I’ve not been to the States, but is drip coffee likely to get over-extracted (which is what we tend to describe as “burnt”)? I would have thought that it would be stale from sitting on the hot plate, and flat if the water’s from a reservoir, but probably under-extracted unless the water’s too hot to start.
As another commenter says, it’s their custom of making drip coffee and then leaving it on a hot plate to denature all flavour remaining after the aromatics have been cooked off
Listen. I am a coffee snob. I have friends who send me unique coffees from their travels, coffees that have light roasts and mangosteen flavor notes. I am adept at using a Hario pour-over, with a scale, and beans that I grind myself every morning. I know how to tweak my pours to change the flavor and body of my coffee, depending on the roast and bean. With all of that being said, I still have, deep in my heart, a love for that stale, black charcoal water that’s been sitting on a hot plate since time immemorial, poured into a scratchy ceramic mug and slid over to me with minimal effort and even an air of contempt by a woman who smells of Virginia Slim cigarettes and calls me “hon’” when impatiently asking me for my order. Nothing pairs better with crispy corned beef hash and runny eggs. Nothing.
I’ve not been to the States, but is drip coffee likely to get over-extracted (which is what we tend to describe as “burnt”)? I would have thought that it would be stale from sitting on the hot plate, and flat if the water’s from a reservoir, but probably under-extracted unless the water’s too hot to start.
As another commenter says, it’s their custom of making drip coffee and then leaving it on a hot plate to denature all flavour remaining after the aromatics have been cooked off
Listen. I am a coffee snob. I have friends who send me unique coffees from their travels, coffees that have light roasts and mangosteen flavor notes. I am adept at using a Hario pour-over, with a scale, and beans that I grind myself every morning. I know how to tweak my pours to change the flavor and body of my coffee, depending on the roast and bean. With all of that being said, I still have, deep in my heart, a love for that stale, black charcoal water that’s been sitting on a hot plate since time immemorial, poured into a scratchy ceramic mug and slid over to me with minimal effort and even an air of contempt by a woman who smells of Virginia Slim cigarettes and calls me “hon’” when impatiently asking me for my order. Nothing pairs better with crispy corned beef hash and runny eggs. Nothing.
I love the romance of that scene, and I do enjoy an American dinner, but I’m sorry that coffee is just dreadful