Used moka pots make better coffee

They say a used Moka Pot makes better coffee than a new one. That over time, the aluminum absorbs the oils of past brews. Layering in flavor. Like a well-seasoned cast iron pan.

Many Italians won’t wash theirs with soap. Just water and ritual. The coffee, they say, tastes more like home that way. I believe them.

The story behind the invention of the Moka Pot

The Moka Pot was invented in 1933 by Alfonso Bialetti, a metalsmith in Piedmont, Italy. Before then, Italians had to go out for espresso. With the Moka Pot, they could make strong, café-style coffee right on their stovetops.

The name moka came from Mokha, a Yemeni port that was one of the first global coffee hubs. Its impact was cultural, not just practical. The pot’s octagonal body became iconic. Its hiss and gurgle became the soundtrack to Italian mornings. And with the addition of “the little man with the moustache”, a caricature of Alfonso’s son, Renato, Bialetti turned a piece of cookware into an emblem of domestic life.

For decades, it was unbeatable. In 2010, a study showed 90% of Italian households owned one.

But even icons fade.

From global icon to ownership change: the Bialetti buyout

In 2024, Bialetti posted a €1.1 million loss, weighed down by €81.9 million in debt. The company had bet big on retail stores and kitchenware. The rise of capsule machines didn’t help. Neither did COVID.

Bialetti will be sold to NUO Capital, a Chinese investment firm led by Stephen Cheng of Hong Kong’s billionaire Cheng family. The deal: €53 million for 78.6% of the company. Bialetti will be delisted from the Milan stock exchange.

It’s the end of an era. To me, it’s just the continuation of a familiar one. Where symbols of home, history, and culture are quietly absorbed into spreadsheets and shareholder reports.

A son who stopped calling

My mother never knew any of that. To her, the Moka pot wasn’t a national treasure. It was a memento from our trip to Italy.

I was always a mommy’s boy. Clingy. Curious. Full of questions she never tired of answering. As I got older, we drifted. I moved cities. Started building a life. I’d call her weekly. Then monthly. Then only a few times a year.

She’d still light up when I called. She’d say things like “That made my week” or “Even ten minutes with you means the world.” Not as a guilt trip. Just as honest gratitude.

Gratitude from the woman who gave me everything and in the end received only scraps of my attention. I should be ashamed of myself. I am.

The fall that brought me back

In my early 20s, I took a tourist friend up Table Mountain. It’s Cape Town’s main attraction. Flat-topped, 1,086 meters high, and breathtaking on a clear day.

Then I fell.

I remember the moment it happened. The rock that shifted. The sky. The air.

I broke both legs. Fractured my skull, my ribs, my hand. Eight surgeries. Months in a wheelchair.

I moved back in with my parents because I couldn’t do anything alone. And my mother, who hadn’t had a baby to care for in years, had one again. She bathed me. Fed me. Brushed my hair. She was a mother again.

I got better. Moved out. And let the distance grow again.

A trip to Europe to say what I couldn’t

Eventually, the guilt crept in. It wasn’t a lightning bolt. Just a slow, gnawing realization that I was a bad son to someone who had always been a great mother.

And no call, no bouquet, no WhatsApp message could fix that. So I made a gesture. The kind that a neanderthal with some money makes. I flew her to Europe for her birthday.

First time she’d ever left South Africa.

We wandered through the Netherlands, France, then Italy. She loved it. The chaos. The warmth. The carbs.

In Rome, I bought her a Moka pot. From a Bialetti showroom. We brewed coffee in our little Airbnb kitchen. I showed her how to pack the basket, how to wait for the hiss that tells you the coffee’s done. She was proud of every cup. We didn’t talk about anything profound. But we laughed. And we brewed.

And that felt like something sacred.

When she started forgetting me

She didn’t die suddenly. She slipped into dementia. Softly at first. Then all at once.

My father passed. She followed a month later. Like she had no reason to stay.

After the funeral, I wandered through her apartment. Her shoes were still by the door. A cardigan draped on the couch. And on the stove: the Moka Pot. The one from Rome. Its base burnt. She had used it. A lot.

The one thing I brought back

I brought it home. I haven’t touched it since. Not because I’m preserving it. I’m just lazy. And if I’m honest, a bit afraid.

Afraid that the coffee won’t taste like it did in Rome. Afraid that the memories won’t come rushing back the way I hope they will. Afraid I’ll brew it wrong. Afraid I’ll feel nothing.

But I keep it anyway. Not like a shrine. More like an anchor.

They say used Moka Pots make better coffee

They say used Moka Pots make better coffee. That over time, they hold onto something essential. I think that’s true. Mine does. It’s the last thing my mother and I ever bonded over.

I miss her every day. And that little pot, sitting quietly in a box, is the closest thing I have to her voice. Her hands. Her love.

It’s not enough. But it is what’s left.