Java Jive

    

And the original version (which I prefer):

     I have to say I'm a bit of a coffee purist. Not in the way Martin Crane (of Frasier) is a coffee purist ("I'm a regular Joe, and I like my joe regular!")—I haven't bought Folger's since the early '90s, when I discovered the dusky delights of more exotic blends. But I am basically a cream-and-sugar kind of gal, sometimes sugar only, and sometimes even black, depending on the excellence of the coffee. And don't even suggest flavored coffees to me.

     Back in the days before Starbucks became as ubiquitous as flies at a summer picnic, there was Café Maison. I was fortunate that one of their stores was just a couple of minutes' drive from my apartment in Houston. There, I was able to taste a wide variety of coffees from around the world, but I could also buy the beans green and have them roasted in the store to my specifications. I eventually narrowed my favorites to Ethiopian and Kenya. Every morning I would open my cannister of fragrant, freshly roasted beans, grind up just the amount I needed for that day, and brew it to perfection in my French press. The secret, of course, is not to let the water boil, but bring it just to the point of boiling; otherwise, you'll have bitter coffee. It is now common knowledge that of all the various kinds of coffee makers—non-espresso, that is—the French press yields the best brew: coffee made in a French press retains a velvety smoothness and almost buttery undertone, and, if you use really good beans, a french press will produce a natural crema on the top of the coffee, exactly like you'd find on a properly made espresso. Enhanced with turbinado sugar and a dash of heavy cream, and you have Olympian nectar.

     I don't know why I never purchased an espresso machine. Maybe it's because I preferred regular coffee in the morning and espresso after lunch and dinner, both of which I usually had in restaurants. Mornings, I like to take my time with everything, from drinking coffee to getting dressed; even during production periods at the opera, I would wake up early enough to allow a leisurely hour or more before leaving the apartment. Espresso is a one-big-gulp-and-it's-gone thing. Regular coffee is for intermittent sips between bites of breakfast and lines of newspaper text. Nowadays, I still allow ample time for prayer, a full breakfast, and ablutions, no matter what the day's agenda is. If I am hurried and made to curtail my morning routine, I will likely be churlish the rest of the day.

The perfect espresso



     Alas, middle-age and all its physical and dietary changes has forced me to give up that pleasurable post-lunch and post-dinner espresso that was my habit during my Houston years. If I have espresso anytime after lunch, I will be awake till the wee hours. Decaf is not a viable option for me, as my taste buds haven't learned to accept the absence of caffeine. I can only wistfully reminisce about that satisfying long gulp of full-bodied liquid ebony. However, throughout my Houston years there were espressos—espressi, I should say—that fell sadly short of perfection: watery, thin-bodied, no sign of crema, and almost filling the tiny cup. After being served too many of these, I fell to giving explicit instructions to the server when I ordered. "Espresso, please—very short, very dense, with lots of crema." Some servers confused crema with cream, whipped or unwhipped, so I would have to explain that crema is the natural foam that results from the combination of firmly-packed grounds in the filter, and a very slow drip—in fact, the coffee shouldn't drip into the cup so much as drop in small, frothy blobs.

     Yes, Niles Crane and I would have gotten along swimmingly.

Not the best quality video, but you get the drift.