I entered through the solid glass entry (modern architecture demonstrating to the historic cobbles that the future will be paved soon enough and any vexation to the pedestrian’s saunter will speed it’s own demise) to a corridor coffee bar with the juxtaposition of exposed brick and mounted LCD screens displaying the static menu with unfinished prices. Americano | 2.8. 2.8 what? Are we versioning Americano’s now? A bargain (some might say), but a confusing bargain. Because what is “2.8” in money? Apparently “money” is not wanted in this cashless experience.
The far end had three stools and a circular, I suppose you have to call it a, coffee table with two low down seats that curled into themselves. A couple of suspended planks lent against suspended planks while they each in turn made some remarks to each other and then nodded as if they were listening. The furniture was arranged in such a way to send a clear message: “We welcome you to stay for our vibes, please kindly exit the premises.”
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There were two large and expensive, and clearly well-functioning Italian espresso machines, the sound of coffee beans grinding continually, while espressos poured from the tiny spouts into cardboard takeaway cups on a frankly too frequent basis for the sustainable judgment I had been met with on my transit. Considering all the varying marketing that promised net zero across the entire ecosystem of Nando’s, not a single patron had bothered to bring their own insulated flask. There was one or two, but if you were to use the far end of the bar as a true data point for citizens interested in moving the needle on air quality, the answer you would be met with would be less than a percentage point. It’s not the only proof point, I grant you, but it is a useful virtue signal.
This particular establishment had positioned itself strategically opposite a WeWork that would happily pay the prices it had made up. This name was doing a lot of work for the shared “collaboration space” when it was very clear that the people belonged to a collective known as WeDoNotWork, but rather join a long queue for the arabica blend. They wore varying degrees of smart casual that showed that they did not know how to actually collaborate, but merely shared a long communal table while they worked on their ‘pitch decks.’ These people had superficial chemistry, meaning they would laugh loudly and joke about nothing in particular, but they were all secretly elsewhere, enjoying their wealthy lifestyle in a damp city.
The staff, in contrast, were students. The collective noun for this is a ‘slavery of students.’ My generation of the newly graduated unemployed would find work in bars and pubs. This new generation is not subjected to the unsociable hours of this, and have found their 9-5 (though in this case it is probably 6-6) fuelling the office politics and can still go out in the evening to their book club. They were all in a production line, essentially performing a coffee-themed interpretive dance while singing in perfect harmony the song of the day. I did not know this song.
I couldn’t concentrate properly until I had ordered my flat white, which took a turn before I’d even paid my virtual 4.3 to the iPad. They asked, because they felt it necessary for me to out myself before passing down the imaginary conveyor of customers, “dairy flat white?”
“Erm… yes. The OG milk, please.” Bewildered. (Confession: I only thought the OG bit.)
I paid and walked on.
Hold on. What just happened? That’s not how it’s supposed to go. A flat white is coffee with milk. Special ways of preparing both elements, yes, but a dairy flat white is not a variant; it’s the original. Almond milk, or soy, or, heaven forbid, oat are options that a customer is granted to customise, but dairy milk is the original milk. It’s… well, it’s milk, isn’t it? Don’t make me out to be some monster because it’s the first. Don’t make me answer difficult questions about farmyard conditions for the dairy cows.
I don’t want to have to apologise for ordering a standard version of a thing. Have I just been outed as someone from the 20th Century?
I looked back at those behind me and in front of me. The slow dawn of this next moment made me nervous about where exactly I could lean. I was surrounded by matcha drinkers. Matcha does not belong in a coffee shop. This building had a sign over it that literally said “COFFEE” in it. I can just about forgive you for also serving tea, because we’re in the UK and tea & coffee break is just a normal thing. ‘Coffee’ is not a collective term to encompass ‘turmeric’ and ‘matcha’, and anything else you fancy putting with hot milk and adding latte.
“Matcha latte for Jean!” I heard a shout from the far end of the bar, where completed drinks were being lined up to be collected. My eyes slowly saw, one after another, the green foam-moustached clan waiting for ‘Jean’ before they all wandered back to the WeWork.
Matcha is not a drink. It’s a botanical performance. It is, if anything, ‘swamp-adjacent,’ and it really looks like these people are only allowed back into the WeWork if they have the strong work principle to endure the thing.
It looked like this entire group had been on a team-building excursion to have their morning spent face-down on the grass. It’s a distress signal of the generation entering the working world and hasn’t found out how to cope with saying “no” to things yet. That’s probably where it started. They were asked if they wanted to try the “new” matcha latte, didn’t fight before realising it isn’t coffee and won’t perk them up until lunchtime, and now it’s too late and it’s their ‘usual’ and they can’t go back on their word now, like when you’re 45 minutes into a conversation and you realise you don’t know the person’s name. Just roll with it and hope they tell an anecdote where they switch to third-person for a bit.
I stood there, carefully checking my phone every 7 seconds, not to look out of place. But I was dreading that moment. I had ordered neither a matcha anything nor a drink with an alternative milk. I was doomed. Judgment would fall, and I would be whisked away into the lobby of the head office of some corporation that sponsored Aston Martin.
They should all adopt the method spearheaded by Starbucks. They have figured out that the complexity of coffee ordering has become such an infinite wormhole, the only way to fix it is to give the customer the ability to carefully run through all the options, so when they do order an extra-hot caramel cappuccino, extra foam half caff venti with cinnamon and chocolate powder with full fat dairy milk from real cows, they don’t have to say it, nobody needs to hear it, and when you go in to pick up your preordered monstrosity, the only evidence of your order is the size of the cup. We are all safe.
I don’t think getting coffee will ever be safe.
