The espresso machine sits alone, not in use at the moment, looking down from its perch above the coffee pot which seems to always be on.
Do you smell that, the lackluster aroma of my discontent? My comrade, the pot, is an oaf. Yes, he is a machine, but still an oaf. He lacks refinement, has no complexity in his fragrance, and works only in exaggerated proportions. He is in no way an instrument of skill and precision like myself, the portafilter.Simple by nature and in content, the pot of caffeine waits to further exploit the office inhabitants. It’s not that the pot means to harm by its deeds but it, like the content it delivers, is weak in nature. Whereas I, the portafilter, am the expression of refinement: the embodiment of taste and flavor. I send the taste buds alight, awash in complexity and flavor. There is no end to my possibilities or range to my profile. I am the refinement of taste in cup form. So why do I sit unattended?The Pot is a bubbling cauldron, sitting, waiting, hour by hour for the next victim to heave on its black handle. Tar is formed and concentrated within his glass container by the incessant heat of his radiating metal plate. Slowly the smell of weak coffee begins to change, filling the olfactory senses with the pleasures of charred wood and disappointment. I on the other hand, am made to order, fresh and intoxicating a fragrant pleasure to the senses; a bouquet that overloads and enlightens the human spirit, which enchants the mind to expand to new heights of creativity…Etched with numerics from 4-12, the pot leaves off the first three digits as if they have no meaning. It believes only in the Meta, a trough of diluted elixir for consumption in mass quantities. The pot has no refinement. It is a blunt instrument, whereas I am measured by the ounce or milliliter. Every expression hidden in the bean extracted to its fullest. Every drop, every taste, is an experience of my greatness. So why am I alone?Still I sit awaiting my destiny, biding my time. Look! I see someone craving caffeine is coming my way. He stumbles from his desk clenching a smart phone, clad in a Star Wars T-shirt, he mutters under his breath about some code he is working on. “COME TO ME” I proclaim! The tension is too great. My moment is at hand. My reservoir nearly begins to boil from my anticipation. His clumsy hand reaches out and fumbles with my power button. “Pay attention” I shout from within, but he is not, instead he is bewitched by his phone. Still filled with hope, holding my breath, I begin to dream about the intoxicating brew I am about to produce. When all the sudden, the office dweller pauses and deviates from his true path. To my horror, he reaches for the oaf. My salvation has again been snatched away from me as the office dweller fills his porcelain chalice with the brute’s diluted brew. I feel so isolated…and so cold…
