There’s a certain kind of joy in ordering coffee — the predictability, the tiny thrill of getting exactly what you want. Whether I’m strolling into a sunlit café arm-in-arm with a friend or coaxing grumpy preteens through a morning routine, I always look forward to the comforting ritual of ordering my usual: a flat white. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s like a latte that decided to show a little restraint — less milk, more coffee, and just enough kick to make you feel like you’ve made a wise life choice.
Of course, not every café is thrilled by my preferences.
A few years ago, I found myself tucked into a quiet corner of the Marais in Paris, lured by the promise of a charming, tiny café. The air smelled like espresso and warm croissants. I stepped up to the counter and, with the confidence of someone who didn’t realize what she was about to unleash, asked for an Americano with a splash of milk.
“No,” said the barista, without blinking.
I waited, smiling politely, assuming she’d follow up with some sort of explanation — maybe they were out of milk, or maybe the espresso machine had called in sick. But no. Just: “No.”
Trying to meet her halfway, I offered a solution. “I’m happy to pay for a latte, or whatever you think is best?”
Still, she stood her ground. “No,” she said again, this time with the kind of conviction you usually reserve for turning down cult recruiters.
“Our coffee will taste burned if I make that,” she continued, shaking her head. “So I won’t do it.”
It was such a bold, passionate stance — and honestly, I loved her for it. How often does someone care so much about something as seemingly simple as coffee that they refuse to compromise?
In the end, I asked her to make me whatever she recommended. She pulled a double espresso that was so smooth and beautifully executed, I didn’t miss the milk at all.
Her defiance reminded me of similar moments I’ve witnessed in New York, where a chef or shopkeeper draws a hard line in defense of their culinary convictions. No Parmesan on seafood pasta. No well-done steaks. No toasting bagels (“They’re fresh, they don’t need it,” I was told once with great solemnity). These aren’t just preferences; they’re personal principles, a form of tiny, delicious protest against mediocrity.
And truly, there’s something admirable about that.
It’s easy, especially in a service-driven world, to assume that the customer is always right. But I’ve come to admire those moments when someone knows their craft so intimately that they can confidently say, “Trust me. Not that way.”
Of course, it doesn’t always mean I get what I originally asked for — but it usually means I discover something better. Something that expands the boundaries of my taste and appreciation. And isn’t that part of the fun?
I should probably admit that I’m still relatively new to the world of coffee. I only started drinking it during the pandemic, when long days and short nights blurred together, and a warm mug felt like a small act of self-preservation. At first, I stuck with sugary lattes and drinks with so much foam they could double as dessert. But slowly, I graduated to simpler, stronger brews. Flat whites. Macchiatos. Americanos. And apparently, double espressos in Paris.
I love hearing what others drink, too. There’s something so personal about someone’s coffee order — like a miniature window into their morning routine, their tastes, their temperament. Some friends are strictly cold brew with oat milk. Others will fight you over the superiority of pour-over. And then there are the purists — the black coffee drinkers — who view every added drop of milk as a betrayal. (I can’t help but think of that Brooklyn Nine-Nine scene where Jake confidently orders “Coffee — extra black, extra no sugar,” in an effort to sound like a tough longshoreman.)
I suppose what I’ve realized through all of this is that coffee — like most rituals — is more than just what’s in the cup. It’s the conversations you have while holding it. It’s the baristas who surprise you, the friends who recommend new orders, the places you remember because the brew was just that good. It’s the stubborn “no’s” that push you into trying something unexpected. It’s the softening of a hard day, or the sharpening of a sleepy mind. It’s not just the drink. It’s everything around it.
So now, I’m curious: What’s your coffee order? Do you have a go-to, a comfort drink, something that instantly feels like you? Or are you still exploring, like me, letting different cafés and baristas shape your evolving taste?
Whether you drink your coffee black, foamy, iced, flavored, or with a straw in a mason jar, I’m here for it. And if a Parisian barista ever tells you no — take it in stride. You might just be one espresso away from discovering a new favorite.
