Give me a Stella, a mocha or a pie and Coke, but take care with your judgment
Monday, 27 April 2026
James Bush is a womenswear designer and regular opinion contributor.
OPINION: Just last week I sat in an East London café, one of those hipster joints, most likely run by Australians or Kiwis. After placing our order and taking a seat, the multi tattooed and pierced server arrived with our drinks. Without a moment’s hesitation, they served me the filter coffee and my husband the much marshmallowed mochaccino.
Later that day, we sat in a pub, a real old school boozer, filled with geezers of the most alarming variety. The sticky floor was complemented by a soft whiff of stale cigarette smoke, which had no doubt been clinging to the walls since the late 1990s. Despite separately placing our orders, I was served a glass of syrah, while my husband received a pint of house lager in a somewhat grubby mug.
On both occasions we smiled as we switched our drinks around. You see, this is a fairly common occurrence. My husband, it seems, gives off lager vibes, and I’m fine with that. After all, who doesn’t like a bit of rough? I, on the other hand, appear to have big espresso energy. I’m told it’s huge.
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I’ve discreetly asked around and apparently there is something about me that quietly, but firmly, projects strong opinions about single origin coffee beans. It’s ironic, because I’ve only recently made the grown up shift from hot chocolate to coffee and given I’m drinking mochas, I clearly still need training wheels.
Conversely, my husband, with his apparent penchant for a pint of lager, and an assumed inability to commit to drinking real coffee, is giving off another energy entirely. One might say basic bitch, but I would never dream of using such a phrase. After all, he is probably the most sophisticated person I know and incidentally, has exceptionally strong opinions about single origin coffee beans. Still, people will judge a book by its cover.
There’s something oddly comforting about being so consistently misread, particularly when my culinary home tends to revolve around a steak pie and Coke (I’m a man of the people at heart). It transcends countries and cultures. We get much the same approach in the gender diverse East London café, as the working man’s pub down the road. No matter where we travel, he gets the lager and I get the wine. He also gets the bill, which for obvious reasons, I’m totally fine with.
I’m aware that I give off a polished and slightly judgemental aura. And I’m not saying that isn’t also the truth. But can’t one judge from on high while consuming a pint of Stella? Must I really encapsulate all that I project?
So it was against my will that I began to drink coffee. It happened by mistake last year, when I was served the wrong drink at the Old Bank Mojo. In the spirit of waste not want not, I thought I’d try the mocha that sat in front of me. It was rich and full of flavour. The velvety smoothness of the milk was offset by the sharp taste of the beans, which were in turn, diluted by the sweetness of the cacao. Disappointingly, it was delicious, and just like that my cultural identity was challenged to the core.
For years I have revelled in the sneer that so often crosses a barista’s face when I order a hot chocolate. It feels like a quiet, personal revolt against the ubiquitousness of middle class coffee culture.
But unfortunately I am now very much converted. And because I’m new to coffee, the shot still hits hard. It picks me up and takes me to a brighter place. No doubt this will fade down the track, when years of consistent consumption turn me into a five cups a day addict. But for the moment, the effect is brilliant.
Either way, I will refuse to engage in the righteous elitism of coffee snobbery, and by doing so I am out-snobbing the coffee snobs, in the most delightful way. There is a certain audacity and strength of purpose in being a fully grown man ordering a hot chocolate, or even a mocha. It has the same quiet dignity as a steak pie and Coke, or even a pint of Stella. Vive la révolution.