Zach Beauvais

over-engineering disappointment

// April 23rd, 2009 // Comments // perspective, review

Fool’s Gold

As a child in Colorado, I have a distant memory of finding a nugget of pure gold, bigger than the tip of my thumb. I instantly became the richest kid in America! I thought I could buy a husky (with a sled) and a Tama Starclassic Birch studio set with a full range of Paiste cymbals, and maybe a house or three. I could move out on my own, I could—so many expectations; so many promises.

My dad took a quick look and said something like: “Wow, you’ve found iron pyrite. Fools Gold.”

The disappointment! All those things to which I was looking forward disappeared, and the lump of cold angles suddenly seemed a reminder of what could have been.

I have recently had a similar experience with some fools coffee.

Coffee Suppositories?

I was asked by Miele to trial a high-end coffee machine for three weeks, and give an honest account of what I found. I was thrilled, since the last time I got to play with a 5-figure espresso machine was during uni working as a barista. I built up a few images in my mind; imagining pulling perfect shots of central-american Cup of Excellence blends, practising my crema, and tasting half a dozen different coffees to see which worked best with the £1,000 set up. My interest was only piqued further when a colleague at work described Miele as “the Rolls Royce of appliances”.

About three weeks ago, a courier arrived as I sat working from my home office. He delivered a box big enough for a springer spaniel to sleep in, and heavy enough to make the manly nonchalance I affected while carrying it away from the door quite difficult indeed. Nonetheless, I left the box packaged and wrapped up in the hall until the evening, looking forward to the reward of an espresso or six after work.

As I worked my way through the layers of packaging, I gradually unveiled a stainless-steel, microwave-like appliance that dwarfed anything else my kitchen held, except—just—the oven. I scanned the quick-start guide and with a single word, my expectations instantly disappeared: “nespresso”. I lost the will even to unpack and set up this monstrously-large contraption.

Nonetheless, I did set it up, removing all of a counter-top from usable space. My disappointment, if anything, grew as I laboriously set up the menu through an achingly-complicated process involving the use of arrow buttons and “OK” to calibrate a dizzying array of possible settings. Throughout the next two hours, I played with settings, opened all the openable compartments and tried several of the coffee suppositories. My thoughts follow:

The Miele CVA3650 is a giant appliance which costs £1,000 (c. $1400). It looks impressive, with a stainless-steel finish and various accoutrements, including backlighting, obviously included as talking features. It would not feel out of place in a posh flat in Kensington—fitting in like an addition to a designed suite of expensive appliances. Indeed, the lasting impression is of a lifestyle rather than coffee. Browsing the Miele site, I found many photos of kitchens, appliances, and artfully-arranged mugs sometimes held by comfortable, rich-looking models. The only thing missing from these photos?

Coffee.

Nespresso tastes worse than I thought it actually could. I’m not saying that to be snobbish about my coffee, and I was genuinely curious to know what the little, coloured “pods” could produce. The result of every single “brew” was a flat, metallic, suspension of frankly disgusting, tepid liquid. Some aspect of the extraction produces an interestingly-contrived crema every single time, so the drink (I can’t call it coffee) certainly looks impressive. My wife recoiled after the first sip, and I left more than one completely untouched. The terrible “flavia” machine in my office makes better-tasting coffee than this!

The Miele machine is touch-button automation at it’s most falsely economic (time-wise). Sure, it’s convenient to press a button and have an espresso (ahem!) within 30 seconds, but that does not account for the half-hour (no joke) of programming every time the machine is re-plugged back in. I’m afraid I’m green-conscious enough to flip the switch at the wall after every brew, so this makes it ridiculous to use. The menuing system is cumbersome enough to make my eyes water. Two arrows, and “OK” to make every selection. It takes a huge amount of patience, and its… just… aweful! So many features, so few necessary or even useful. You can, for example, programme 9 different “user profiles”. Why? It’s a pod of shite coffee, which will taste EXACTLY the same, no matter which button you push. Why go through dozens and dozens of beeps in order to have a user-specific nescafe?

The only part of this machine which is convenient, is the actual making of a drink. For that, it is fast! It produces a coffee of your choice (out of 5 different capsules) very rapidly (provided it’s been programmed and has already been switched on, obviously.) It will then automatically rinse itself, and let you make another soil infusion very rapidly. You only have to remove the spent capsules periodically from a tub within the machine, and fill up a water reservoir whenever it’s low (though, this is fairly frequently, thanks to the rinsing).

Final Words

Before writing this post, I sent Miele’s representatives a quick heads’ up, with a brief summary which I think works well.

I understand its premise of being a super-convenient means of having a sophisticated-looking hot beverage, but I much prefer my coffee to be tasty, regardless of time. And the amount of time spent scrolling endlessly through menus isn’t really conducive to suiting busy people like myself as a domestic coffee machine. [in reply to the statement that it might prove to be] I’d be much more likely to advise people invest in a cafetiere, grinder and decent beans. For the £1,000 they could have spent on this, they could have many scores of kilos of excellent, locally-roasted, hand-sourced beans, and enough left over to send a thank-you bottle of single malt to the coffee roaster.

British Coffee

// October 5th, 2008 // Comments // like

I’ve recently become something of a coffee guru at work. If this is a life goal for anyone, I have some very simple advice: buy some good coffee, and get some evangelical people addicted. The latest convert to the creative coffee cult is a designer called Chris (@cwaring). Coffee has brought a lot of joy to our office environment, and even made some of the Marketing banter reasonably bearable. It’s also apparently increased the design team’s productivity by 40%—though, since he was shaking noticeably when using the spreadsheet, I’m not sure that statistic can be completely trusted.

There is quite a strange relationship with coffee in Britain. On one hand, there is an overwhelming love of hot beverages. I remember helping out a mate with his garden on a  30º+ muggy summer afternoon, only to be offered a cuppa during a break. Setting aside bleach or glyphosate, I couldn’t think of anything less appropriate to drink on such an occasion. This love of hot drinks extends to family visits, dinner parties, breaks and any time when it is not virtually impossible to hold a mug. All in all, I think this is fantastic, and happily gather round the kettle whenever it’s possible (and less than torrid outside).

The other side of coffee is the British Imported Coffee Culture (BICC, henceforth). BICC exhibits itself in high-street chain-shops which all have a ever-so-slightly different angle on Seattle/Italian café chic. Strangely, most of the actual beverages from these shops seem to come from the same bean and machine combination. The atmosphere is identical, with a dominant shade of maroon, brown, blue or green making the atmospheric colour-branding the only discernable characteristic. To the consternation of conservative Brits the country over, each also has its own opaque size-referencing system designed to confuse and belittle the shop patron who inevitably ends up asking: “But, which is the Small one?”

It’s as if the BICC cartel (Bi3C, maybe?), gathered at some point in the early 2000’s and set down some industry guidelines. Firstly, because the British palette has been evolved around the flavours of milky tea and biscuits, the BICC beverages must avoid shocking customers by being essentially flavourless. Any foreign smart-arses asking for espresso will be greeted with a small glass of burnt tea leaves suspended in hot dishwater. Secondly, all baked goods (which are mandatory at a proper café) shall be supplied from a limited BICC-approved list of bakeries, and shall consist of huge, greasy muffins and strangely-contrived cake combinations like apricot and prune biscotti brownies—the more creative and unlikely combinations to be considered for annual prizes. Third: wherever possible, a smattering of faux-italiano shall be displayed and worked into the patois of serving staff (e.g. baristas), to cover any coffee blunders with an embarrassing cultural ambiguity. And, finally, because this is all imported and frightfully expensive-sounding, we shall be setting the prices for beverages, baked goods, and sandwiches at just below the cost of the weekly shopping. The business logic for this last point, as you can see from the PowerPoint presentation, is that people aspiring to the middle and upper classes will gladly pay extortionate cultural tariffs to appear coffee-literate.

Thus it was that the executive classes of Britain were won over to incredibly expensive milk, with a small addition of highly-addictive coffee made with impressive-looking but fully-automatic espresso machine monsters served by smiling, aproned baristas. (Incidentally, the term went down a storm at the cafe I worked at during University, since it was very near the Royal Courts of Justice, and many of the customers were barristers.)

Not happy with their strangle-hold on Britain’s purchasers of pin-stripes, however, BICC soon began infiltrating more reputable establishments. I know that the transformation of Imported Coffee Culture is more or less complete, now, since I was recently offered a “mochacino-latte” at a seaside chip shop. (After seeing the BICC-branded instant beverage machine behind the counter littered with polystyrene cups and a suspicious powder, I declined). These shops and places of amusement have opted for a lighter touch, however, and have begun simply calling it “froffy coffee”. The Froffee Coffee is a uniquely British indulgence consisting mainly of powdered milk sprayed through a plastic nozzle into a brown concentrate. The resulting chemical reactions produce a strangely petroleum-flavoured foam atop an instant-coffee. If you’d like to make it a “somethingcino”, the logic goes, you simply add a few tablespoons of drinking chocolate powder to the foam, cup, napkin and surrounding customers.

As far as I have been able to work out, most Brits are still impressed by a cafetiere, or anything which can be labelled “Proper Coffee”. Proper Coffee, like the Froffee Coffee, is a British sobriquet which applies to any coffee not made by adding boiling water to brown granules. I suspect that in some households, the granules placed in a coffee pot rather than directly into a mug might actually qualify.

I have decided, as a public service, to challenge the BICC, the Froffee Coffee and the Proper Coffee by outlining a few simple ways to experience the bliss of proper coffee (note lack of capitalisation).

• Beans
• Grinder
• Cafetiere/coffee press

It’s dead simple, really. Buy some beans, and don’t cry when you pay for them. A bag of Union Hand Roasted beans (more on them in another blog post, no doubt) will set you back for about the same cost as a single higher-priced drink at your local BICC establishment. I’ve heard that they can be found in Sainsbury or in Waitrose, though I order mine from their site.

Buy a coffee grinder. I’ve encountered the myth that grinders are incredibly expensive. I think the only power behind this is that no one seems to own one, making them seem rare and exclusive: here’s one for just over a tenner. You don’t need anything fancy, though if you want one that matches your Chi, you’re probably reading the wrong blog anyway.

Finally, a cafetiere, or coffee-press. As my family in the US calls them: French Press—possibly now the “Freedom Press, but I can’t be sure because I don’t watch Fox News.

That’s it. Now, grind the fresh beans (don’t keep them more than about a fortnight) until they’re “coursly ground”. It should look like sand, but not flour. I find in my grinder that between 6 and 10 seconds seems to work nicely. Boil the kettle, and pour a bit into the cafetiere in order to warm it up… pour this out and add the grounds. You’ll want 4-6 good-sized tablespoonfulls of grounds for a four-cup press. Add the slightly off-boil water and stir it so all the beans are nicely wet. Put the lid on, and wait about 4 minutes, then plunge and serve immediately.

That’s it. Proper coffee that tastes wonderful. A few additional things: clean your cafetiere thoroughly, and don’t fall for the myth that washing-up liquid is bad for them. You need to clean the oils off the mesh, or it’ll go rancid. Dont keep beans for more than a fortnigh: but for that short period, keep them in an air-tight container in a cool, dry place.

I’m hoping that’s helpful, and that you try it. If you want any more advice on roast, tastes, or what to look for in a nice bean, just drop me a line. If this post sounds slightly bitter, it’s because I just ran out of my Brazilian Bourbon from Union Hand Roast, and I’m less than happy about it.

Back from travels

// April 29th, 2008 // Comments // travel

Well, I and the wife traveled to Limoges in France to Amsterdam over the last two weeks. In France, I had the misfortune of being almost completely without the ability to smell or taste anything thanks to a lingering cold which also incapacitated me on the final Friday of the trip. Our French hosts cooked us a wonderful (looking) local meal complete with regional wines, and every mouthful tasted exactly the same. According to Wendy, this stood me in good stead for Amsterdam, however, since I wasn’t as bothered by all the smoldering plant material hovering in the air.

Amsterdam, as previously mentioned, is a lovely city. It is very accessible and its scale lends itself to walking. It’s easy to find somewhere pleasant to drink coffee or eat from a huge variety of restaurants. It is slightly unhelpful, however, that nearly every place at which you can eat or drink is called a ‘cafe’. This includes bars, coffee houses, sandwitch shops, pubs… literally everything that doesn’t sell cannabis is a cafe. Many ‘cafes’ also sell an astonishing selection of lagers, which I could only imagine drinking on the continent.

The streets meander pleasantly, and it’s not too well-planned; so it’s possible to stumble across a brilliant cafe (of whatever description) nearly anywhere. The streets seem to be used almost like common land, however, by the walkers, cyclists and motorists in town. Cars seem to give way most of the time, and trams could appear just about everywhere, from any direction. Bicycles literally litter every available upright in Amsterdam, and if you don’t move sharpish at the sound of a bell you’re likely to adorn a lamppost or bollard yourself. I spent much of my time waiting for the imagined ‘zzhhrip’ sound of bicycle-tyre on raincoat which I’m pretty certain would almost immediately proceed a rear-end collision.

Nevertheless, I’m glad to be back in Britain. Something about seeing the hills and green of near-home yesterday was incredibly comforting.

Beer for Breakfast | bier voor het ontbijt

// April 23rd, 2008 // Comments // interesting, travel

It’s the transition which hits you. From begging your interlocutor to understand you—to even bend a little in your direction—to being understood so effortlessly but still being in an unfamiliar place. This is traveling from France to Amsterdam.

In France, making an effort to speak French is mandatory; yet still everyone looks at you as if you’re asking them to donate a kidney when you ask a question in broken French. I freely admit, the extent of my French used to end not much farther than correcting cold-callers’ pronunciation of my surname. Now, after three days in France, I can say all sorts: but still can’t get a point across or ask for a baguette without goose-gizzard on.

I will, however, never pick up any Dutch by being in Amsterdam. As soon as you say ‘Halo’, in your best-imitation of Dutch pronunciation, the person behind the counter/hovering over your table/behind the glass will immediately ask you how you are doing in English. This is true 100% of the time—unless your accent was bad enough to give them the impression you’re French or Spanish, in which case, they’ll usually answer your question in that supposed language. Of course, I’ve always heard that the Dutch can all speak flawlessly in multiple languages even while being full of cannabis; but I’m still incredibly impressed.

Touching on that last point, I can’t help but feel it’s a horrible, international misconception about the Dutch. The overwhelming impression I have got while passing coffeeshops here, is that the vast majority of the ‘customers’ are anything but Dutch. I seem to remember reading somewhere (a pitiful excuse for not remembering a source or making it up altogether) that the Nederlands has lower per-capita cannabis consumption than the UK. If this is true, I would not be surprised in the least. I am not inclined in the least to explore this hypothesis further by sampling, as it were, the population: I’ve seen too many mates act like toddlers to be tempted with such herbalism. I will say that coffeeshops are everywhere in Amsterdam, and that I’m impressed (if that’s the right term) by the diversity of ‘clients’ I’ve seen. (Most cafes, bars and coffeeshops have a beer-garden or patio on the pavement.) Anyone from middle-aged, chubby americans to rasta-looking folks with dreads and hemp-clothes. Anyone from middle-class, dirt-poor, whatever: but very few speaking Dutch.

I get the impression from Amsterdam that most of it is set up for the non-Dutch. There can’t be enough Hollanders who want phallus salt-cellars to demand the supply I’ve seen. That’s something not confined to the red-light district, either. I’ve seen so many different penis-shaped items in the past two days, I’m starting to wonder what can’t be phallisised.

But, it kind of feels like all that stuff’s only there because it’s supposed to be.

“Amsterdam for penises.” “Amsterdam for spliffs.” Actually, it’s impossible to miss, but easy to ignore. This is largely because the city is wonderful. Not because of it’s ‘known-for’ features like prostitutes, coffee-shops and seks-shows, but because it’s laid-back culture that makes it possible for all of these things to be. I’m not drawn to these things, and I see them more as a side-effect of some relaxation that’s deeper.

Anyway, I’m off for a lager and lunch. The beer’s good, but I can’t actually drink it for breakfast, I’m afraid. I’m afraid I’ve been too British/American to drink before the yardarm’s past the whatsit… but it’s 12:30 now, so that should be good!

Why do I want more coffee gadgets?

// April 7th, 2008 // Comments // tech

Gizmodo is a techblog with loads of interesting products. They have a complete set of Coffee-tagged products, all of which I want to own.

I have no idea why, but I’ve got this thing for coffee gadgets. Every part of the kit appeals to me.

• I love coffee
• They’re gadgets
• They involve an addictive process (like setting up a blogging engine)
• It’s a type of lifehack
• There’s a considerable risk (you might get burned, or it might explode)

So, if you have any coffee gadgets you’d like to tell me about, please let me know!!!

P.S. this is my first post ever using BlogJet… It’ll probably also be my last, since it’s virtually the same as Windows Live Writer, but costs—and isn’t as pretty.

It will rain in Shrewsbury

// March 29th, 2008 // Comments // travel

Yesterday, I had a nightmare journey. It was the kind you think is made up by travel writers to pad out the pages between interesting sights and ‘how-to’s of ticket management. It didn’t help that my reason for going was to have a chat with the JobCentre Plus (Plus benefits, I assume) about allocation of a National Insurance number.

The first leg of the journey was fine: train to Shrewsbury. I sat down to enjoy a book and baguette (brilliant combination until you take a bite out of your novel) and noticed that the notice on the gantry sign kept changing: next train-on time–next train-cancelled. Well, which one is it? Turns out, I just had to wait 25 minutes for the next one. No worries, I’m reading and drinking caffeine-containing hot stuff (It’s not coffee. This is coffee.)

So, I’m late into Telford, but I was going to be an hour early anyway. I have a Google Map printout, but I don’t want to risk it, so I jump in a Taxi, explaining that I’ll need cash first, then on to the Jobcentre Plus (Plus and Minus?). The Royal Bank of Scotland was just across the retail park which is Telford centre, so I tried to get cash out there… no luck. I shrug embarrassedly at the driver, who shakes his head as if to say: "Oh, bloody hell… I’m taking him to t’JobCentre Plus (Plus Jobs for foreigners, no doubt!) and he’s got no bloody money."

So, across to Asda, which looks more hopeful–there being three cash machines from different banks. Brilliant…but no. "This service is temporarily unavailable," from Abbey National. "Your card cannot be used in a  cash machine," (What’s it for then!?) from NatWest, and a simple "Sorry, we cannot complete your request," from the RBS. So, I phone my bank (don’t get me started on the poor customer service at HSBC!) and wade my way through the ridiculous menus.

I eventually get through to someone who talks…very…slowly…and…keeps…repeating…what…I…ask…back…to…me. I tell the poor dear I’m waiting by a taxi whose meter is running and that I need to use my card to get cash out… "One moment, Mr Zach. Do you mind if I call you Mr. Zach?"

"I really couldn’t give a toss what you call me, love, I’m waiting to pay a disgruntled, bearded cab driver from Telford!"

"Ok, Mr Zach. I’m just going to speak to one of my colleagues. Can I put you on hold?"

"Oh, bloody hell…"

"…Mr Zach, it looks like there is sufficient funds for you to take cash out."

"Yes, I know there’s money in the account. That’s why I’m trying to take it out, to give to this increasingly red-faced cabbie!"

After another five minutes of this, it turns out there aren’t any security block on the account, so it’s probably the card. "I can send you out a new one, Mr. Zach. Would that be helpful?"

"No, not really…"

The Cabbie then drove me to a garage where I attempted to buy a pack of mentos to get cash back. They don’t do cash back… I’d have to go across to Asda… 

Eventually, the driver asked me to buy 20 Embassy Filter. I bought 40–the first time I’ve ever bought a pack of fags–and he laughingly agreed to take me to the JobCentre Plus (Plus acrid, blue smoke, presumably).

He drops me off, at the wrong place, and I had to ask a Telfordian where the Jobcentre was. Luckily, I chose someone who looked like he’d been on the Dole, and he gave me very detailed directions… via three pubs and a discount £-store. Fanbloodytastic.

So, I have the interview (wasn’t actually too bad). And I finally worked out what the ‘Plus’ is for. It’s for: "Plus unnecessary bureaucracy". The lovely woman who conducted my interview had to fill in literally ten pages-worth of forms. Most of the information was on her screen, but it’s not secure until it’s been hand-scrawled into hundreds of little boxes, apparently. We shared a laugh at the ridiculousness of the system, and she kept on writing the entire time. That certainly explains the name. I think, however, they’ve made a serious marketing mistake. Since this country loves it some Acronyms (LISA), they should call it Jobcentre Plus PUB. It’d certainly fit the intended clientele.

I won’t bore you with the return journey, except to say that it was cold, miserable, two delays and a cancellation. Oh, and it rained at Telford Central just as they announced that the Birmingham New Street train was cancelled. It was freezing, and so crowded I read my book using a shorter person like a lectern.