Why I Don't Use The Chemex

Looks aren't everything.

It looks great—the luscious curves, the wood trim, the weird leather tassel that’s purpose is as mysterious as Stonehenge. But don’t let the stylings fool you. The Chemex is a poor brewing device. I’ve been thinking about how to write this piece without offending its devotees, so let me start by acknowledging flavor’s subjectivity. What I find appealing, you might find bland. What I find lackluster, you might find dazzling. Still, even accepting flavor as a matter of preference, there are some areas of digestive review that ought be held in common. The worthiness of the Chemex is one.

Let’s start with some coffee history.

Back in the early 1940s, the coffee world was a Wes Craven flick. You were lucky to snag low quality Brazilian Arabica, even luckier if it wasn’t blended with provenance-free Robusta, and Powerball fortunate if it didn’t contain a filler like Chicory. Snazzy packaging didn’t exist. Neither did one-way valves or resealable zippers. Instead, coffee came in cans so austere you might mistake them for military rations. Pre-grinding was all the rage, percolators dotted every kitchen, and roasts were as inky as a Rorschach test. Mid-century culture had its attributes, but what good are cool coffee tables when you’re forced to top them with shitty brews?

In the pastures of Pennsylvania, however, a German chemist named Peter Schlumbohm was hard at work on a new coffee maker. He drew inspiration from the Bauhaus movement—a style characterized by simplicity, functionality, and an indefensible infatuation with vowels—to create an hourglass dripper that took the coffee world by storm. The Chemex wasn’t the first pour over device, but it was the first that deserved a place on your counter. And by the 50s, it was a mainstay in American homes.

Given its context, it’s no wonder the Chemex felt revelatory. In the years since, the dripper has collected countless accolades. It’s a part of the Museum of Modern Art’s permanent collection. Time Magazine named it one of the finest product designs of the 20th Century. It even sits in the Smithsonian (although so does Ron Popeil’s Veg-O-Matic, so take that with a grain of salt). From the perspective of fame and sales, it would be hard to call the Chemex anything other than a firecracker success story.

But the world has changed since the 1940s, and today, the Chemex’s flaws are every bit as glaring as its beauty.

Let’s start with the filters. They are made of paper so thick it could pass for a beach towel. The purpose of this pulpy napkinry is to create a cleaner cup, and it may do that, but at the expense of far too many flavor elements. Chemex filters are like nightclub bouncers, so gleeful in their authority that they deny access to everyone in line. Slipping past them might seem like a coup, until you realize that your reward is an empty bar and a dance floor with two weirdos air grinding to Travis Scott. To make matters worse, the Chemex’s filters are proprietary, expensive, and often times, painfully difficult to locate.

Then there is grind size. The Chemex requires a medium-coarse grind (really, it’s more like just plain coarse). That’s because its filters are so thick that they guarantee lazy drawdowns. I’m speaking broadly here, but in pour over brewing, a coarse grind presents a serious challenge. Without full immersion, it’s difficult to tease enough flavor from each particle. Can it be done? Yes. Can it be done with ease? No.

Next, there’s the glassy smooth interior walls. Modern brewers almost uniformly use textured interiors. The v60s has ridges. Ditto for the Cafec Flower and the Kalita Wave. Those grooves prevent the filter from gluing itself to the cone, and in the process, stalling the brew. Coupled with those thick-as-pudding filters, the Chemex becomes unforgivably sluggish.

Finally, there’s cleaning. The Chemex combines carafe and cone. That’s part of the reason it looks so great, but functionally speaking, it’s a pain. With separate cones and carafes, cleaning is as simple as a quick rinse. The Chemex, however, requires long handled tools and uncomfortable elbow positions. Is cleaning the be all end all consideration when it comes to brewers? No. But convenience matters, and there aren’t many pour over setups that make it such a burden.

I don’t mean to suggest you should throw away your Chemex. It’s a handsome addition to any home, and your unenlightened guests will hold you in high esteem for having it. But it should not be your go-to brewer. The Cafec Flower, v60, Kalita and on and on are all better (of these, I prefer the Cafec). You should hold the Chemex in high regard for its trailblazing past, but do as the Smithsonian does. Display it like an artifact, right alongside your Popeil Veg-O-Matic.