source : the age
First there was the cappuccino. Then there was the frappuccino. Then that gave way to the crappuccino – a chameleon-like, caramel-spiked, pumpkin-spiced, hyper-blended atrocity-in-a-keep-cup. OK, I made that last one up, but I’m sure someone in Sydney would happily order it and pay a small fortune for it.
All that came before the World Meteorological Organisation predicted a strong El Nino event this summer, which is expected to play havoc with cocoa, coffee and vanilla crops in coffee-producing nations such as Brazil and Vietnam, where local growers are already struggling with higher temperatures and reduced rainfall.
So Australian coffee drinkers can soon look forward to sampling the El Ninoccino, a nice warm cup of absolutely nothing that’s the inevitable result of export bans, energy price spikes and the rising cost of fertiliser and fuel, driven by conflict in the Middle East.
For forlorn caffeine aficionados recently released from the bonds of credit card machine surcharge enslavement, the sudden emergence of the El Ninoccino is the latest blow to a coffee scene which, much like the solar system, keeps expanding at the edges for reasons no one can quite fathom. It’s fancy. It’s annoyingly complex. It requires money and choices and a Bruno Mars soundtrack.
It’s possible, of course, that the creation of the El Ninoccino is a negative feedback loop designed by the planet to maintain homeostasis. In short, when Mother Nature got jack of all the idiot amateur baristas polluting her Insta feed with their home-brewed double shot cookie dough skinny foam lattes, she forced them into extinction by making coffee beans a luxury item.
It’s time for a return to first principles. Since we can’t change the weather, let’s work on the variables we do have control over. It’s coffee, not a social history lesson or an earnest explanation about how five cents from every triple cortado sold by your inner-city local goes to supporting worker conditions on an obscure Bolivian plantation. Especially not when you’re expected to drink it alfresco, perched on a milk crate at 7am in winter.
Acceptable cup sizes are small, medium or large. Not grande or venti, and certainly not regular, which, as everyone knows, is really just code for “this is a size small in sheep’s clothing and will be charged at the same price as a medium”.
All the frippery – weird-flavoured cream, foam, anything fluffy that isn’t milk – is banned. And before everyone starts bleating about soy and almond and oat varietals, they can stay, OK? We’re giving them a greasy side-eye and no one’s really that happy about it, but they’re allowed because dietaries and dairy intolerances and … good grief, you made your point.
Ice, especially the bespoke crushed stuff from a specialised dispenser, is out. Again, it’s coffee. If you’re thirsty and need a pick-me-up and it has to be cold, have a Coke. Or a Powerade. Or a slice of yesterday’s coffee cake.
And lest we be accused of temperature bias, any customer who comes in bleating about “extra hot” qualifies for immediate expulsion from the premises. Coffee should only be served at one official temperature, and that’s a million bajillion degrees. If it’s not capable of reducing one’s tongue to molten lava five minutes after it hits the table, it’s time for a new machine or a faster waitress.
This next one’s important, so lean in, would-be amateur barista social media influencers, because I’m talking directly into your annoying clip-on mics here. If a drink takes more than three ingredients and/or involves a specialist blender and/or requires a recipe to produce, it’s not coffee, it’s liquid tiramisu. All the supporting infrastructure – the swizzle sticks, the straws, the slotted spoons – are as incidental to proceedings as that video you posted yesterday about the Shein top you thought you hated but you now think is so cute and are allegedly obsessed with.
Speaking of things people think they want but don’t actually need, the list of prohibited coffee toppings includes (but is certainly not limited to) hundreds and thousands, weirdly oversized chocolate bits and anything that requires drizzling.
That brings us to the biggest sticking point of all: having freed ourselves from the shackles of unnecessary paraphernalia, how much does our defanged cup of coffee cost? Who knows, but here is one guiding principle: if a second mortgage is in order before the bill can be settled, it’s too expensive.
If all else fails, there’s always instant coffee. Or an El Ninoccino.
Michelle Cazzulino is a Sydney writer.
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