:max_bytes(150000):strip_icc()/__opt__aboutcom__coeus__resources__content_migration__serious_eats__seriouseats.com__images__2015__10__coffee-shutterstock_6571060-3001e65b73e841ffa1e2cd4663ef5de1.jpg "The Case for Bad Coffee")
The Case for Bad Coffee
Standing at my kitchen counter, I measure out two teaspoons of Maxwell House instant coffee into my favorite mug, pour in 12 ounces of hot water from a tea kettle, and stir for a moment. I look toward the automatic drip maker to my left and feel a pang of sympathy for its cold carafe that once gurgled and steamed each morning with the best coffee money could buy. On top of the refrigerator, my old friend the French press has gathered dust. When I notice a dead housefly decomposing inside it, I wonder what the hell has happened to me.
I wasn't always like this. I used to spend silly amounts of money on sturdy brown bags of whole-bean, single origin, locally roasted coffee at the gourmet market down the street. I would scowl after sipping an inadequately poured espresso shot pulled by an inexperienced barista if the taste was a little too bitter, the crema a little too thin. I waited fifteen minutes in the morning for a pour-over at a coffee house in my old neighborhood of Fort Greene, Brooklyn. When I spent a semester in Italy during my senior year in college, I made sure to follow local customs—to never order a cappuccino after 10 a.m., to stand with confidence at the local cafe counter as I downed my umpteenth espresso of the day, perfectly paired with a rum-soaked baba or, in most cases, a cigarette.
For a time, coffee wasn't just my passion, it was my livelihood. In my 20s, I managed a coffee shop in a tony Cincinnati neighborhood where we played Yo La Tengo on the stereo in the morning and Miles Davis at night. When Starbucks came to town in the mid '90s, I signed on as an assistant manager, and remained in that position until I was 28 years old. I watched with little shame as my friends became lawyers and business owners, journalists and chemists. I was proud of the fact that I knew my ginger-bready Ethiopian Sidamos from my rummy Ethiopian Harrars. I knew that it took 19 seconds to pull the perfect espresso shot. For a while, I considered entering a Starbucks training program that would allow me to manage a location of my own. I wanted coffee—really good coffee—to be my life.
