The Espresso Machine on the Bear's Porch

Article Nine and the Bear

Mags: MEMO 212. Article Nine, Clause Three: any parcel left on the porch at No. 2 is presumed to belong to the domesticated bear residing beneath it, until the addressee presents the tag in person and states his name to the porch.

Lou: To the porch.

Mags: To the porch. The clause dates from the Sofa Matter.

Doris: Let the record show that the Ledger has the Sofa Matter passing nine to one in the bear's favor. I have the minutes, and the one.

Nobody on the lane found it strange that a clause had been written for a domesticated bear, since a domesticated bear with a porch is entitled to a bylaw. Lou crossed the lawn, held the tag up to the floorboards and said, "Lou Okonkwo, No. 5, here for my parcel."

Nothing stirred underneath. Mags ruled that silence was consent. The end-of-lane streetlight, which flickers when anyone lies, burned steady as a church.

The machine weighs 28.1 pounds. Lou, who carries full stockpots for a living, took it down the lane the way you walk a guest to the door.

Flavor is a decision, and the machine, to its credit, does not pretend to make it for you.

The Chair Is Asleep

Lou invited everyone to the truck for the first shot. Mags announced that the Cat-Owners' Caucus would attend as a body, and that the body would be called to order by its chair, Admiral Biscuit.

Mags: The chair is asleep. Under the Caucus rules, when the chair is absent, the nearest cat presides.

Doris: Two cats are equally near the cushion. I measured. The tape says the same thing both ways.

The Caucus, which holds that sharing a home with a cat is the highest form of human existence, spent forty minutes unable to open its own meeting because every cat qualified to chair it was asleep. Each, in the act of sleeping, had declined the gavel.

A solution was found when someone set the gavel on the cushion next to Admiral Biscuit, who did not know he was presiding and did it superbly. The Caucus declared itself in session until further notice. Lou had already started grinding, since no bylaw forbade it.

Fifteen Settings and a Lever

Ada and Felix watched from behind a chalk line Lou had drawn on the pavement, which they treated as a border with consequences.

Felix: does it grind the beans itself

Ada: felix it has a grinder inside, fifteen settings, you pick one

Gus: Fifteen is fourteen more than a man needs.

Lou explained it as he went. Whole beans go in the top. The grinder sets the size and a single dose or a double. Then you pull a lever and the machine tamps the grounds for you, evenly, without the usual scattering of coffee over the counter.

Gus: The box says smart on it.

Gus has held for years that anything calling itself smart is only announcing that it intends to do something without asking first.

Lou locked in the handle and started the shot. It ran fast and thin and the color of weak tea.

Gus: Smart.

Lou: The tamp was even. The grind was too coarse, and I picked the grind. Flavor is a decision, and the machine, to its credit, does not pretend to make it for you.

Gus was right that the word promises more than a lever delivers, and wrong that the lever did nothing. Lou turned the dial finer. The pump begins gently, with low pressure to wet the grounds, then climbs to 9 bar for the extraction, and the second shot came out slow and dark. He chose one of the three water temperatures to suit the beans, steamed a jug of milk on the wand (it was ready fast), and poured a swirl on top that Felix called a leaf and Ada called a mistake, in a good way.

Provisionally Okonkwo

Doris entered the machine in the Lending Ledger as a loan to the lane, borrower Okonkwo.

Lou: It's mine, Doris.

Doris: Provisionally.

Lou did concede that it asks things of a person. It takes only whole beans. It does nothing unless somebody stands at it and works it. And it wants a counter with room for 17.5 inches of depth. Gus, after his second cup, said nothing at all, and nobody was fool enough to comment on that.

Walking home, Lou passed the porch at No. 2. He had been made to give his name to it on the way in, and on the way out he felt it would be rude not to say good night.

Lou: Night, No. 2.

Nothing stirred underneath. The streetlight held steady.