Hot Pots

I, personally, am a do-or-die, all-or-nothing, certified addict. An occasional snob (I would eat glass before drinking a cappuccino), but not even close to being a connoisseur. I don't understand drip filter, cold brew, siphon, or any of that blah blah blah. I just want – scratch that – need a good old-fashioned espresso. And I need it first thing in the morning. Not in a café at some civilised hour, but immediately, before I'm dressed, almost before my eyes are open. And it needs to have guts.

In pursuit of this non-negotiable daily requirement, enter: the coffee pot.

Every evening, I ritually prepare my pot, so that all I have to do in the morning is stumble from bed to the stove en route to the bathroom, flick the gas on, and by the time I've finished my preliminary ablutions, I can hear the sound I live for. That fabulous, slightly urgent gurgling, accompanied by the smell that even non-coffee-drinkers will confess, is olfactory heaven.

This does, of course, rule me out of the realm of the connoisseur and opens me up to judgment from the freshly-ground-on-demand-only brigade. And rightly so. Hey, I'm genuinely sorry. I did tell you I'm an addict. I do have a weapon with which to fight back though: some seriously sexy coffee pots.

If you were to Google "Alessi designer coffee pots", you'd be looking at my personal history. At some point, I've owned nearly all of them. I'm not telling you this to brag – I am in a fortunate position, through my line of work, that affords me greater access than most to such treasures. Unlike many coffee pot owners who have them on display, I have used every one of mine. I'm so committed that if I'm looking to book an Airbnb, I am much more likely to choose one that has a stovetop espresso, and actively avoid the ones with a Nespresso pod machine (you've got a lot to answer for George Clooney).

My relationship with coffee began before I was 20. It started in Sydney, in a really cool café/bookshop that I frequented. I wanted to look sophisticated, so I'd sit there with a long black and a Robert Mapplethorpe book I couldn't afford. I did this so often that an addiction quietly formed. Mostly the cafés I haunted in those days were a far cry from today's sleek, Instagrammable setups (I am as we speak sitting at Napier Quarter, my favourite haunt in Melbourne, drinking tea, ironically). They were more boho and threadbare. Often with a glorious collection of old stovetop pots perched on a shelf behind the counter. I always thought they were fabulous – functional relics of a more tactile, analogue coffee experience.

At home, I had the classic aluminium Bialetti Moka pot – ubiquitous in every group house kitchen of the era. Honestly, I still think it made the best coffee. There's something about the way aluminium conducts heat. And maybe the fact that it was never actually washed.

Later, I moved to the country, became a Steiner mother (a whole other story) and upgraded to an Atomic. Arguably the most collectible and high-maintenance stovetop pot of them all at the time. It's not the best coffee maker, truth be told. But what a design! Mine now sits around looking sexy, like a vintage car you keep because you love the curves—even though it doesn't have a heater, airbags, or brakes. I've met people who swear by the Atomic's results. I respect their dedication, but for me, it's a sculpture more than the instant gratification I need in the morning. I can't bring myself to part with it though. So yes, I suppose I do have at least one pot purely for show.

Stovetop coffee is not just about the end result. It's about the ritual, the smell, the sound, the satisfaction and, for me, undeniably, the aesthetic. It's about understanding your pot's quirks, treating it with affection, and getting a visceral reward.

And on that note, I won't name and shame, but I recently discovered that the person I turn to when I need a pot refurbished, or I want to find a particular model that is out of production, someone with encyclopaedic knowledge and the most enviable collection of coffee pots I've ever seen … uses a Nespresso machine at home.

Sharp intake of breath. Face aghast. World shaken.

It's an admission I'm finding difficult to process.