"At that moment Zita came in with coffee. She made better coffee than anyone in the house; far better than Mr Challis, who went to the most terrific pother with special earthenware saucepans from Paris and a very difficult sort of chicory that no-one else had ever heard of, and exact calculations as to when to add the coffee to the water, and goodness knows what, and then produced a correct but unexciting beverage hardly worthy of all the fuss. Zita boiled water in a little black saucepan, then threw in handfuls of coffee, saying carelessly, 'It is easy – you chust make it strong enough', and out came a blazing-hot, fragrant black liquid worthy of Brillat-Savarin at his best. This annoyed Mr Challis . . ."
Stella Gibbons, Westwood (1946)
This sounds rather familiar to me, and I have to admit that I am a Zita, not a Mr Challis, when it comes to making coffee (and to cooking in general). By this I mean that I fling in coffee according to my mood rather than measuring exactly, with the exciting result that the coffee is always different. Frankly I think that measuring exactly is unlikely to yield a consistent result in any case, since the age and strength of the coffee and how long it has been open are also likely to affect the final flavour.
