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Blood in the Water
"Let me show you an expresso machine!" 
The voice, brimming with the promise of sales pitches yet undelivered, was calling to me through the shelves at Macy's. We'd gone to the mall to search out a new espresso machine, and the model offered by Macy's was, to be kind, unsatisfactory. I said so, loud enough to be heard, apparently. As I moved to walk away, he called out to me:
"Let me show you an expresso machine!"
He was thirty-ish, white, earnest, wearing the universal uniform of sales reps everywhere: khakis, a white polo shirt, a goatee, and an uncertain panache. He was standing over a Tassimo - one of those single-serving coffee makers that uses a proprietary pod system and brews a pretty good cup. It is not, however, an espresso machine. (For that reason, among others, I would never buy one.)
Michelle, seeing the predatory glow in my eyes and knowing what's coming, takes the children and retreats to Minimum Safe Distance.
He launches into his pitch. "The Tassimo is a great single serving coffee maker it makes great coffees teas hot chocolate and of course," he pauses and leans toward me for emphasis, "expressos. You just take this pod right here, put it right here, close the lid, and push the button..."
The pitch continues. I already know all this stuff, and, metaphorically speaking, take a moment to load my weapons. "The T-discs are available in packages of 10 to 16 --"
First, a shot across the bow: "What about fresh coffee?"
"What was that?"
"Well, the stuff in the pods," I won't call them T-discs, "has got to be at least two weeks old. Can I use fresh coffee?"
"Oh, no sir. Just the pods...er...just the T-discs."
We wait. The machine burbles, like a toddler happily blowing bubbles in his milk. The brew begins to pour. Credit where credit is due, it smelled very good.
"It takes about a minute," he sells, filling the liquidy silence. When the flow finally stops, he removes the cup and hands it to me. "Here you go," delivered through a big smile, "Your expresso." There are a few people standing around, watching. Maybe they can sense what's coming; they certainly aren't coming any closer.
"It looks very good." I sniff the contents. "Smells wonderful...but it's not espresso."
His answer comes through a suddenly nervous giggle, with a glance to the watching patrons, "Yes, it is."
"No. It's very tasty, but it's only very strong coffee, not espresso."
"Well," he says with the unspoken subtext mr. big-shot coffee drinker, "what do you think expresso is?"
"Espresso - spelled with an 's' not an 'x', by the way, says so right there on your box - is a kind of coffee made by passing heated water - ideally between 200 and 210° - under pressure through finely ground coffee. For each ounce shot of espresso, you should get 1/2 to 3/4 of an ounce of coffee, with the remainder being a layer of rich foam called crema. As you can see," I held out the cup to him, "There's no crema."
"Um..."
"With a crema rich enough, you can drag your finger across it and almost get a peak, like a thin meringue."
"I thought that was a latté..."
"No, a latté is what you get when you add steamed milk to espresso," I paused for emphasis, "Which this is patently not."
He stood in aghast and embarrassed silence while I tore open a sugar packet, added its contents to the cup and stirred. I sipped and, satisfied, tossed the used stirrers onto his white tablecloth.
"Thank you for the coffee."
He nearly sagged with relief as I left.
The voice, brimming with the promise of sales pitches yet undelivered, was calling to me through the shelves at Macy's. We'd gone to the mall to search out a new espresso machine, and the model offered by Macy's was, to be kind, unsatisfactory. I said so, loud enough to be heard, apparently. As I moved to walk away, he called out to me:
"Let me show you an expresso machine!"
He was thirty-ish, white, earnest, wearing the universal uniform of sales reps everywhere: khakis, a white polo shirt, a goatee, and an uncertain panache. He was standing over a Tassimo - one of those single-serving coffee makers that uses a proprietary pod system and brews a pretty good cup. It is not, however, an espresso machine. (For that reason, among others, I would never buy one.)
Michelle, seeing the predatory glow in my eyes and knowing what's coming, takes the children and retreats to Minimum Safe Distance.
He launches into his pitch. "The Tassimo is a great single serving coffee maker it makes great coffees teas hot chocolate and of course," he pauses and leans toward me for emphasis, "expressos. You just take this pod right here, put it right here, close the lid, and push the button..."
The pitch continues. I already know all this stuff, and, metaphorically speaking, take a moment to load my weapons. "The T-discs are available in packages of 10 to 16 --"
First, a shot across the bow: "What about fresh coffee?"
"What was that?"
"Well, the stuff in the pods," I won't call them T-discs, "has got to be at least two weeks old. Can I use fresh coffee?"
"Oh, no sir. Just the pods...er...just the T-discs."
We wait. The machine burbles, like a toddler happily blowing bubbles in his milk. The brew begins to pour. Credit where credit is due, it smelled very good.
"It takes about a minute," he sells, filling the liquidy silence. When the flow finally stops, he removes the cup and hands it to me. "Here you go," delivered through a big smile, "Your expresso." There are a few people standing around, watching. Maybe they can sense what's coming; they certainly aren't coming any closer.
"It looks very good." I sniff the contents. "Smells wonderful...but it's not espresso."
His answer comes through a suddenly nervous giggle, with a glance to the watching patrons, "Yes, it is."
"No. It's very tasty, but it's only very strong coffee, not espresso."
"Well," he says with the unspoken subtext mr. big-shot coffee drinker, "what do you think expresso is?"
"Espresso - spelled with an 's' not an 'x', by the way, says so right there on your box - is a kind of coffee made by passing heated water - ideally between 200 and 210° - under pressure through finely ground coffee. For each ounce shot of espresso, you should get 1/2 to 3/4 of an ounce of coffee, with the remainder being a layer of rich foam called crema. As you can see," I held out the cup to him, "There's no crema."
"Um..."
"With a crema rich enough, you can drag your finger across it and almost get a peak, like a thin meringue."
"I thought that was a latté..."
"No, a latté is what you get when you add steamed milk to espresso," I paused for emphasis, "Which this is patently not."
He stood in aghast and embarrassed silence while I tore open a sugar packet, added its contents to the cup and stirred. I sipped and, satisfied, tossed the used stirrers onto his white tablecloth.
"Thank you for the coffee."
He nearly sagged with relief as I left.