I agree. Hell, even fresh ground isn't always necessary. My grandfather used to put a dash of salt and an egg shell in with the Maxwell House, and it was as good as a MGD while playing horseshoes on a hot day. The author seems mostly interested in variance due to the bean, while controlling for most everything else. One of the great things about beer is that you can vary the ingredients and the brew, and get a wide variety of experiences. Some days I load up my french press with an unreasonable amount of grounds, sometimes I go light. I suppose if you are selling a house brew it's one thing, but there's no right way to prepare your coffee. I tried an overnight room temp brew a couple of weeks ago. It was nice.
I lost track of time, but a while after the sun had passed top a man came walking and we exchanged good afternoons. He was a neatly dressed man well along in years, with a Greco face and fine wind-lifted white hair and a clipped white mustache. I asked him to join me, and when he accepted I went into my house and set coffee to cooking and, remembering how Roark Bradford liked it, I doubled the dosage, two heaping tablespoons of coffee to each cup and two heaping for the pot. I cracked an egg and cupped out the yolk and dropped white and shells into the pot, for I know nothing that polishes coffee and makes it shine like that. The air was still very cold and a cold night was coming, so that the brew, rising from cold water to a rolling boil, gave the good smell that competes successfully with other good smells. My guest was satisfied, and he warmed his hands against the plastic cup. "By your license, you're a stranger here," he said. "How do you come to know about coffee?" "I learned on Bourbon Street from giants in the earth," I said. "But they would have asked the bean of a darker roast and they would have liked a little chicory for bite." "You do know," he said. "You're not a stranger after all. And can you make diablo?" "For parties, yes. You come from here?" "More generations than I can prove beyond doubt, except classified under ci gît in St. Louis." "I see. You're of that breed. I'm glad you stopped by. I used to know St. Louis, even collected epitaphs." "Did you, sir? You'll remember the queer one, then." "If it's the same one, I tried to memorize it. You mean that one that starts, 'Alas, that one whose darnthly joy...?' " "That's it. Robert John Cresswell, died 1845 aged twenty-six." "I wish I could remember it." "Have you a paper? You can write it down." And when I had a pad on my knee he said, "Alas that one whose darnthly joy had often to trust in heaven should canty thus sudden to from all its hopes benivens and though thy love for off remore that dealt the dog pest thou left to prove thy sufferings while below." "It's wonderful," I said. "Lewis Carroll could have written it. I almost know what it means." "Everyone does. Are you travelling for pleasure?" "I was until today. I saw the Cheerleaders." "Oh, yes, I see, " he said, and a weight and a darkness fell on him. "What's going to happen?" "I don't know. I just don't know. I don't dare think about it. Why do I have to think about it? I'm too old. Let the others take care of it." "Can you see an end?" "Oh, certainly an end. It's the means -- it's the means." --John Steinbeck, Travels with Charlie