A few years ago, I mothballed the fantasy of getting a professional-grade espresso machine and setting it up in the kitchen next to the meat slicer. In part, I gave up because of cost. It turns out a starter machine runs about $600, and if I wanted to own the same technology and firepower as what’s on the counter of the coffee bar around the corner, the price jumped to $6,500. Thermal-stable dual-boiler systems, assembled by hand in Italy, don’t come cheaply.

But the craving faded when I began to pay attention to how I make coffee at home. Which meant paying attention to the professionals, the vanguard of the coffee nuts driven by a sense that whatever they brew could probably be brewed better. I understand that some of you are put off by proselytizing — you want coffee, not a sermon — but where others perceive smugness and superiority, I see enthusiasm and curiosity, which is what we ask of our chefs: cooking isn’t stuck in 1990, or we would still be sitting down to menus with honey-mustard glaze and sun-dried tomatoes. Why should coffee be any different?

Really, the question is, why do so many people think coffee is Italian? Or French? Or Turkish? Why fixate on a notion of authenticity so tied to a particular country that nothing else could measure up? I thought about this when I followed the lead of the professionals and started buying gear — a grinder, a drip cone, a pouring kettle — that was simple, functional and beautiful. They were low-tech, high-fidelity gadgets that cost $15 to $50 and changed how I make coffee. For the most part, the key components came from Japan.