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The joys of a french press

The joys of a french press

English: French Press

A French press service. (Image via Wikipedia)

For years, I was one of those people who looked at the glass and steel lines of a French press sitting in the corner of a friend’s fancy-dancy kitchen with about the same look of condescension that I shot at countertop pasta machines. I mean, seriously, people. Why does a simple cup of coffee require special cups and surgical-grade pyrex and stainless to prepare?

Then Starbucks quit brewing my favorite variety. And, to be quite frank, what passes as brewed coffee in a Starbucks is much more aptly described as “burned coffee bean husks in muddy water.”

So I complained. That’s when the helpful barista ┬áchanged my life.

“Why don’t you order a French press?”

Surely she was joking. Who on earth would want one of those effete phallus-wannabees on their table? Certainly not me. I was anything but convinced, so she pressed on.

“Really, it’s great! I’ll give you one on the house.”

Now was I in a pickle! While I thought the French press was little more than a poncey affectation the Frogs used to mask an obviously depraved cultural turpitude, I had spent a king’s ransom in Starbucks over the years. Here was my opportunity to put one over on Starbuck and┬áthose dandy hairdressers all at once. Then I took a sip.

Sitting on the corner of my desk, right now, is the poncey coffee maker. I’m still not sure how I feel about it, and I most certainly didn’t buy one of those stainless numbers. No, mine is a much more reasonable plastic-and-glass model by Bodum. But it makes damned good coffee, even from crap beans. Every time I make a pot, coworkers flock to my desk, their cups perched in their open hands like something out of Dickens.

Now that I’ve had a press for about six months, I do have to admit I was wrong. There is something infinitely relaxing about the hands-on nature of making a press. The plunger slides–no, glides–the plunger glides down, leaving in its wake delicious refreshment. The glass beckons quietly from that shelf in the kitchen, “Hey…pick me.”

And sometimes, I imagine what happens when I leave the house and it’s just the kitchen utensils and my three cats.

They’re on the sofa, listening as the Bodum argues with the Keurig about which one makes a better cup.

I’m glad I’m not expected to settle that particular dispute. They can discuss it amongst themselves, when I’m not there.

4 Responses

  1. Meg says:

    There’s no contest. French press wins every time. I just love the low-tech-ness of it (though it was invented after the electric drip pot because before that we couldn’t machine holes small enough to strain coffee).

  2. Meg says:

    There’s no contest. French press wins every time. I just love the low-tech-ness of it (though it was invented after the electric drip pot because before that we couldn’t machine holes small enough to strain coffee).

  3. Marioma says:

    Once I found French Press coffee, I’ve not gone back. Really is no other way to enjoy fresh raoetsd coffee. Also, you can’t go wrong with good eats and Alton.

  4. Marioma says:

    Once I found French Press coffee, I’ve not gone back. Really is no other way to enjoy fresh raoetsd coffee. Also, you can’t go wrong with good eats and Alton.

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