French Press

Don't get excited at the title of this post. I am not going to teach you secrets of making happiness inducing coffee the likes of which only sorcerers can conjure.

No, I am in my mid-sixties and have never been a coffee drinker except for the rare occasions when I eat at my favorite Greek restaurant and sip an after meal tiny cupful of sweet Turkish coffee, which I love.

Regular coffee makes me grimace.

I'm sorry. Well, no, why should I be sorry. 

I know! I am sorry that I have only the most rudimentary knowledge of how to make coffee and no knowledge of why so many of you enjoy it. I can make drip coffee and percolated coffee. That's it. I don't even know if it's good because I don't like it.

This brings me to the point of this post. (Yes, there is a valid point.)

When I was visiting friends in Paris a few years ago, my son-in-law's père (father) proudly placed his steeping French press coffee maker on the tablecloth-covered kitchen table, with a grin, and a finger pointing to it in gleeful anticipation, head nodding his pleasure. He speaks no English. I opened my eyes widely in dramatic enthusiasm and said, "Oh! Merci!" 

What a fake I am. 

Joël, père's name, was so proud and honored to be able to serve my husband and me in this way. We'd brought delicious croissants from the boulangerie et pâtisserie (bakery and pastry shop) located in the nearby village where we'd rented a studio apartment from a guy named Sylvio. Serving us coffee to enjoy with the delicious treats was the perfect offering. Joël even placed a full jar of Bon Maman strawberry jam beside the croissants. What a host!

I stared at that jolly little French press acutely realizing my profound ignorance. How have I lived this long without learning how the things even work? Embarrassment prohibited me from investigating then and there, so I resolved the wrong would be righted weeks later once at home.

You guessed it. Goal met.

Only three and half years later, two weeks ago, in fact, I took it upon myself to buy a French press. I looked at its box when it arrived from Amazon. I left it unopened in its package. It sat for a week on the counter next to my Kitchenaid mixer. For some reason the thing intimidated me. Why?

How to proceed, I wondered.

I know, ask for help from my Wisconsin son-in-law who uses one every morning to make his coffee. He is like a scientist about it. He knows me, though. I'm not a scientist - at all. He sent me carefully selected information on where to buy which coffee beans, how many to use, and advised me to not get caught up in the details of the meticulous - and art directed - video he sent on exactly what to do and why. 

Okay. I've got this.

I notified my husband to pick up the beans on his way home from work, letting him know that we were going to learn to make French pressed coffee. We will imbibe every Sunday morning as a treat. How special!

Sunday morning rolled around. There sat the box, with the press still packed inside. My husband gently reminded me that he did pick up the beans, and Sunday morning had arrived. 

Okay. Okay, I've got this. Courage building.

With my accommodating husband - he really loves me - I studied the video and son-in-law's instructions. 

We prepared. We began. 

Husband washed the press.

I filled the teal electric tea kettle, pressing its 'on' lever.

Beans were measured and ground - intoxicating aroma! - and dribbled into the device. (Device?)

Waiting for the water. Waiting. Waiting. Ah, it clicked! It's done.

"Never use boiling water," said the well-groomed young man in the beautiful video. "Wait at least 30 seconds before adding the water so as to not scorch your beans."

27 . . 28 . . 29 . . 30 seconds. Water added. Timer set for four minutes.

Fingers tap. A watched timer never beeps. 

Two minutes! With a spoon we stirred the crust that formed at the top and gently placed the smashing thingy in the top of the press.

Patient Tom pours

Wait two more minutes. 

BEEP!

"May I do it?" I was very excited.

"Sure."

I slowly pressed the thingy to the bottom. Giddy!

Naturally I took a few artful pictures of the press, full of brown liquid, sitting on the pretty green flowered tablecloth on our kitchen table, a vase of purple flowers nearby, and alongside two cups and saucers. Out our huge table-side windows could be seen yellow flowering bushes, daffodils, merrily blooming heather, and aromatic hyacinth surrounding verdant lawn, blue sky framing it all. The scenery made for a lovely photo session.

Patient husband finally slowly poured the coffee into one cup, then the other. More pictures.

As directed, he lifted his cup to his lips - he has always loved coffee, this was not new - and sipped, then gave me a thumbs up, again as directed.

"It's smooth and silky somehow," he said. He enjoyed his treat quite a bit. (He can't drink much coffee as it makes him more hyper than an ADHD five year old, which he actually was at one point in time. He turns into a maniacal chipmunk.)

My turn. I hand the camera over to him and begin my long-awaited adventure. What if coffee is appealing made this way? What if I become a coffee fiend like just about everyone else I know? Have I been missing out?

I sip. 

Oh no. Oh no no no. It's still ghastly. But my husband was right, it is smooth and silky. It's not bitter, either. It takes me a good long while to finish my cupful, the liquid less than lukewarm when I down the last tablespoonful.

Alas, I still don't like coffee. But it is fun to make it this way, and I will do it again every Sunday. A tradition is born. My husband can enjoy something he loves which doesn't love him, and I will only sample the results. More for him! I will learn to make it for  my guests, proudly and with pleasure, just as Joël made it for me.

Dream realized.