A Dublin Affair

Or, Loving and Losing a Kitchen Appliance

In the spring of 1999 I took the first of several business trips to Dublin, Ireland. The journey itself was a delight. KLM Airlines. For some reason, I was allowed to fly Business Class—that exclusive section of a passenger plane where those lucky enough to sit there receive small but welcome gifts like napkins thicker than wet tissue paper and utensils that don’t snap in two when you attempt to eat with them.

This particular flight from Seattle to Dublin happened to stop in Copenhagen for the night. Does this happen anymore? I don’t know, but what a treat that was. Touch down in Copenhagen where you’re taxied to a KLM hotel in which the rooms look remarkably like the inside of an airplane. Grab a dinner somewhere—you’re in Copenhagen, so any place will be amazing. Sleep in your single bed set directly against the wall. You’re so tired, you think it’s luxurious, this bed. In the morning, make yourself an instant coffee, and taxi back to the airport for the last leg to Dublin where you’ll be sipping orange juice or champagne or both.

In Dublin, I stayed at the company-approved accommodation, The Westbury off Grafton street. A marvelous hotel. If you ever go to Dublin, visit the Westbury for afternoon tea or a cocktail or mineral water. Whatever you prefer, just go sit in the expansive lobby lounge and people-watch, eavesdrop, and admire the beautiful combination of tasteful decor and in-person human interaction for as long as you can.

Of the many charms of this boutique hotel, the one that wowed me the most on my first visit was my introduction to delicious instant espresso made possible by a contraption in my room. When your jetlag gets the better of you at 3:45 AM, it’s a welcome consolation to be able to make yourself (while in pajamas) a caffeinated beverage in order to mask the inconvenience of getting only three hours of sleep.

And so it was meant to be. The Westbury introduced me to the Nespresso machine, and I immediately fell in love. There was some kind of magic in those gorgeously hued aluminum capsules set neatly on the console. Purple capsules, black capsules, and almost iridescent sky-blue capsules. All one had to do was plop one of those jewels into the top of the machine and push a button. And seconds later…espresso.

After my first trip, I was dead-set on obtaining one of these fountains of energy and blood-thinning optimism, and although I saw pictures of George Clooney all around Dublin, reminding me of how much I needed to have one of my own, Nespresso—the company, the machine—had not yet crossed the Atlantic.

Even in Seattle—a coffee town, a city of ingenuity and means—I could not get my hands on a Nespresso machine in 1999. And believe me, I tried.

Not until the fall of 2012 did the stars align and allow me to bring home my first Nespresso machine—the Lattissima with attached milk frother. It changed my life—at least my mornings. That tank of a coffee maker served me very well for several years. Admittedly, it was a tiny bit cumbersome to clean, so when it started making sounds like a 1958 Volkswagen bug, I was ready to find its replacement. As luck would have it, around this time, Nespresso partnered with Kitchen Aid to create a new espresso coffee maker.

What a beauty! Curvy and sturdy, it had the essence and presence of an appliance from days gone by. To press the capsule into place, there was a lever not unlike a slot machine arm. Every single morning, I won the jackpot!

And I…will always love you…

But alas, time eventually wears down even the best of us. Earlier this week, the espresso pours started to leak into the basin, and what ended up in my cup was only half the usual amount. Crestfallen was I.

I tried talking to it, descaling it, caressing it, but nothing made it function like it used to. This gorgeous morning friend of mine was ready to take The Long Rest. Even sadder than that, I understood that I would never be able to replace it. I don’t know where things went sour between Kitchen Aid and Nespresso, but they no longer collaborate to make these machines. If anyone out there knows why, or believes they could possibly convince these two companies to get back together, please contact me.

I’m old enough now to be able to say: “They don’t make ‘em like they used to,” and to know how true that is.

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Have you ever fallen in love with or mourned the loss of a machine, gadget or appliance? Leave a comment and tell me about it.

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