I began drinking coffee back in the day when every small town had an A&P, and every A&P sold one‑pound bags of whole, roasted beans. You made your selection, then took the bag to the girl at the register. This girl (she was always a “girl,” even if she’d never see 55 again) also operated the formidable Grindmaster machine. You told her what grind you wanted—the choices were “VAC,” “DRIP,” “PERC,” or “POT”—and she moved a lever to adjust the machine accordingly. Then she dumped the beans into the hopper and fitted the now‑empty bag around a chute. The machine whirred and groaned for a few seconds before all was again still. A pungent bouquet of freshly ground coffee filled the air as the girl removed the bag from the chute, twirling it round to close off the top and securing the contents with a couple of handy metal tabs. It was a wonderful moment, almost sacramental in its intensity. Truth to tell, I found the aroma of ground coffee intoxicating. In fact, I often opened the bag as I walked home, just to get another lungful.

And what was the reward for my efforts on my return to the family home? A few teaspoons of milky coffee in a glass. It wasn’t much, but it was all my parents would allow me. Coffee, I was repeatedly told, was a pleasure reserved for adults.

That was then. Now the A&P is gone from Main Street, and most supermarket coffee comes ready‑ground in plastic tubs. But at least I can get a full mug. Or two. And no day really begins for me until I have the first mug in my hands. But the coffee in that mug has to be good coffee. Which is why camp coffee so often disappoints. My Grandad boiled up something he called “cowboy coffee,” a thick sludge that bore an uncanny resemblance to the aftermath of a drilling‑rig blowout. It was better than nothing, but not by very much. I tried coffee bags and instant next. These, too, fell short, and over the years I’ve continued to ring the changes, searching for something better. Yet nothing really satisfied. Until now. I’ve found The Answer…Read more…

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