On Bad Coffee and the Performance of Identity
Sometimes I think people don’t actually like coffee.
They like paying for coffee.
More specifically, they like tapping their phone, offering a hollow smile to the tattooed human behind the counter (barista is a job title made up in 2003, let’s be honest), and walking away with a €5 prop that tells the world: “I’m functioning.”
And the coffee?
It’s bad. Overheated milk, burnt beans, and latte art so limp it looks like a ghost sneezed.
But it doesn’t matter. The taste is irrelevant. This isn’t about flavour, it’s about ritual.
It’s the grown-up version of the MSN Messenger girl with the away status that said “sometimes I feel like rain” while blasting Evanescence and crying into her fingerless gloves.
Same performance. Different costume.
People don’t want caffeine—they want a sense of identity.
They don’t want to drink something enjoyable—they want to belong to a moment.
The €4.70 flat white is just emotional cosplay.
Every cup says:
- “I have a routine.”
- “I am normal.”
- “Look, I smiled at the guy. I’m friendly, see?”
- “Please, for the love of God, let this mean something.”
There’s a dopamine hit in that little ping when the phone taps the reader.
It’s not a purchase. It’s a performance. A tiny moment of feeling like you’re doing it right—life, adulthood, existence.
And the fact that the drink is bad? That makes it even better. Because now it feels earned. It feels real. It tastes like effort and function and maybe—if you drink enough—stability.
I’m not saying these people are bad.
I’m saying: this is how they survive.
As a writer, I’m just watching. Sitting in the corner, drinking simple black coffee, taking mental notes. Observing the creatures of the morning in their fleece jackets and headphones, clutching their cardboard warmth like it’s the only thing keeping them from falling apart completely.
It’s not about coffee.
It never was.
It’s about needing a story to star in, even if that story is just:
“I was here,
I paid for something warm,
and for a moment, I almost felt real.”