There are at least six different ways I’ve made my morning coffee over the past 30 years: in a moka pot (a caffettiera or macchinetta), a Turkish coffee pot (a cezve or ibrik), a French press, an AeroPress, a temperature-controlled Krups drip machine, and a Breville Barista espresso machine. I’ve used each of these for many years at a time, and each was my mainstay for a while.
They sit at very different points between two extremes:
- a tool I use to control the process.
- a machine that takes over for me.
This note goes through all my coffee-making tool experiences along this scale, using the questions Counterfoil asks of any tool: does it do its job, can I understand and fix it, and how easily could I give it up?
There’s also the question of quality — in the materials, the experience, and the results.
The best coffee (inconsistently) came from the AeroPress, at the cost of the most work and the greatest mess, for the smallest quickly cooling cuppa. A generally equal or better result consistently comes from my solidly built Breville Barista Express, at the highest initial purchase price and the best blend of meaningful control and simple maintenance.
Next on the taste quality scale comes the Krups drip machine, but in terms of its materials and the experience of using it, it’s the worst, despite the relatively high price. Mine was a gift. I’d never pay what it cost (over US$200) for a plastic drip machine, even if I had a sample of its output, which was really good. It handled temperature perfectly with fully automated, hidden controls, but it required a lot more grind than the other options to get the optimal flavour for the same volume of output. Temperature control matters in all cases, and a classic pour-over would be a wise, cost-effective middle-ground choice if you’re prepared to do it yourself.
Early in my coffee-making life, I had a cheap but sturdy little 1979–1980 model Krups countertop espresso machine that was as simple and as crude as they come. The only controls were on/off and the steamer valve. It was terrible unless you like super dark coffee, which I do. Years later I got a second one on eBay, remembering the original as something better than it was. My tastes had improved, and this was no longer the machine for me.
Today I use a Breville Barista Express, which is a fairly compact mid-sized traditional espresso machine. It has a built-in, doubly adjustable grinder and “secret” ways to modify its time, temperature, and pressure defaults. (Only the last requires opening the machine to make a small mechanical adjustment to a valve.) You can modify all these defaults, but the grinder is the only one you pretty much have to set and occasionally modify if you care about the results. These units cost CA$800–900 new.
My non-electronic and less mechanically complex coffee making tools are near ties as traditional everyday good-enough solutions: moka pots (I have several sizes), French presses, and a Turkish pot. The bigger versions make more coffee with less effort on my part. For all three, everyone knows the smallest versions provide the best flavour, since they rapidly accumulate finely ground coffee dust and oils that coat the inside and somehow improve the taste. (This is probably not a scientifically validated fact!) All three are meant for dark roasts, which I love, though coffee snobs typically look down on them. All three can be obtained cheaply, used and even new, for as little as CA$9.
Moka pot
Three pieces of metal, a rubber gasket, and a stove. Nothing is hidden: water goes in the bottom, coffee in the middle, and steam pressure pushes one through the other. The only part that wears out is the gasket, which costs very little and fits by hand. It asks for some skill, mostly about heat and when to take it off. Overheat it and you are in trouble. I did melt a gasket once, but other than that only had to replace a gasket once or twice. The large versions are nice for camping but take forever to get coated with oils. They’re never likely to produce the flavour of the small ones.
Turkish pot
A small pot with a long handle, coffee ground coarsely or super-finely depending on your style, water, sometimes sugar, and a flame. There are no additional parts at all, so there is nothing to wear out or replace, and nothing to clean beyond a quick rinse. The coffee is boiled, not filtered, and the grounds settle in the cup. All the skill is in the heat: bringing it up slowly and taking it off just before it boils over — once, twice, thrice. Then done! It makes one or two small cups at a time. Americano-izing it is probably sacrilege; I haven’t tried it.
French press
A beaker, a plunger, and a mesh filter. It needs no paper, no power beyond a kettle, and no instruction. It scales from one cup to a table of people. Its weak point is the glass, which breaks. Cleanup is not too bad, as long as you take care not to break it. The coffee grind is heavier and carries some sediment. You can really screw up several ways with the plunger if you are careless. It takes slow, steady pressure after a bit of waiting. Drink it all before it cools; leaving the coffee sitting for long on the grounds in the beaker is not ideal. I got tired of breaking carafes enough to get a plexiglass variation, but it takes something away — je ne sais quoi. The mid-sized French press is perfect for two people with a little patience.
AeroPress
A plastic tube, a plunger, and a paper disc. It is the newest of the four hand tools and the only one that comes from an American inventor and company. It is light, essentially impossible to break, messy to use but easy to clean, and not too forgiving of mistakes. People have worked out dozens of ways to use it. The best known is inverted brewing: standing it upside down on its plunger so the coffee steeps before you flip it and press. The maker’s instructions never described it, and users made it standard. That culture of improvisation is a good sign in a tool. It depends on a supply of paper filters, though metal ones exist, and on a rubber seal that eventually needs replacing. It can make great coffee for one, maybe two people, but there are many ways to screw up. You get the muscle memory for it soon enough, but even more than a pour-over, the coffee is cooling quickly all through the process.
Krups temperature-controlled drip machine
Of the six, this was the first I could not see inside or access the internals. It heated water to a set temperature and held it there, which a kettle and a cone can’t do without attention, and it made a full pot while I did something else. In exchange I depended on a heating element, a pump or valve, and a control board that I could not service or likely replace. Fantastic taste though. I never liked that it was just a big pile of plastic. Spitzenqualität, nicht so wirklich.
Breville Barista espresso machine
The most capable of the six and the most serious. It grinds, doses, heats, and pumps, with some mechanical automation, but it stops short of the touchscreen models and involves you at every step. The controls are buttons, a dial, and a pressure gauge. The result depends on what I do with the grind, the tamp, and how long I shower and pull the shot. It makes drinks none of the others can. It has more parts that wear than the others, though they are few and solid. It requires the most thorough cleaning, on a reasonable schedule it quietly reminds me about. If anything goes wrong inside, I can’t easily see or reach it. There are simpler versions of this same basic espresso tech that are much more open to tinkering and mechanical modification I was tempted to explore, but that’s quite a time cost. The learning curve was fairly high at first, to do things right, but like all the others, it soon becomes muscle memory. Recalibrating for a significantly different bean becomes a chore and an opportunity to relearn and rethink your defaults. Perfetto in tutto!
Where each one stops
The four hand tools do one thing and then stop. Each can be understood completely in a minute. They last for decades with at most one cheap replacement part, and they leave you with a skill. If any of them disappeared, you could replace it the same day or do without.
The two machines trade some of that for consistency and convenience. The drip machine takes over everything, including your attention. The espresso machine takes over pressure and temperature, which hands can’t supply. Neither has taken over judgment, and that is the line I would draw. (The Breville does let you “set and forget” so you can judge once and then not pay attention if you want.) A machine with a screen, stored profiles, and an account crosses the line for me: it starts deciding what the coffee should be, and what I am allowed to repair.
If I could only keep one at home, it would be the Breville — the biggest investment. If I had to pick one for a desert island full of coffee plants, it would be the moka pot — nearly indestructible, self-enclosed, well-adapted to a campfire. I’d just have to ensure I never overheated it and damaged the gasket. The safest bet would be the Turkish pot. Grinding beans would be the most manual effort without a mechanical hand grinder, apart from roasting the beans — which is really difficult! Many Eritrean and Ethiopian people do this at home, but it’s not for me. The smoke and smell are potent. Roasting in an oven takes very close attention and experience to get right. I’ve tried coffee from a jebena, and I have to say it is a long, slow process to get the thickest, darkest possible coffee. The social ritual is everything; the taste is acquired.
Only the Breville has a record in the catalogue so far. If you think another should be there, nominate it in the coffee makers survey.
