Many of us coffee drinkers have traveled a distinct path. It starts with some sentimental moments: as a child, dipping cinnamon toast in Grandpa’s milky-sweet brew, developing a taste for that hint of coffee bitterness peeking out from behind the cloy. My five-year-old taste buds associated the last inch of beige liquid in his mug, toast crumbs swirling in the bottom, with comfort and tenderness and being allowed extra sweets than I was probably allowed in my mother’s kitchen.
Tiny me with my Grandpa Sander, circa 1985
As I grew up a little, into ages most reasonable people would agree that it’s okay for a person to consume a full cup of coffee on their own (high school maybe?), I still added cream and sugar in hefty quantities. My coffee drinking happened with friends, at diners late at night, accompanied by donuts and games of chess, usually in a corner booth. But as I carried this habit along to other locales, the indulgent additions of fatty cream and heaping spoons of sugar started to feel like an inconvenient weakness, as I noted how some of my friends would actually drink theirs black. No sugar. No cream. They swigged one steamy bitter mug after another, no grimacing, just pure cool. They were tough, hearty; they did not shy away from strong flavors. I admired them. And so, slowly, I weaned myself from the accoutrements. One sugar packet instead of two. Eventually no sugar, just cream. And finally: full strength, just black. I sat up a little straighter.
Classic diner coffee was a staple of my college years (iStock image)
Fast forward to college, when one of my roommates worked at a local cafe and encouraged me to apply for a barista position. Sure, I thought. I like coffee, and I need a job. (I also enjoy high quality baked goods, which this particular cafe produced in abundance.) I took to the role quickly, enjoying the guest interaction and getting to know the regulars. I learned how to operate an espresso machine, how to put espresso and milk along with abundant options for flavored syrups together in various iterations. And because I was fairly good at it, I stuck around through my college years, and I became the person who trained new baristas. I was promoted to front of house manager, working full time during the summer and cramming fists full of cash tips into my pockets with great satisfaction at the end of busy shifts. When I got home, I still smelled like coffee and muffins and buttered toast. I didn’t mind.
When I spent six months in Scotland after college on a temporary working visa, in addition to my retail clothing clerk gig, I got a barista job too. My four years of experience made me the default coffee person at the little crepe franchise, and I enjoyed sharing my little bits of knowledge with my bosses, Irfan and Memzie, Pakistani brothers-in-law whose thick accents kept me from understanding most of what they said for the first few weeks I was there. When I returned to the states I moved to California, and the obvious (and easiest) way to pay my rent was, of course: a coffee job. I was hired as a shift lead for a new location of Peet’s Coffee and Tea in midtown Sacramento, corner of 19th and R. Peet’s corporate structure meant that for the first time, I received formal training about coffee, learning about different origins and roast levels and brewing standards. My coffee game was officially leveled up.
a Sacramento location of Peet's (since closed)
Over all this time, I was still (mostly) drinking my coffee black. (During my stint in Scotland, I enjoyed a brief foray into tea, which felt like the more practical choice there since tea is much more customary and prepared with a lot more care; if you ask for coffee, 95% of the time you get instant.) But as I had access to espresso machines, my drink of choice more and more frequently became a vanilla latte (because when you have access to creamy steamed milk and a plethora of sweet syrup options…. why not?). I had not yet, at this point, experienced a truly nuanced cup of coffee; I was accustomed to the standard home kitchen offerings of Maxwell House and Folgers. But at Peet’s, we offered an entire wall of bulk coffee bean choices from around the world, with some (though not much) variation in roast level as well. I learned about Alfred Peet, the Dutch tea trader who had applied his knowledge of international trade to building a coffee business in Berkeley in the 1960s. I learned how to talk about our different coffee offerings with customers, helping them choose. And from my new friend and coworker Mike, who brewed me a cup one day when I visited his apartment, I learned about the Chemex.
an early ad for the Chemex, circa 1950s
Designed in 1941 by a German chemist named Peter Schlumbohm, the Chemex rightly looks like it belongs on the shelf in a chemistry lab. A clear glass beaker-like vessel with a wood collar and leather tie, the Chemex had its first reign of popularity in the 60’s. But with the rise of convenience foods and working women who had better things to do than carefully pour water over coffee grounds for their (and their husbands’) morning brew, the Chemex faded from popular use, shoved into dusty basement storage rooms and donated to thrift stores.
For a few decades, nobody saw much of the Chemex. But somewhere around 2010 or so, when specialty cafes started offering slower ways to experience coffee, with baristas who had access to more information about where coffee comes from, about the growers and their farms, and about different ways to process coffee before it’s exported, the now-retro brew method started to show up on menus. Cafes reoriented themselves to offer pour-over menus, and instead of simply acquiescing to whatever coffee the barista felt like brewing that day, discerning coffee drinkers now could choose their bean and their brew method. For the Chemex, it was its time to shine.
The Chemex uses a proprietary paper filter, a hefty folded sheet that traps coffee oils and holds back small bits of sediment from making their way into your cup. What this means for the liquid you sip is that there is no oily mouthfeel or significant weight that lingers on your tongue or coats your mouth. Coffee brewed in a Chemex is clean and delicate, and without those extra oils or sediment, every little nuance of aroma and flavor is on full display. For light- and medium-roasted coffees with distinct characteristics like tropical fruit or honeysuckle or subtle spices, the Chemex is a dream stage. Darker roasted coffees can shine in a Chemex too; dominant chocolate or nutty notes gain clarity and distinction.
Preparing coffee in a Chemex is not a task for the lazy. Pour overs in general require patience and attention to detail, and the Chemex possibly most of all. When I saw my first Chemex at Mike’s, admittedly I wasn’t super interested. It seemed superfluous, overly fussy. I was used to pushing a button and letting a machine do the work. But that moment planted a seed in my little coffee-enthusiast heart. Several years later, when I was weary of my French press and starting to branch out into other ways of brewing (I was now firmly entrenched in a coffee career at Higher Grounds), the Chemex was high on my list. I took advantage of my employee discount and took the plunge.
Because of its straight, smooth glass sides, the Chemex benefits from a slow, steady pour of water over the coffee grounds. Pour too much water in too quickly and it will rush straight down through the center of the bed, not grabbing enough flavor from each coffee particle. Pour onto the side of the filter and risk channeling: basically a waterslide down the glass edge to the bottom (same result: underextraction). Dialing in the best grind setting for a Chemex is also a fussy business, depending on total volume brewed and brew ratio (a topic for another post). But as I was learning more and more about coffee’s story, understanding the intense, detail-oriented work done by coffee producers, and the care and attention that humans on the other side of the world were putting into my daily brew, it started to feel fitting for me to invest more time and energy into its preparation. I was ready to brew more slowly, to savor the process as well as the final product. So while I chose a faster, more straightforward method for my workday mornings when I had limited time, the Chemex became my weekend brew.
I still find moments in my life for cream and sugar. The occasional vanilla latte or seasonal creation from the baristas at HG (a pumpkin pie latte around Thanksgiving really hits the spot), or a hefty splash of half and half in a dark roast when that’s the only option and I’m hankering for a caffeine fix—the nostalgia is strong, and I’m okay with it. But when I really want to experience the distinct flavor nuances of a cup of coffee, when I want to linger in the process and sip the result slowly, the Chemex makes my coffee dreams come true.