My wife regularly refers to me in this manner, usually as I am offered drip coffee by family and friends.

This is because I will not drink drip coffee, since I have discovered both the joys of arabica beans, and the wonders of the french press.

Once you have discovered what coffee was truly meant to be, the icksome sludge they serve at work, drip robusta, is so offensive that one might perfer cyanide or hemlock as an alternative.

Not to mention that most drip consists entirely of Colombian Roast, which, while not as bitter as French, still lacks any particular art after it is freeze dried and repackaged.

Coffee is, after all, meant to be savored, not just poured down your throat in an attempt to wake up.

Much of my knowledge of the subject stems from my half year working for Starbucks, which has spoiled me for eternity.

Still, she does not complain about the many bags of coarse ground coffee which inhabit our kitchen, or the lovely aroma which lives with us constantly, and the resulting worship which revolves around our press.

We'll make a snob of her yet.