the ballad of the sad carafe

You may remember the dear departed coffee carafe from several weeks back. As it turned out to be more than tedious to replace it (online research revealed that we had, in fact been given the correct réference, but alas, the wrong carafe, and I could imagine this happening by mail order and store visit ad infinitum on into the future), I decided to take the practical route and buy a French press. It’s elegant, it makes exactly the amount of coffee we drink on any given morning, and since it has no electric parts it has no voltage issue to hinder its transport when we move away from France.

I did a little comparison shopping, decided we were not classy enough or accident-proof enough to merit the top-of-the-line Danish Bodum, and so instead went with an anonymous Italian model whose cap and press were a cheerful shade of yellow. I brought it home from the local coffee shop and S and I congratulated ourselves on a Job Well Done.

Such bright, shiny plans on a bright, shiny morning, when all our hopes were clean and new.

The third time we used the new press, when S poured the boiling water over the coffee, a hairline crack appeared at the lip of the press and began to spread downward, along with a trickle of brownish water that quickly became a large puddle on the countertop. S swore, I mopped, and then when I took the dog out for her morning walk I did what any sane person pressed to the edge of the undercaffeinated brink would do – I brought home an extra large Starbucks daily brew in a carryout cup. Sometimes principle has to go right out the window, along with pride.

It was the weekend, and so the following Tuesday (it took me that long to work up my courage) I washed and wrapped the cracked press and carried it back to the coffee shop, where the two vendeuses were engaged in some stockage, including a couple of new versions of my press. I explained the situation in the French I had been practicing under my breath all the way to the shop – desolée de vous déranger, en train de verser l’eau bouillante elle est aperçue la fissure…c’est pas normal, ça…si on pourrait l'échanger…

All to no use. Vendeuse #1 widened her eyes at me and said, But madame, I cannot possibly exchange an item that has been broken. Her colleague, who had the face of a worried spaniel, shook her head in silent agreement. I tried again, smiling gently, hopefully. But surely you understand, madame, that the item was broken in the course of its utilization for the purpose for which it was designed (this, a sentence I had especially practiced, sounded exactly this stilted in French, I am sure. Except with the wrong pronouns.). I mimed pouring hot water, and my surprise at the breaking glass.

She shrugged and smiled sadly. Yes, I do see, she said, but I am not in charge here, and I cannot take responsibility for the exchange. If you can come back on Monday when the manager is here, perhaps…I cannot promise anything. She turned back to her stockage, and that was that.

I wrapped the broken press back up in its tissue and receipt, walked home, and set the bag on top of the table in the foyer, where I would be certain to see it on Monday on my way out. On Sunday morning, I decided to wage war against entropy in our house, which began with collecting stray legos and baby shoes, ran straight through banishing small drifts of paper, and wound up with remembering I needed to clip the baby’s nails and where on earth had I left the clippers. And so I rifled through the cachepot on top of the foyer table in search of the clippers and caught the bag with the coffeepot inside with an energetic elbow, tipping it over. Out of which fell the press, smashing into a thousand pieces on the floor.

One of which, no doubt, contained the original crack.

For the moment, I have switched over to tea.