Slow Coffee

This ain't grab 'n go. 

25 January 2020

The twelve of you who read this little blog know that I'm a coffee snob. Now that coffee shops are popping up like weeds all over London, I'd packed a travel mug and planned to sample as many of them as we could on our ten-morning trip. 

I figured out early on that, at least in central London, coffee is something to be taken on the run.

That's not how I like mine. 

When I'm home, I grind my beans in a burr grinder, empty the grounds into a French press, wait for the boiling water to cool down a bit, pour the water over the coffee, stir, and wait at least four minutes before decanting.

If I have time, I'll drink at least half of it at home, slowly, while I'm reading an article about scientific fraud or political machinations. If I don't have time, all of the coffee goes into two travel mugs, which I take to work with me, and sometimes I won't finish until almost 2:00 p.m.

The beans, with rare exceptions, come by subscription from Acadia Coffee Company (the best beans you'll ever buy) and Homestead Coffee Roasters (if not tied for best, a close second). 

I like medium and dark roasts from single-origin beans, especially from Indonesia (Sumatra and East Timor) and Mexico. My latest favorite, thanks to Acadia, is Tanzanian peaberry in a medium roast (you can get Grover's Mill's version right now).

I take my coffee black, preferably from a French press. A good pour-over will do, as will a brew from a stovetop espresso pot (which is more like an Americano than a true espresso). Drip coffee isn't strong enough. Real espresso is too strong. 

Long story short, I know what I like, and in London I hoped to find it. 

I didn't. All but one place we visited offered only drip coffee or varieties of espresso, leaving me to ask for Americano almost every time. What I was served was so hot that, more than once, I burned my tongue. The travel mug I had with me is so good at retaining heat (see the 2:00 p.m. reference above) that I really couldn't get a sense of how good the coffee was until sometimes two hours later, at which point I'd be standing outside of a museum or a book shop, trying to finish, or sneaking sips from the mug in my tote bag while we were having lunch. After ten days in London, I only had a vague sense of which places were worth returning to. Part of this is because I didn't want to waste any of Jack's time, and because we always had plans. Many of the shops had so little space that no seats were available even when we did have time to spend.

We were wandering about Shoreditch in East London when we found the high-end tea shop, the London Tea Exchange. While Jack perused thire massive collection, I honed in on the travel mugs and tea pots.

There were double-walled glass contraptions with removable steel filters inside. Clearly meant for tea, the FlowTea looked as if it would do for cold brew as well. The shop keeper told me these things aren't available in the U.S. (they are, from Amazon), and I didn't bother to fact-check him. 

 my imported FlowTea, in use for hot coffee

I also bought a teapot-cup-saucer set, not because I needed one, but because the colors and pattern are so completely me that I knew I'd regret it forever if I didn't buy it.

I paid stupid money to ship the teapot and mug home because there was no room left in my suitcase. This, I figured, would ensure that I use them both until I somehow break them both.

And use them I do, making my slow coffee even slower. The FlowTea makes a worthy cold brew; I fill the canister and let it sit out all day, mixing it every so often if I'm around. It does a good job with hot coffee too, although it doesn't retain heat for more than an hour or so, and the strainer system can be messy if one doesn't let it finish draining before taking it out.

The tea pot is ridiculous, and that's why I love it. Now, on rainy weekends, the French press coffee goes into the tea pot, which I carry to the table. I drink slowly from the cup and run my fingers over the raised patterns. The pot keeps the rest of the coffee warm long enough for me to take my time.

If I had any command of glass, you know I'd try to make this. 

Today was another rainy Saturday. At Plain Jim's suggestion, I herded a handful of Slugs and their significant others to meet at Grover's Mill Coffee in the depths of Princeton Junction or West Windsor or East Windsor or something; it all looks the same. Don't let the strip-mall location fool you: these folks roast their own beans and serve French Press in a volume worth sharing. They did it right. They waited four minutes before pressing. They served it in ceramic mugs. It wasn't too hot to drink. I sipped slowly, finishing over the course of the hour we were there. 

This, of course, is suburban New Jersey on a Saturday, not central London on a Tuesday. Still, I hold out hope that the next time I travel across the pond, I'll be able to savor some slow coffee.