We pride ourselves in our standard order – the less words exchanged with the barista the better,apparently – and we tend to think our choice of the bitter stuff sends a signal about who we are as a person.
If you’re a latte drinker you probably drive a Subaru and own a spaniel. If you’re a mocha drinker,it’s time to admit you don’t actually like coffee and go back home to Sydney. And if you’re a magic drinker,you probably just need to see a therapist.
AfterThe Age,highlighting our very own arabica-inspired Red Rooster line,it appears I’m disappointingly predictable.
Although the l,the data found that there was a fight to be had on second preferences. You see,a distinct demographic line – or rather,a curve – has been established in our fair city,depending on whether you order a cap or a flatty.
If you like a sprinkle of the sweet stuff,your cap says you’re a member of the suburban persuasion,making up an outer ring of Melbourne ’cino champions (the cappuccino curve,if you will). But if you drink a flat white,you probably live in the inner city,consider yourself a coffee connoisseur,and despise the idea of people calling a $7 cup of hot milk spiked with turmeric a latte. If so,let’s be sure to tip a glass of bubbly at each other at whatever art or theatre show is opening this weekend,yeah?
Yes,I live in Brunswick East. And yes,I drink a flat white. Or at least,I did until a few weeks ago. As a resident of the only suburb in Melbourne where the flat white reigns number one over the latte,my coffee order change feels like radical act of rebellion. It’s a rejection of my Very Brunswick existence. It’s a shining beacon of my individuality! (Or my love of chocolate,you decide.)
A few weeks ago,I ordered a cappuccino. And once I tasted the sweet,sweet powdery froth on top of my no-sugar cuppa,there was no turning back. It reminded me of being a kid,when my mum would let me scoop her froth off the top of her cap. It flew in the face of my post-40 attempts to reduce my sugar intake. Is this my midlife crisis,Melbourne-style? (And if it is,at least it will cost me less than a Porsche or a bout of Botox.)
All that’s left to decide is whether this new habit means I now need to abscond to the suburbs. I’m not going to lie,ever since I whispered the word “cappuccino” to my Brunswick barista on that fated day,I’ve been dreaming of buying a house with an actual garage,rather than engaging in a nightly race to see who can park the closest to their house without a permit.
I’ve wafted into fantasies about owning a place where its best feature isn’t a leaky ceiling that creates a damp spot in the shape of the mother Mary because it was “fixed” by an enterprising former owner that fancied themselves an electrician as well as a handyman. (My oven,which trips the entire household’s wiring if it requires more than an hour’s cooking time,says otherwise.) I’ve even fantasized about an abode that has so much outdoor space I don’t have to hang my just-washed underpants in the kitchen.
Perhaps the suburbs wouldn’t be so bad after all? Or… maybe my love affair was a fleeting dalliance,and it’s time to apologise to my flat wife. I mean,white.
Bianca O’Neill is a freelance writer based in Melbourne.