Marc Porat sat with a red notebook in 1989, drawing what no one else could see. A little rectangular piece of glass with a touch screen, phone, fax, messages, video, games, ticket purchases, and apps delivered over the air. He named it the Pocket Crystal. It would feel like a piece of jewelry you carried every day, something with the comfort of a seashell and the pull of a crystal. At Apple, where he worked, the idea landed with John Sculley. Resources stayed scarce. So in May 1990 the project left Cupertino and became its own company. Bill Atkinson and Andy Hertzfeld, two of the original Macintosh wizards, signed on. General Magic was born.

They called the location after a line from Arthur C. Clarke. The idea is that any sufficiently advanced technology appears magical. You had a bunch of veteran Mac users and some hungry new developers crowded into Mountain View offices. Joanna Hoffman was in charge of marketing because she was one of the first people on board. Susan Kare developed the icons for the new operating system, and Megan Smith joined shortly thereafter. Meanwhile, a young whippersnapper named Tony Fadell walked in from the street. There were even rabbits bouncing around on the floors, as well as a parrot or two, presumably released by its owners when they went for the day. Some folks were even sleeping off while resting their heads on their desks. You could bet that at any minute, someone would start a water battle. However, the energy was fantastic. Everyone was confident they were onto something major, specifically the next item after the Mac.

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Magic Cap was the name of the operating system. When you first booted it up, you were in a virtual area that appeared to be a real office. There was your calendar in the corner, and your inbox was simply waiting for you. Walk down the virtual hallway and you’ll come across a variety of handy rooms, including a library, a game room, and even a downtown business center where you may purchase new software. Messages were decorated with stickers and animated characters, and those little faces evolved into the emojis we all know and love today. You could navigate with a stylus. Software modems handled connections without the need for additional hardware, and early versions of what we now know as USB connectors appeared. To keep things light, the hardware had to do significantly less work.

Telescript was the brainchild in charge of all the sophisticated elements. When you leave your smartphone, a digital “gentleman” will journey across networks and return with answers to your questions. Jim White and his team developed a language that enabled programs to move from one machine to another, just as humans go between cities. They discussed the “Telescript cloud” before anyone knew what it was. AT&T built PersonaLink on top of it because agents needed somewhere to go.

Before you knew it, some of the biggest players were lining up to participate in the action. Sony, Motorola, Matsushita, Philips, AT&T, and later NTT, Toshiba, and France Telecom also joined in. Each provided money and appointed their top executives to a special council. Sony’s John Sculley and Norio Ohga were among the best performers. The Alliance swiftly became the industry’s largest collection of business players, prompting antitrust specialists to establish new rules for the meetings. In 1993, the New York Times named General Magic Silicon Valley’s most-watched startup of the year.

Finally, after all of the excitement, the hardware was released in 1994. Sony shipped the Magic Link for a cool $800. The device looked like a grey brick with a stylus, a small monochrome screen, and a built-in modem that required a phone connector. Motorola followed up with the Envoy, which added a wireless radio to the equation. Both used Magic Cap. You could email, fax, or even page somebody if that was your preference. Keep your contacts and calendars up to date. Play some games and send some files over with IR, as the device was essentially a magic wand. However, nothing like existed previously. Of course, sales were small, with the majority of the units going to friends and relatives. Battery life was a joke, and performance was sluggish. Had no internet (yet) and no cell data worth noticing. To make matters worse, Apple had recently released the Newton the year before, which had likely stolen some of General Magic’s thunder.

An IPO in February 1995 nonetheless managed to raise 96 million dollars. But that was only the beginning; the stock had more than doubled on the first day, and it appeared like cash was flowing in. The engineers were practically unstoppable, and new gadgets popped up left and right. Later that year, Portico was introduced as a voice service that anyone could access using any old phone. An 800 number would then read out your email, calendar, and messages in a polite, calming voice, almost as if you had your own personal assistant. By the time they reached a peak of 2.5 million users, they had already created MyTalk, which has earned a permanent home in the Smithsonian. However, the initial notion of such ‘dream devices’ never really took off. AT&T chose to discontinue PersonaLink in 1996. By 1997, the hardware partners had essentially stopped producing. The stock fell precipitously, prompting layoffs. It all came to an end in September 2002, when activities ceased, and by 2004, they had been totally liquidated. Paul Allen ended up purchasing the majority of the patents.

On more than one occasion, I’ve embarrassed myself by brewing coffee outdoors and spilling a freshly made cup onto an unsteady camping table. Not to mention, light packers would scoff at the weight of my coffee gear — a necessary sacrifice to avoid instant coffee. Savoring high-quality joe in the open air feels special, though, hence why I bring a coffee-making setup every time.

Finally, I’ve found the easiest option: The MiiR Pourigami. Put together, the pyramid-shaped dripper fits atop any trusty travel mug. Taken apart, this Miir Pourigami resembles a card holder, slim enough to fit into my pants pocket. It functions like other pour-over setups, meaning I can still dial in tasting notes. If you’re like me and think about coffee no matter the circumstances, this nifty setup lets you play barista in any environment.

A look at the Miir Pourigami 

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Right out of the box, the Pourigami looks sleek. Disassembled, the brewer consists of three thin stainless-steel trapezoids. I can’t imagine the pieces bending or chipping — crucial, as I’m prone to breaking camping equipment. Handily, the dripper stores flat, occupying a rectangular size smaller than 10 by 16 centimeters. Weighing just shy of 8 ounces, the brewer isn’t featherweight, but it offers great portability nevertheless. Contained in an unassuming synthetic case, the Pourigami seamlessly fits into any bag.

Honestly, I’m terrible at paper origami, but assembling this brewer into the pyramidal shape is a breeze. It only takes me about 20 seconds to slip the three indents into the respective slots — there’s no confusion to the construction. The completed dripper holds steady without a wobble and comes apart just as easily. 

Put together, the interior forms a triangular pyramid shape that can accommodate any #2 cone-shaped filters. I find that Miir’s own filters, available for purchase online function most reliably, creating steady streams without slipping. Not to mention, the brand’s paper-based filters are compostable, a small but satisfying environmental win. A compatible filter is easy to find, making the Miir Pourigami simple to set up and get to brewing.

Brewing with the Pourigami

If you’ve used pour-over vessels like a V60, Chemex or a Kalita Wave, the Miir Pourigami is familiar territory. The dripper requires a hot water source, the aforementioned paper filter, and a cup or carafe to catch the coffee. A kitchen scale and thermometer help brew with utmost accuracy, but I’ve produced solid cups while eyeballing proportions outdoors.

It’s best to follow a brewing ratio to extract the most out of the brewer, especially when familiarizing yourself with its flow. The Miir brand suggests 21 grams for single-origin beans and 23 grams for blends, each extracted with 300 milliliters of water. Using water heated to 90 degrees Celsius, I’ve found these proportions reliable, as long as extraction is completed by the three-and-a-half-minute mark.

Compared to my V60, the Miir Pourigami takes longer to drain, so a coarser grind helps keep water moving. As a result, the vessel is best suited for full-bodied cups of medium- and dark-roasted coffees. The grind quality is crucial: You’ll want a coarse yet uniform consistency. I’ve used both the portable MiiR Coffee Hand Grinder and the Baratza Encoreto great success; I would avoid utilizing a blade grinder for this setup, though. Away from home, I’ve asked coffee shops to grind beans — I request a consistency one click coarser than a V60. Pre-ground coffee is the most convenient way to brew on the move.

The Pourigami’s steep interior makes saturating coffee grounds easy – no need to carry a gooseneck kettle alongside. I’ve used jet-boil-powered camping kettles and even cooking pots to make excellent cups of coffee, making sure to use hot water that’s off the boil. As long as I’m timing the process, using the Miir Pourigami is undemanding.

What does Pourigami filter coffee taste like?

As with all pour-over coffee, the beans strongly influence the flavor. I’ve produced the best-tasting MiiR Pourigami cups using medium-roast blends — think grocery-store beans like Stumptown’s Holler Mountain Blend. Such bags respond well to the requisite coarser grind and are forgiving in outdoor scenarios. The Miir Pourigami translates gentle notes of acidity and sweetness, seldom leaning into burnt flavors. The coffee turns out light-bodied, similar to other filter setups, but I’ve never brewed a cup that tastes weak or watery. 

If there’s one downside to this dripper, it’s that the coffee occasionally turns out too acidic, a sign of under-extraction. For this reason, I avoid brewing delicate light roasts with the Pourigami — not that I’m packing fancy beans for camping anyway. A bold, balanced medium roast cup hits the spot after a night in a tent.

Is the Pourigami worth it?

At home, I’m not often assembling my Pourgami, instead settling on the trusty espresso machine or extracting delicate cups of V60. When I’m brewing outside of the house, though, the Pourigami is my top choice. In addition to camping, I’ll pack the brewer away in my suitcase for air travel, making the occasional cup on the go.

Before acquiring a model, I used to camp with a bulky plastic V60 dripper, which I inevitably fractured among camping equipment. The AeroPress certainly fares better in terms of durability, but it can be difficult to find a sturdy surface suitable for firm plunging. Compact and durable, the Miir Pourigami wins on logistical ease, making it easy to incorporate into a car-camping, backpacking, or even a bike-packing setup.

Sold for $35, it’s a thoughtfully designed coffee gadget that justifies the price point. The inventive design isn’t a trade-off for coffee quality. I’m happy to use the Pourigami several days in a row – the steel material is a breeze to clean. Whether at home or on the move, the brewer doesn’t occupy much space, making it a reliable favorite.