All I wanted was a cup of coffee

Alana Schetzer writes

All I wanted was a cup of coffee. Skinny flat white. Strong. One sugar. You’d think I’d had asked for a shot of cleaning fluid, given the almost pained look the barista was giving me.

“We don’t serve skim milk, miss.”

First of all, I was a little pleased at being called miss. So polite. But secondly, what was with the milk discrimination? I don’t like the taste of full-cream milk, so skinny is the only option I can literally swallow. I walked out with coins still in my hand, and my thirst unmet.

Had this episode been restricted to just one Melbourne café, then I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except to note not to go there again. But it kept happening. Not at every café I went to, but a good portion of them had their own rules on how they’d serve coffee. I’ve been to a few that refuse to serve skinny milk; one that only ‘warms’ the milk, not heat it up probably [it ruins the milk, apparently], and quite a few that serves a dark, powdery sugar that’s more natural than the white stuff usually available, but tastes like tree bark.

Have you too noticed this absurded pretentiousness that has infiltrated cafes across this great land?

It seems being a coffee connoisseur is the new wine expert. Out with the sav blanc and chardonnay, and in the Arabica and medium roasts. ‘Coffee maker’ has been replaced by ‘barista’, with the attitude to match the similar-sounding barrista.

I’ve long considered myself a coffee snob: I have my own espresso machine, I refuse to drink the instant stuff [truly horrid], and don’t even mention Starbucks – it gives me nightmares.

But this new culture of coffee purism is too much, even for me. It’s turning something that brings me warmth and joy into a game of Jeopardy. Renovating a house should be hard; ordering a coffee shouldn’t.

I’m now asked which brew I want. Perhaps a ‘rounded’ blend from Kenya, Peru, India, Indonesia and Java? Or the ‘action-packed coffee adventure’, full of chocolate flavours and made from Ethiopian beans? I feel like I’m getting a free geography lesson when all I want is a hot drink.

I recently went to a café near the Queen Victoria Market, one that I hadn’t been to before. I’d heard of it, though, spoken of in whispered hushes, people raving about its flavour, richness and just general wonderfulness.

It was small, with only a couple of seats, and a small bench where two baristas were working, eyes squinting in concentration. There was a full wall of shelves, stocked with take home packs of beans, all different kinds, and shiny silver coffee-making equipment, with price tags that go with designer handbags. This should have tipped me off, but I stood in line anyway.

The queue was a mile long [not really, but it was big], and I was about to put my order in when my friend dropped the bombshell: no skinny milk. And just off to my right, I spotted a large bowl of that tree bark sugar.

Urgh. No coffee for me; this was a place where caffeine purists come and worship at the altar [or bench, I should say] of baristas who wear trendy denim aprons and use words like ‘macchiato’, ‘degas’, and ‘vacuum brewer’ without giggling.

Really, I didn’t know whether to order a coffee or ask for a dictionary.

Please note, baristas, I appreciate what you do, and if I sound snarky here, it’s just because I’m a little caffeine-deprived [hint, hint]. I know there’s a ‘proper’ way to serve coffee, something that’s been scientifically proven to make it the best it can be. But that’s not really the point, is it? I like my brew my way. So, dear cafes, instead of trying to force me to swallow what you believe is the best way to have coffee, please just accept my order. Skinny flat white. Strong. One sugar. It may not be the best way to drink it, but I’ll love it. And I’ll be back, for sure.

Feature image by STREAT.