Our coffee orders, repeated day after day, become habits, comfort, routine. If you look closely and place one’s go-to drink in context, our coffee orders become tiny windows into who we are. Some people make their way through every seasonal flavor offered while others cling to the recipe they grew up watching their mom make every morning.
I remember the first time I ordered an iced blueberry cappuccino from Dunkin’: medium, almond milk, three pumps of blueberry. The sweet and tart burst of the blueberry shots hit hard and fast—unexpected. This drink became my go-to order as I made the eight-minute drive from the gym to my internship this summer. Coconut shots were far too strong and have that artificial tropical taste, and vanilla was too subtle––indistinguishable from the milk’s creaminess. Blueberry stood out. That’s why it was my favorite. I also learned that an extra shot of espresso nudged me toward reckless red-light runs and that daily Dunkin’ trips meant I knew exactly when Caleb—the redhead with a generous hand for ice—was on shift. My order was not just a drink. It was a choice: bold, risky, but still routine.
My boss? Two creams, one sugar, and vanilla cold foam from Starbucks. Always a tall and gone within the hour. He claimed it reminded him of his fiance who lived in Chicago. This coffee, simple to make but convenient to grab on the way to work, reminded him of peaceful mornings filled with buttermilk pancakes and forehead kisses. His order was not indulgent—it was comfort disguised in disposable cups.
And then there was the Marine I met this summer. As one might expect, he brewed himself a large Americano every morning—his tough, disciplined ritual in liquid form. He’s always had his Americano—that is, when he wasn’t having a Corona (yes, even at 8 a.m.). An Americano gave him the quick fuel for the hour-long required lift at 4 a.m. before his platoon’s scheduled hike. I asked him why he stuck to this drink even with no impending workout or busy week-day ahead of him. “It’s routine. It’s what I’ve always done.” He sometimes wondered what the steamed milk of a whole-milk latte or the caramel drizzle of a caramel macchiato would taste like. He sometimes asked for a sip of my cappuccino. I’m sure he would have loved his own, added sugar and prominent blueberry. But discipline won and the Americano remained.
Moving back to campus this September, I was immediately made aware of the fact that my suitemate had not strayed from her three-year obsession with the Elm’s strawberry matcha latte. I think it might be the closest thing to an inanimate soulmate. It’s not just the trendy photos she posts on Instagram of the distinct layers and vibrant green colors, but the isolated notes of earthiness and refreshing strawberry which shape this matcha latte as the ultimate costume: outward perfection but internal chaos. Matcha latte in hand, she sways side-to-side and exhibits an unmatched aura of confidence as she exits the The Elm. This matcha is a performance as much as it is a preference. Matcha lattes are her armor.
That is how many of us are these days. We stick to what we know. We wonder what it will mean if we stop hanging out with our childhood friends or if we abandon our usual study spots. We do whatever it takes to avoid conflict and distress and failure and rejection. We drink our coffee the way we live our lives. The safe orders reveal a fear of change while the experimental ones signal a draw towards change. Our coffee orders expose what brings us comfort: routine, discipline, performance. We stick to the character our coffee order has chosen for us. For years, I used to find comfort in black hot coffees. One morning I ordered an iced blueberry cappuccino from Dunkin and it changed my life. All because of three pumps of blueberry.
