My first little espresso maker
Don’t ask how it happened. I don’t really know. But I somehow seemed to have missed the part of growing up where you learn how to make coffee. And the part where you buy your first coffee maker.
I also missed “Star Wars” entirely, but that’s a separate transgression.
This month, I finally bought my first coffee contraption – at age 30-something, on the eve of our friends’ visit. (House guests are the key to making so much go from rumination to reality.)
I was waffling between the ordinary drip coffee pot (cheap, hulking, the usual starter appliance) and the French press (cheap, slim, fussy to clean). Both could produce adequate coffee, though nothing like the strong stuff I’ve come to crave in Germany. We’re expats at the moment, and anything bought with a cord is perishable. A fancy expresso machine seemed unreasonable, and though some friends have trekked their beloved Keurigs across the Atlantic and attached a hefty voltage converter, that seemed a bit much to me. (I’m a coffee novice, clearly.)
But it turns out there is another option. No electricity required. No throw-away filters. Stronger than your average American brew coffee. Simple to clean. Shiny and cute. And less than $40.
I present to you: the moka pot.
You might not recognize this little pot, but you’ve probably seen him before – looking more angular. The original moka pot was patented in the 1930s. It’s still made today in aluminum by Bialetti.
This particular version is made of stainless steel, which I read was better – at least in some ways – because it doesn’t impart the taste of aluminum. And it’s friendly to all types of stovetops.
The bottom half holds the water and a little removable compartment of ground coffee beans. Once the pot boils, delicious espresso bubbles up into the top pitcher-like half.
I made the mistake of leaving lots of room in the coffee compartment, because the instructions warn against packing it too tightly. But our visiting friends (experienced coffee connoisseurs) showed me the way: If you want the strongest brew you can get, you have to fill up the little cup as much as you can.
Then screw on the top part and set it on a burner. I had to experiment with temperatures, because I started way too low. Turning the knob to medium-high (about 9 o’clock) works well for my stove, but I’d suggest starting lower to find your stove’s sweet spot.
After a few minutes – maybe 4? I should time it – the water begins to rustle. A minute later, it will start percolating up the spout and spilling over into the top compartment. From that point, it takes little time at all. (Sometimes, I’ll just turn off the burner at this point. The residual heat keeps it going.)
I love the gurgling sound. It rises to a growl, which reminds me of a tea kettle. So organic and pleasant. When you hear the growl, pull the pot off the burner.
The taste is so much stronger than a typical drip pot of coffee, a big jolt in the morning. And bonus: Once the pot cools, just rinse the three parts and set them aside to dry. No soap recommended!
The only downside is that I bought the 4-cup version. 4 cups ≠ 4 cups. “4 cups” = 50 ml times 4, or 4 pseudo-espresso shots. Oops. This meant that we made 5 or 6 or 7 “pots” of coffee during each breakfast with the four of us. On the upside, the brew was tasty enough that our friends sought out the Hochland beans to take back to the States.
Next up: Foaming milk to make a cappuccino. Any recommendations?