The Flat White Is Dead and We Killed It With Convenience
There was a time when the flat white *meant* something. When ordering one was a secret handshake among the enlightened. Now? My DENTIST orders flat whites. The magic is gone.
I traveled to a pop-up café located inside another pop-up café (the inner café only exists on alternate Wednesdays) to mourn properly. The barista understood my grief. We did not speak. We did not need to.
I watched a tourist add SUGAR. I had to be escorted outside. The audacity. The violence. Sugar is a crutch for palates that have given up on themselves.
True coffee should taste of struggle, of soil, of a small farmer's hopes, and faintly of the inside of a wine barrel that once held a Burgundy you can't pronounce. It should NOT taste 'nice.' Nice is the enemy of profound.
“Grief, but make it a personality.”
I have decided to stop ordering flat whites in protest. I now order 'a single shot, allowed to come to room temperature, served alongside a glass of the brewing water for comparison.' If they don't have the water, I leave. Standards are all we have left.
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