would walk into the house drunk, yelling about the government, and my mother would help him to a seat in the kitchen and say, “You sit right there, I’m going to put on a pot.”
To this day, my sister uses an old-fashioned percolator from this era. She inherited it from my grandmother. It’s a big metal pitcher with a closed top. It plugs into the wall and takes some time, but it brews great coffee, made better because it’s been with us for so long.
I remember running around on my childish adventures while the grandparents, aunts, uncles, and parents would sit together in the living room. This was the final stage of yet another family get-together. The holiday meal was over. Everyone was a little drowsy from the food and from the alcohol that they never drank much of, just enough to put a haze over the end of the afternoon. The dishes were done, the drying complete.
The conversation at this point was pleasant and subdued. Any political arguments or stinging gossip from earlier in the day had run its course. All the hustle, traffic, and familial anxiety, was over. Everyone had gotten through it and together realized it wasn’t all that bad.
For this final hour, with belts loosened and hair let down, there was no worry about the past or what was to come. The soft laughter and calm were as pure and suspended as the setting sun, enveloped by the sound and smell of the trusty percolator.
That all these years later that percolator continues to brew as we sit in some of the same chairs, experiencing the same feelings and telling stories about all of them, makes for a special cup of coffee. Everything is better with a story.
But how lucky are we that we’re alive during the American Coffee Revolution. We’ve got great coffee everywhere we go. We have more coffee shops than we have people.
Complaints about corporate behemoths aside, Starbucks really nailed it and led the way. The dark coffee-bean wood. The natural green. The smell of the beans that fills the shop. The right level of music. A place to sit. And it’s not a mistake that they sell real old-fashioned newspapers. This has all been thought out or rather tailored to the things that coffee drinkers, real coffee drinkers, enjoy but had been missing, and they inspired thousands of other shops to do it in their own style.
We have so many options now. Small independent coffee shops, Barnes & Noble Starbucks mash-ups, free trade coffee, coffee pods, Illy, coffee and cake, coffee and pie, diner coffee, coffee bean, Seattle’s Best. Even the Dunkin’ Donuts people have been making some noise, but the colors of their shop alone annoy me. It looks like a ten-year-old girl’s cupcake party. How can I enjoy a good cup of coffee in a shop that was designed by Hello Kitty?
Entire regions are based on coffee. The Pacific Northwest is coffee crazy. There are espresso shops on every corner and long winding country roads. Shops that match the rhythm of what you want out of an espresso, with coffee so dark and stormy it’s as if it dropped right out of an overcast Seattle sky.
Portland is another great coffee town. New York’s West Village cafés, Silver Lake independent roasters, Austin, Chicago, and Minneapolis. There seems to be a direct correlation between the number of rainy days and the number of great coffee shops in a city. Sorry, Miami.
And I’m sorry, Canada, but Tim Hortons stinks. (This may have to come out if I ever want to tour in Canada again.)
Is it an addiction? You bet it is. Do I like being addicted? You bet I do. Some addictions are pretty great. Just reading the word gets me excited for another cup. Did I just do that to you? I hope so.
Coffee has been around all this time because it works and it is cherished. Think of all those coffee moments in the movies when someone orders a cup of Joe. When a waitress slides the coffee across the counter to a weary traveler. A cowboy holding a cup of coffee at the early-morning fire. The soldier on the edge of battle drinking a cup and restoring something normal in his life.
Coffee is good. Coffee is to be enjoyed. Coffee is one of those reliable things that can make the world better.
So what do you say? Want to come up for some coffee? I’ll put on a pot.