The Diary of a Miserable Barista

There is no greater psychological warfare than making espresso. I am learning a level of patience I did not know I possessed — all in the name of extracting the perfect shot.

I know, I know. Most people would say, “What’s so hard about it? You put the coffee in and press the button.” And sure — technically, that’s true. But for the uninitiated (and those not yet fully consumed by this obsession, like myself), pulling a perfect shot is a rare and glorious win. The kind that feels less like skill and more like the universe briefly deciding to be on your side.

In the past year, it has happened to me exactly… once.

That’s despite making coffee at least three times a day. I won’t pretend to be good at math, but that puts my odds at roughly 1 in 600. When it finally happened, I nearly cried. Which, under the circumstances, felt entirely reasonable.

In espresso terms, this so-called “alignment of the stars” means everything has to cooperate at once — the dose, the timing, the temperature, the pressure. Nothing can be off. Not even slightly. In my case, it means turning 18.5 grams of coffee into roughly 36 to 38 grams of espresso in about 25 to 28 seconds. Simple in theory. Emotionally destabilizing in practice.

You see the problem.

Of course, people who actually know what they’re doing — and own proper equipment — don’t stand in front of their machine like it’s a sacred object before pressing the button. I, unfortunately, do not belong to that category (DMS JESSICA).

And before you picture me fully collapsed on the kitchen floor, praying to the coffee gods, let me clarify: I know just enough to try. Emphasis on try. To chase that smooth, perfectly balanced shot that makes all the effort feel briefly justified.

I bought a new machine — the Gaggia E24. Gaggia, for the unwell and financially irresponsible, is something of a cult favorite. Their machines can be modified, upgraded, and tinkered with to a frankly unreasonable degree. With enough determination, you can turn one into something that feels less like a kitchen appliance and more like a personal science project.

So I did what any rational person would do. I bought one.

And like every freshly initiated Gaggia owner — armed with a screwdriver, a wrench, a YouTube tutorial, and an alarming amount of confidence for someone with zero electrical qualifications — I adjusted the pressure from 15 bars down to 9.

The gold standard.

Or so I told myself.

And that’s when I realized my grinder was the problem.

I won’t go into technical detail, because I refuse to turn this into a lecture no one asked for. But in short — when the grind isn’t right, nothing else can save the shot. Not the pressure. Not the machine. Not your emotional investment.

The result? Coffee that tastes aggressively disappointing.

And I refuse to accept that as my reality.

So, naturally, this led to yet another completely avoidable expense: a new grinder.

After taking advice from other people who, just as me, are clearly not well, I chose the DF54. I waited two to three painfully long weeks, and just like that, I finally had everything I needed to chase the perfect shot. My own personal Halley’s Comet.

I’m fully aware of how this sounds. And yes, you’re absolutely right to be concerned.

But when the coffee in your cup smells like candy, or coconut, or cocoa — sweet merciful god — everything feels briefly, suspiciously right with the world.

I’m writing this with a third cup of coffee sitting next to me.

It’s not a good cup of coffee.

I made it purely for diagnostic purposes. To see whether the grind size is wrong, or the dose, or something else entirely. As things stand, we’re still nowhere.

Tomorrow morning is another opportunity.

Right now, I simply don’t have it in me to try again at 5 p.m.

Thank you for your time. Please pray — to whoever is in charge of these things — that Halley’s Comet does not skip apartment number six.