We all need a bit of drama to keep our lives interesting. I enjoy seeing my dessert set on fire right at the table. I wish I’d been around that day the chef stormed out of his kitchen to scold my friends for sending back their steak tartare (They wanted it cooked).
However, there is such a thing as too much drama.
At the end of a dinner with good food and great friends your host produces his prized antique espresso machine, signaling the beginning of the ritual. First, the beans — grown only in the highlands of South America, then painstakingly ground in his own kitchen — are passed around the table to be sniffed appreciatively by the guests. You “ooh” and “ah” and imagine him going up the Andes on a llama, like Aguirre, the Wrath of God.
Then he holds up the metal scoop-thing from the espresso machine and fills it with finely-ground beans, tamping down the stuff as if he were making explosives not beverages. He carefully measures out the exact volume of water per cup, holding the beaker up to the light to ensure accuracy. Finally he presses the ‘On’ button and stands back to view his handiwork.
For a minute or so there is nothing but a faint gurgling, and then there’s that sound. A rumble, then the sharp hiss of steam rising, louder and louder, like a rocket that’s about to lift off. Cats and dogs flee the room. And then the much-anticipated event occurs.
Thick rich coffee drips from the spout. Drip. Drip. Then it grows into a trickle. When the little cup contains a centimeter and a half of the brew, it is handed to you like a delicate artifact. Seems a shame to just quaff it after all the trouble your host went to, getting sunburned from llama-riding in the Andes.
Time elapsed between “Anyone for coffee?” to actually imbibing caffeine: three days.
Seriously, minus the theatrics, the basic espresso-making would take ten to fifteen minutes. The post-coffee cleanup: considerably longer.
There are the coffee grounds to be disposed of, and you have to do it thoroughly because that stuff can clog your sink. There are the filters to clean or throw away, the glass carafes, beakers, pitchers and whatnot to wash. In sum: it’s a pain.
If you like your espresso and want it everyday, you could move to Italy where ‘coffee’ automatically means espresso and you detect the barista’s thinly-veiled contempt when you ask for the watered-down coffee they call ”Americano.” Or you could go to the nearest coffee place and plunk down P80 for a shot. At least the Manila crowd is now familiar enough with “espresso” that the barista no longer feels compelled to warn you, “Maliit ho yon.” (It’s a tiny serving.) But should your caffeine fix be this much trouble?
The Soltazza Mini Barista takes the drama out of making coffee: a good cup of espresso or Americano (a.k.a. “regular brewed coffee,” “long black”) should be dramatic enough. Italian espresso machines are notoriously expensive, but this one retails at P18,000 (P23,000 for the variant with a steam wand for making cappuccinos and lattes).
The big difference between the Mini Barista and other espresso machines is that it uses coffee pods — 45mm round paper filter packets containing compressed roasted and ground coffee. Each pod contains one serving. There’s nothing to measure. You never have to deal with loose coffee grounds again. Apart from being easy to use, the pods ensure that the compressor gets enough downtime between cups. When you open the pod chamber to replace the pod, it releases the pressure in the machine.
Brewing coffee takes a little over a minute. Fill the water dispenser.
There’s nothing to measure — the machine figures out how much water to use per cup. Open the pod chamber. Put in a coffee pod. Shut the pod chamber. (I love the science-fiction aspect of it. “Open the pod bay door, HAL.” Except that the Mini Barista is not scheming to abandon you in outer space.) Push the start button.
Can you hear that? That’s called silence. Voila, your espresso or Americano is ready in a minute.
To clean the machine, open the pod bay, take out the used pod, and toss it in the waste bin or the compost heap if you have one. The pods are biodegradable. Now you’re done.
The coffee pods are manufactured and sold by Soltazza’s distributor, OWG Coffee Co. They come in eight flavors including the Continental Premium Blend, Vesuvio Italiano (for espresso only), Popayan Colombian Decaf, and Gahwa Arabian, which is flavored with cardamom. OWG has introduced a local blend, Philippine Select, which is podded from Cordillera beans. The pods cost between P18 and P28 apiece, and OWG delivers your orders. The Soltazza Mini Barista also makes express tea from any tea bag. For more details, visit www.soltazza.com.ph.
The downside of this practical machine is that it takes away the coffee snob’s bragging rights. Goodbye to tedious lectures about how the process he/she personally developed and refined over decades of trial and error produces the greatest cup of coffee on earth (but they can still perorate on the taste and quality of the beans). The Mini Barista is so easy to use, a 10-year-old could make a perfect espresso. On the upside, the coffee snob can soothe his/her bruised ego with endless cups of brew.
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