A few words on what coffee means to me. It's more than just a beverage.
It was 2016, my first year as a PhD student, and I was sitting in my corner of the lab. The post-lunch haze was starting to set in, and it
was about the time I'd usually reach for a sachet of freeze-dried instant coffee from the stash in the rolling drawer cabinet under my desk.
Not today, though. My friend had just returned from his holiday in Vietnam with a small bag of dark, chocolatey Vietnamese coffee powder,
and a little aluminum Phin filter. We extracted an inky, astringent brew on our first attempt, and I vaguely remember us talking about
buying condensed milk so we could drink it the way the Vietnamese do.
After that, my coffee never came out of a sachet again (except for emergencies). That first cup set me off on a quest through most of the
usual suspects (a French press, a Moka pot, an Aeropress, a Chemex) before I finally found stability in a modest Japanese brewer: the Hario
V60.
Around the Hario v60, I built routines that have stuck with me through the better part of the last decade. Even today, nearly every morning,
I prepare a light breakfast, brew a pour-over from fresh, hand-ground beans before sitting down at my table to reflect on, write about and
plan out the rest of my day. This routine played an essential part in keeping me sane during chaotic times, especially during a year half of
on and off lockdowns and other restrictions caused by the global pandemic. To me, coffee is a small island of peace — a few moments of calm
thought before I head out into the chaos that is the world outside.
But that's not all of it. As anyone who drinks it regularly knows, coffee isn't only a solitary ritual. Many of the best conversations I've
had at work happened not in meetings but over a steaming cup. The humble Phin filter kickstarted one friendship; my daily post-lunch brew
has started many more, and more than a few research ideas began their journey mid-sip.
I still have the Phin filter lying around somewhere. I don't use it anymore, but I can't forget the journey it started. Over the years, my
post-lunch coffee has gathered many people around it. I still share a brew with some of them from time to time. Some them of them are far
away now. Colleagues may come and colleagues may go, but the coffee goes on forever.
These days, I brew two cups in the morning instead of one: one for me and one for my wife. I find myself looking forward to the brews I'll
share in the next decade.
