Look, my formative years were spent in a newsroom, drinking coffee that was only slightly less corrosive than battery acid, though not nearly as tasty.
So you will have to forgive me for not being “into” coffee.
It’s not that I don’t like it. I do.
At home, I drink it daily. Either instant or, on a special day, some nice Irish plunger coffee.
But I do not think drinking or making coffee is a religious experience.
I do not think baristas are smarter than rocket scientists or more skilled than brain surgeons.
And, man oh man, does that separate me from some of the people in my life.
I have a relative, who shall remain nameless, (James) who has a coffee machine that, when new, cost more than my car.
He (James) buys and sells coffee machines as a hobby, and to pay for his bean addiction.
At last count, he had 12 coffee machines.
His basement is the Fort Knox of used coffee machines. One of the machines has a gold-plated water reservoir, and it is NOT his favorite machine!
When we go to his house for dinner, you could probably get by if you didn’t like his meal (and he’s a great cook).
Choose Your Weapon
But if you didn’t like his coffee, well, you might as well have hocked a lugie right in his face. I’m pretty sure he would demand a duel.
But,this could never happen, because the worst coffee he has ever made is a thousand times better than the best coffee I’ve ever made.
His coffee is superb. His coffee is to die for. It is beyond exquisite. It is WAY better than sex.
Of course I am exaggerating.
But what is so sad, is that many of you readers will be nodding along in agreement. You actually prefer barista coffee to sex.
People, you are sick.
But, in truth, I understand the power of bean addiction.
(David), an unnamed mutual friend, has been infected by my relative (James).
They both have an incurable case of Bean Disease.
My unnamed friend (David), is both the richest guy I know and the cheapest.
For months, his kitchen sink was a plastic bucket. This was because he refused to pay a plumber $50 to fix a leak, since he was about to tear his house down and rebuild.
He preferred the sink bucket, and his wife’s wrath, to wasting $50.
As they say, this guy is so tight he squeaks when he walks.
But recently, having been beanfected by my relative (James), my squeaky rich buddy (David) spent hours every day doing research on line, in search of the best (and cheapest!) coffee machine on the planet.
He left no stone unturned, no link unclicked.
Finally, he found the perfect machine!
But only after he’d: scrutinized its schematics; read everything written about it in magazines, on blogs and in chat forums; and even called the company in friggin Italy to ask specific questions about this $5,000 magic bean machine.
You are now expecting me to tell you that he married this coffee machine and lived happily ever after.
But he did not.
He found an even BETTER coffee machine made in Australia, and it only cost $1,400. So he married that one.
Actually, he did buy it and was in caffeine heaven. For about a week.
Then his persnickety palate detected an ever-so-slight aftertaste of plastic.
Real or imagined, this simply would not do.
So it was back to the internets, to do more research, about coffee machines, and accessories, and THE BEANS.
Yet this did not make him crazy. He (David) and my unnamed relative (James) love the hunt, the challenge, the quest for the perfect cuppa.
They are insane.
As for me, I am content with instant.
And, if I’m sleepy, really in a hurry, and just in need of a caffeine buzz, I might even scoop a spoonful of instant coffee granules straight from the jar into my mouth.
Which explains why James and David (who must remain anonymous), both die a little inside every time they ever-so-carefully, ever-so-lovingly brew me one of their fancy schmancy coffees.
It is the modern day equivalent of casting pearls before swine.