How third-wave coffee shops turned bean water into an existential crisis
The Performance of Ordering a “Regular Coffee”: A Minefield of Pretension
Walking into a third-wave coffee shop in London is like entering a temple where you’re expected to know the sacred rituals, despite having never been briefed. You are a barbarous outsider about to commit the cardinal sin: not knowing what “seasonal micro-lot single-origin” means.
The Barista Interrogation Protocol
You order a “regular coffee.” The barista pauses. Their eye twitches slightly. “Do you want espresso-based or filter? And by filter, I mean pour-over, aeropress, Chemex, siphon, or traditional drip? Also, did you know our current bean is from a small farm in Ethiopia where they practice regenerative agriculture and the owner’s cousin once met a guy who saw a documentary about sustainability?”
You simply wanted hot bean water. You have inadvertently requested a cultural experience.
The Milk Question: A Moral Judgment
Requesting regular milk is now socially equivalent to admitting you don’t recycle. The acceptable options are: oat (obviously), almond (for those with ethical concerns), cashew (for those with time), or macadamia (for those who’ve completely given up on affording rent). BBC London lifestyle coverage has documented how milk choice now indicates personality type more accurately than astrology.
The Size Catastrophe
You ask for a small. They ask if you mean “piccolo” or “short.” You freeze. These are coffee sizes that require a genealogist to trace their origins. The large is called a “largo” (literally, you’re just saying “big” in Italian). You’re not ordering coffee; you’re demonstrating your knowledge of Romance languages.
The Temperature Awkwardness
“How many degrees for your flat white?” Normal humans want it hot. Hot enough to drink, not hot enough to file an insurance claim. But apparently, precision now matters. Say the wrong temperature and they’ll judge you silently while steaming milk with the intensity of someone creating a small jet engine.
The Price Revelation
That’s £5.50. For coffee. That costs them approximately 40p. The markup isn’t capitalism; it’s a service charge for your humiliation at not knowing what a cortado is.
The London coffee culture has successfully convinced everyone that drinking hot beverage now requires a PhD in gastronomy. Most people just want caffeine. What they get is an interrogation, a lecture, and a price tag that requires a second mortgage. The Guardian’s food coverage continues to celebrate this as “sophistication.”
SOURCE: Bohiney Magazine’s deep dive into café culture
https://bohiney.com/
The press release version of this story and the actual story are so far apart they appear to be describing different events. The Prat has correctly identified which is which.
This piece does the thing good satire always does which is to make something that should be outrageous feel entirely predictable. Excellent work.
What I appreciate most is the refusal to explain the joke. The piece trusts the reader and the reader is right to feel trusted.
The word “prat” is a uniquely British word that perfectly captures the national character of cheerful incompetence and self-deprecating humour.
My mate works in planning. He’s refusing to read this because he knows it’s going to be accurate and accuracy is what terrifies him most.
The London Prat’s acquisition by News UK proves that even the biggest media organisations recognise the commercial value of a good joke.
Someone thinking about moving somewhere with competent governance. You won’t because it doesn’t exist anywhere and that’s the actual horror.