coffee tragedy

So in a perfect storm last week of logistics and a very clear lack of attending to priorities, I was without coffee. I didn't have time to make it to Ritual, I still haven't picked up a grinder (nor do I have the counter-space for one) and on, and on and on.

Finally. Sunday I go. I bike down to the Mission, pick out my coffee of the week and even treat myself to a Clover-brewed cup of the El Yalu, the same coffee I've been enjoying by French Press at home. I wanted to see if how I've been doing it even comes close to how the Clover machine can extract a cup. What I make is damn good. But the Clover makes a perfect cup. No tang, no smacks of acidity. Just sweet, clean awesome coffee.

Bean-wise, I opt for the Bella Vista (El Salvador, COE #9). It's a new one for them (and thus, for me). I can't wait to have it the next morning.

Monday. Back from the gym. So excited to start a lazy day off with a leisurely breakfast. I put the water on, the eggs to cook, the toast to, um, toast. My timing is dead on. Just as the water comes to a boil, I remember that I want to write about the coffee and quickly snap a pic of the bag before I even open it (hence the lack of sharpness).

WIth Belle and Sebastian singing sweetly from the speakers I hum along and open the bag to measure out the perfectly ground coffee to find that-fuck- they didn't grind the coffee. I was left staring, frowning, into a half-pound of whole beans I couldn't do a damn thing with.

I made crappy Irish Breakfast stupid tea instead.

I biked down to Ritual again yesterday and garnered a little sympathy while I waited patiently for them to grind my beans for French Press. I had a cup this morning. Two, in fact. It was really, really good. And not just because I'd waited over a week for a cup.

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