The Percolated Pot: An Instruction Manual For Decent Coffee

As Jesus has condescended to show us the way to salvation, I hereby condescend to show you the way to a decent pot of coffee, to give you confidence and consistency in your caffeine efforts. Who am I, that I should instruct you? Well, in the first place, I have endured the institutional skein to acquire a couple of graduate degrees, wherein I developed both addictions, the one for remembering, and the other for forgetting. Moreover, it is true that I am preparing to pass from one demographic target age group unto the next, and as I do, I greatly desire to impart unto you the wisdom of percolation.

I will do so, just as soon as I grab this next cup of joe.

With that being said, I acknowledge that there are several commonalities, the coffee catholic, as it were, a coffeehouse of rejoicing unity, saints forcing smiles together through the veil of hopelessly broken circadian rhythms of this age, joining in aromatic bliss, in anticipation of that Great Good Night’s Sleep which awaits all the caffeinated faithful, in the Pot to Come (it’s a present progressive, but it always gets translated as an infinitive, i.e., “to come” = “is coming,” but that’s an argument best reserved for coffee eschatologists). But as it is with all faiths, even the One True Bean, there are points of contention. And I imagine that, even though I am right, there are those who are strident in their contrary opinions. Let them be anathema, cast out, but with mercy, with a view of a percolating pot and the wafting aroma of a pure doctrine in brewing.

I do allow variation in roasting doneness. This is seen in the stomach lining and in the degree of completeness of the graduate degree or certificate of continuing education. Those of us who are about to transcend to the next decade must downgrade their caffeine intensity through longer roasting times, but the reward is the greater flavor. One is careful to avoid burnt beans marketed as “dark roast.” I recommend trying locally produced roasts because those purveyors know better than a certain water goddess gesturing from the fetid swamp to seduce the masses with cheap, overcooked, overpriced, ancient vintages of bean discards, labeling them in a mockery of truth, “Italian.”

When I was fourteen, we owned a blueberry farm for a couple of seasons, and during the “drop,” when all the bushes were overburdened with fruit, my father would awaken me before dawn with a bucket for blueberries and a thermos of coffee for night vision, delivered by a brewing process he mastered on a United States Navy Destroyer in the late-1950s; nevertheless, I was hooked! Since then, I’ve gone through highs and lows, reaching the ecstasy of coffee-fueled dissertation defenses, and hitting rock bottom, curled up in a kitchen corner, shaking profusely, surrounded by empty coffee sacks, trying to comfort myself after a failed exam.

In addition, I have endured a marriage of almost three decades which has produced four children (all boys, the one weakness of my Capulus Curriculum Vitae), the loss of a career at the front end of the Great Recession, eighteen Buffalo winters, and the advent of Twitter. I have tried drip-makers, presses, and even, at my lowest, an espresso machine. While a plunger press emerges as the very best cup of coffee, it is a mere cup, and its inconvenience reduces its usefulness in this religion to a second-of-necessity, meaning, if you absolutely have no time to percolate, and if you have to get out the door with a cup of coffee, and you cannot tolerate Tim Hortons or McDonalds, or (God forbid) that-which-shall-not-be-named, then a plunger press is holy and acceptable, but only if you adopt the inverted method. Any other plunger method is approaching common, and all other makers are profane and even blasphemous. Those who pass water up through a plastic tube from a reservoir to be weakly spewed over a grind within a paper filter will find themselves on the outside the Kingdom of Coffee, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth, where their Mountain Dew does not die, and their weak tea is never hot.

Here are the rules for percolation.

But one sec: another cup.

First, take whole beans (high quality is generally worth it, but beware brand-cost) and pass them through a coarse grind. I used to be an absolutist about hand-grinding: electric grinders heat the bean slightly, affecting its quality, but as my shoulder has been injured, and my teenagers are usually employed gainfully elsewise, I have decided that the slight loss of quality is essentially imperceptible. Even so, a ceramic burr grinder is the only acceptable grinder. All others are anathema.

A fine grind is unnecessary, and even counterproductive. A coarse grind allows the water to slowly drench each ground, such that, over time, the maximum of flavor and goodness is extracted without also carrying along filthy tannins. In addition, a fine grind will make its way through the basket’s holes, creating a coffee soup, as opposed to a coffee beverage. On the other hand, a coffee soup is certainly acceptable, as a kind of analogy to pulpy orange juice.

Second, fill a copper percolator with water. I live in a city whose water is treated properly, so tap water is acceptable, although uncouth (I admit). Filtered water is preferable. Distilled water is pretentious, but certainly acceptable; I would probably hang out with you at a party. Copper is absolutely divine, but stainless steel will do. Aluminum is also acceptable (after all, percolation is the key, not the container), but aluminum will impart a slight redolence of United States Navy Destroyer, circa 1959.

Now, here, certain variations are important. If you have an electric stove of some sort, a percolator with a wide, flat, bottom is probably best for you. If you have a gas or propane stove, a percolator with a rounded bottom is preferable. The advantage to the rounded bottom is that it gives you a little leeway (on the stove grate, you see) in adjusting the angle of the percolating water with respect to its relationship to the bulb and the stem.

Third, load your basket with the grounds. Be sure to add the lid to the basket and the glass bulb to the lid of your percolator. The glass bulb distributes water from the stem over the basket lid, which further controls water velocity and flow concentration. It is a perfect system. Be assured that your coffee must surpass that of the baristas and demitasseries, or you will never enter the Kingdom of Coffee.

Fourth, bring the temperature of the water up under constant supervision. Barometric pressure, ambient temperature, and a host of other subtle daily atmospheric characteristics will change the duration until first percolation. “Water boiled is coffee spoiled.” This is most certainly true, and it is the sole danger in the process of percolating coffee; however, without risk, there is no gain. Therefore, you must attend. You shall not set yourself to potentially distracting tasks, such as frying an egg or yelling at a recalcitrant grade-schooler.

Fifth, as soon as you see the first bubbling of the water up from the stem into the bulb, lay your hand upon the heat controls. You must immediately attenuate the heat in order to avoid the water coming to a boil. A percolation rhythm of two, maybe three, perks per second are the ideal. Fewer perks will not soak the grounds uniformly, and more perks per second…well, you’re probably boiling it.

Look, there is forgiveness within the Coffeehouse, so don’t be afraid to make mistakes. It’s not about perfection: it’s about coming to perfection in caffeination.

Sixth, set a timer for eleven minutes.

Seventh, when the timer indicates that all its time has elapsed, re-set it for five minutes, then turn off the heat (electric stove: remove percolator from heat). This allows percolation to quell and coffee grounds to settle.

Eighth, heat your cup. Now here, in the serving phase, I allow every sort of variation. At this point, all are welcome. As for me, I take a little cream and a little sugar in my coffee. This staves off the delirium tremens.

Ninth, pour your cup of coffee.

Tenth, remove the basket from the percolator. Tannins are arming themselves to osmose into the remainder of your coffee. Omitting this step is a ruinous practice, and the heavens frown upon you. Doing this before the ninth step risks stirring up precipitates unnecessarily, defeating the seventh step.

Eleventh, drink your coffee with the greatest of pleasure. Do not drink to the last drop. Instead, leave a little at the bottom, both as an offering for the poor and as a place for renegade coffee grounds to rest.

Twelfth, gently reheat the coffee remaining in the percolator, repeating steps eight through eleven. Because you are not subjecting the coffee to continuous heating, as in other abominable methods, this allows the coffee to remain closest to its purest state for the longest possible time. I’ve enjoyed a third cup from the percolator even hours from its initial percolation, although I will not go so far as to say, in doing so, I did nothing wrong. One desires not to waste the sacred, precious liquid, you see. Drinking it is the lesser of two evils.

These are the precepts and statutes that I am laying before you today, in order that you may enter into the blessed Coffeehouse, where the Almighty Barista, the Father of all coffee, promises to give you each your own coffee plantation, a land flowing with cream and sugar, where the bean’s blossom is overtaken by the bean picker, in an everlasting caffeine jolt amidst hills shimmering with percolated coffee. Do this percolation and you will be perked.