MUCH LIKE GROOMING my graying nose hair with electric clippers and
sanding my callused feet, my father taught me to love the French press
coffee maker. During my childhood’s blurry-eyed mornings, I’d watch as
he dumped inky grounds into a clear glass carafe. Steaming water caused
crushed coffee to swirl like gnats dancing the lambada, before the mesh
plunger consigned them to Davy Jones’ Locker.
“It’s hard to go wrong making coffee like this,” he said once—probably wearing his THERE’S NO X IN ESPRESSO T-shirt—while pouring a cup of aromatic wisdom.
My first sip was like my first kiss: mysterious, exhilarating, exciting and followed by one thought—I need more. Smooches
were slow to snowball, but coffee addiction came quickly. During high
school, I got caffeine-high at late-night diners such as Denny’s and Waffle House, fluorescentlit way stations where a buck and two bits
bought unlimited java. Back home I dabbled with drip, but press was
best. The grounds soaked longer, dying water darker, creating fuller
flavor. Sometimes father does know best.
While most kids departed to
college with hot pots and ramen by the case, I brought two pounds of
Seattle’s best and a glass Bodum. Several weeks into freshman year,
after intensely studying at an underage bar specializing in 25-cent
beer, I karate-kicked my door open. “Eeeeeeeee!” my dozing roommate
screamed, in lockstep with glass smashing into glittering splinters.
Each
Bodum replacement befell a unique, if ultimately identical fate. One
carafe died thanks to the pointy, curious noses of my collegiate
roommate Ted’s feral ferret. A friend’s off-kilter Roger Clemens
imitation killed another. And a Bodum I absentmindedly left atop a
flame exploded, almost turning my retinas to sushi. A smart cookie
would’ve graduated to a plastic Mr. Coffee. But I’m a stubborn little
yuppie ox, the grandson of a man who refused medical ministrations
until cancer nearly devoured his vital signs.
My response to
the broken presses was anger, then numb acceptance—the same coping
mechanism I use as a fan of the sadsack Cincinnati Bengals.The breakage
continued with vigor. Press No. 8 punched its eternal ticket when a
cast-iron skillet slipped from its hook. No. 9 died by the soapy hands
of a drunken, too-helpful houseguest. My patience was as
frayed as a thrift-store T- shirt: How many times could I sweep broken
glass in my underwear? Several weeks after No. 9’s demise, I cooked
breakfast for my then-girlfriend, a shrewish Jewess who loved kitschy
Japanese toys more than me. In the rush of flipping pancakes and
sizzling eggs, I knocked my press into the hard, unforgiving sink.
“Screw coffee!” I screamed, too pissed to conjure up witty anger.There
was usually a long respite between breakages, letting me delude myself
that each shattering was the last. Steam rose from the scattered,
watery grounds. I flicked glass into the trash. I mopped the mess. And
then I had a horrible thought, one I’m ashamed to admit: Would drinking tea really be so terrible? After breakfast my girlfriend ran errands, returning with a rare act of kindness.
She
presented me with a rectangular box that ensured I’d never break
another Bodum: Inside sat the Frieling stainlesssteel thermal French
press. Stainless steel!
Impervious
to ferrets, able to withstand cast-iron blows, it’s a culinary miracle.
Its brewed results are tasty to boot: The carafe keeps the coffee warm
and robust, allowing me to savor a hot cup without the sense of
impending doom. Though that relationship ended as gracefully as
Hiroshima (I was ditched for a swarthy Spanish teacher bunking in a
Mexican mountain town), the Frieling has endured. When I’m flush, I
fill it with dark-roasted coffee from Gorilla (97 5th Ave. at Park Pl., 718-230-3244; B’klyn); when broke, it’s beans from Middle-Eastern importer Sahadi’s (187 Atlantic Ave. betw. Clinton & Court Sts., 718-624-4550; B’klyn), which
has incomparably low prices (about $5 a pound). And the heartless
sweetheart has been replaced by one who, despite my insistence on
patronizing strip-club steakhouses, loves me with all her heart. It’s a
match made in mutual-addict heaven.
She’s also a gigantic
caffeine junkie. She refuses to utter multisyllabic words until her
vocal cords have been revved by hightest caffeine. After the alarm
curtails our slumber, we sludge to the kitchen and feed our shared
need. She boils water. I dump three mountains of grounds into the shiny
Frieling. And then we make sweet, sweet coffee, allowing me to face the
day with the wide eyes and jittery hands that’d make my father proud. C
