I am very particular. I’m a big believer that a Tidy House makes for a Tidy Mind. I like things to have their place. I like routine and I hate clutter. Both of my televisions are mounted on the walls with their cables hidden away. I use organisers to secret my stereo cords, and a cluttered benchtop makes me feel so unsettled that I insist on having nothing on it. Nothing. Our microwave is hidden away in a cupboard. Our toaster is hidden in a drawer. And when it comes to electric gadgets, t...
I am very particular.
I’m a big believer that a Tidy House makes for a Tidy Mind. I like things to have their place. I like routine and I hate clutter.
Both of my televisions are mounted on the walls with their cables hidden away. I use organisers to secret my stereo cords, and a cluttered benchtop makes me feel so unsettled that I insist on having nothing on it. Nothing. Our microwave is hidden away in a cupboard. Our toaster is hidden in a drawer. And when it comes to electric gadgets, that’s as far as I’m prepared to go. An air fryer? You’ve gotta be kidding me. Despite my wife’s protestations, I still refuse to buy an electric kettle.
Therefore, for most all of adult life I’ve made coffee the same way. An Italian stovetop, a little Bialetti number. You put the water in the bottom, coffee in the funnel, put it on the element and wait for the espresso to brew. It spits out the top of the shaft after about 5 minutes and 12 seconds of steady heat. It makes you wait, just a little. But it’s worth it: a rich, black espresso, creme on the top. I love the smell, I love the taste, and I love the ritual.
I figure my Bialetti brew lands in that perfect middle-ground between freeze-dried instant coffee and the in-home espresso makers which have steadily become ubiquitous in our kitchens. It’s coffee for someone who cares about coffee, but doesn’t require a gleaming chrome spaceship taking up 4sq metres on the kitchen bench.
But am I missing out?
Truthfully, I’m starting to second guess myself. Last year, a family member very generously offered to shout us a fancy espresso maker as a wedding gift. I gently demurred at the time.
It’s not that I think they’re totally gimmicky. They’re not popcorn-makers or at-home candyfloss machines.
But it’s funny, my parents got a machine a couple of years ago with a grinder and steamer and pitcher for the milk and Dad thrashes it every morning.
My sister has an even fancier new number and brews velvety rich flat whites in those fancy see-through mugs. She says she hasn’t bought a coffee since. And I can see how the economics add up. If you replace two cafe-bought coffees a week with a $500 dollar machine, add in the milk and coffee costs, you’d have paid it off by the next Rugby World Cup.
To the best of my knowledge, only one other person in my life has consistently made coffee the same way as me. But as my brother sheepishly admitted to me last night, he’s just ditched his Italian stovetop for a big, fancy espresso maker he bought in a Briscoes sale.
“It’s great bro!” he said.
“You just push a button.”
You just push a button.
You see, I think that’s it.
Sure, maybe it’s the cables on the benchtop that puts me off. The sound. The cost of a big fancy coffee machine.
Or maybe in a world that’s always changing and where nothing is guaranteed, starting every day in exactly the same way with exactly the same ritual and exactly the same brew... maybe starting the day by waiting on a simple process and a humble pot... maybe that’s what makes the coffee taste so damn good.
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