Grinding to a halt: A crisis in the kitchen
Saturday, 23 May 2026
Mike White is a senior writer and columnist.
OPINION: These are dark and bleak days in our household.
Not the temperatures that scarcely climb above freezing; not the scant daylight as we near the solstice; not the economy hijacked by a farrago of international folly.
No, no. These are matters of great moment, I accept.
But more taxing to my partner and me right now is the disappearance of our coffee machine.
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I’ve referred to this machine previously: a stylish piece of Italian engineering which was a present from my partner’s former partner - a gift I’ve never been able to match or compete with.
It is exceptional and holds a portion of my partner’s heart that I will never unlock.
It is simple in construction - no electronics other than the single switch that turns it on; no gauges for pressure, or dials for grind consistency.
It is metal and mechanical in a way that promises reliability and longevity.
But of course, it would be silly to trust such promises.
Eventually, everything breaks, or needs repair.
And in the quarter century my partner has owned the espresso machine, it has seen the inside of a workshop several times.
I remember dropping it off to the coffee machine repair ninjas one time and the guy on the desk smiling as I produced it from a box.
“Ah, one of those,” he said fondly.
“I’ve had the best coffee I’ve ever had from one of those,” he nodded.
“And the worst.”
The machine, if nothing else, I agreed, could be temperamental.
But years of practice have made each cup, if not perfect, then pretty consistent.
I don’t know quite how I became a coffee snob.
I didn’t grow up drinking it, and can’t even remember any transformative moment when I decided this was the drink of the gods.
I’m pretty sure my introduction wasn’t an affectation - I wasn’t doing it for show, I just liked the taste.
Gradually, of course, you get drawn into the minutiae of what is essentially making a hot drink.
You become conversant with grind, you talk of tamp, you insist on buying beans rather than pre-ground, as that’s the only way to ensure true flavour.
You follow fads, like keeping your beans in the freezer.
You settle on a small supplier in a rural South Island town who roasts beans in what used to be the cloakroom of a Masonic Lodge.
You scorn the tide of push-button home machines. You fulminate at Nespresso.
And then you eventually step back and realise you’ve become as engorged as a startled pufferfish, full of piffle and pretence.
And then you carry on, ordering Fair Trade beans and tsking at Nespresso.
And then your coffee machine breaks down, and you’re forced to swallow your pride and pull out the plunger from a cupboard under the microwave.
It wasn’t that the espresso machine was broken, as such, just tired and struggling to maintain pressure, hinting that seals needed replacing.
So off it went to the doctor: The doctor who takes $200 from you before they even agree to look at it.
I signed a sheaf of papers that I didn’t read, no doubt indemnifying them from ruining my partner’s pride and joy while servicing it. Mind you, if they do ruin it, I warn them now, no written agreement will shield them from her wrath.
I left the temperamental treasure on a shelf behind a helpful receptionist and a disinterested technician, and started counting the days till it returned.
Adding acid to its absence, there was our exact same espresso machine in a movie at the weekend, Gwyneth Paltrow making Viggo Mortensen a steamy cup.
As much as I miss the coffee, I miss the ritual.
It’s a mid-morning standard. A process now as intuitive as it is comforting.
The shrill grinding of the beans; the gentle pressing of them into the metal filter basket; the pump of the lever and the pull that releases a slick of black ooze into the cup.
When it comes to coffee and ritual, the Ethiopians have had it sussed for centuries.
I remember taking an afternoon break in a tiny village on a long journey, and wandering out of the sun into a mud brick shanty.
And there, along the back wall, was a crimson and chrome four-head Italian espresso machine, bare wires stretching from the ceiling. It was as welcome as it was surprising.
Ethiopian coffee ceremonies, where beans are roasted over a fire, then crushed, and the grounds brewed three times, the strength of each cup diminishing, takes “come over for a coffee” to another level.
Meanwhile, the wait goes on for the return of our espresso machine.
The celebrations will be great, the relief enormous.
And life will return to normal, the morning routine rekindled with the burble and hiss and clunk of a beloved Italian miscreant.
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