I bought a french press when we moved to Berkeley.
I, like so many, spent too much on coffee. I spent less than most. I don’t drink it everyday. I don’t have the same need. I haven’t been able to have caffeinated coffee since Thanksgiving 2007 when I overdosed on Meshuggah’s deliciously strong individually brewed cups (if you’ve never been to Meshuggah in the St. Louis Loop, I’m sorry, you just don’t know how divine a coffee experience can be). I had already been having problems; Meshuggah is not to blame, and I’m glad my last cup was there.
If you are going to do decaffeinated coffee–which, after you detox from the hard stuff, actually does work for an, albeit milder, morning kick–french press is the way to go. Or, at least, it was the way I went many a morning at a coffee shop called Crepe O Chocolat around the corner from the theater offices.
The french press was an investment, one that would have easily paid itself off within the month . . . had an accident not occurred this morning, when, disoriented by the fact Rachel took off in the middle of the night on a red eye to visit with her best friend in Louisville, I sent the french press flying to the floor with one careless movement. Oh yes, it was full! Of course it was. The cats, also confused by Rachel’s absence, had decided that 6am was the PERFECT time for a game of chase-and-tackle, so I really could have used my (albeit milder) morning kick, and when the glass shattered, so did all my preconceptions about the morning, my Monday, my week, and my world. There: everything I knew about my reality with my french press, defiantly broken on my linoleum. Steaming coffee soaking in around wet, sandy grounds and the jagged hill of glass. It was astonishing. That is the only word to describe it.
Needless to say, after sopping up the liquid, picking out the shards, and wiping away the grounds, I was later than I would have been to work. Once there, I brewed a very nice cup of tea.