By Levinia Brown

Living in Melbourne and offhandedly mentioning that you don’t drink coffee is tantamount to disclosing a rare terminal illness. 

Even more so if you work in hospitality. If there is one thing that is universal in our industry – other than the rampant labour violations and a pathological capacity for masochism – it’s coffee. 5am viennoiserie shift? Coffee. 11pm nightclub shift? Coffee. 

I am an otherwise unremarkable exception to the rule.

Reactions toward this  innocuous autobiographical detail range from utter bewilderment to genuine concern. I imagine this isn’t necessarily unique to Melbourne, and that I’d be met with similar pearl-clutching in Seattle or Stockholm. We have a thriving coffee wank culture in this town. Now, I say this, fully aware that I embody wank in other ways (apologies to anyone who has copped a spray when I’m challenged on why I adore a Last Word whilst loathing the ostensibly similar Aviation*). Abstaining from coffee is the least obnoxious thing about me.

Most people assume that the absence of coffee from my life is motivated by healthful abnegation. Alas, no. I am not of the ilk of Byron wellness influencers, who subject themselves to cruel and unusual dietary punishment in pursuit of nirvana – or, failing that, a sponcon deal with Pete Evans. That is not my bag. It couldn’t be further from my bag. 

The reality is that I have almost every other vice – nicotine, alcohol, and others of varying legality – but coffee is simply no longer one of them. There is no shortage of alternative means with which to play fast and loose with my endocrine system. I have ADHD; I abuse amphetamines to simply function at a level deemed suitably productive in this late-stage neoliberal capitalist hellscape. 

Yet, I remain an aberration. Someone at kick-ons – after Saturday night knock-offs – may literally be holding the plate aloft as I whoof party favours, and still be taken aback at my disinterest in the barista bro waxing lyrical about single origin Nicaraguan cold brew. Inevitably, it leads to an all too familiar exchange.

“You don’t drink coffee?” 

“Nah.”**

“What do you mean you don’t drink coffee?”

“Don’t really feel the need, hey.” ***

I rarely even bring up the point, because I don’t find it especially noteworthy. When one of my colleagues offers me some pre-shift caffeination to gird the loins, I politely decline. I am very much sans fuss in this department. 

This isn’t to say that I’ve never had coffee. There was a time when I drank several a day, as one might expect from a reformed swot and veteran hospo degenerate. 

In my teens, I became well acquainted with various frappé-adjacent monstrosities from Zarraffa’s to buoy me. My dependence escalated in lockstep with an exponentially overcommitted schedule, and one of my first part-time jobs (at a Michel’s Patisserie, for my sins) afforded me even more regular access. I had many a lonely layback with the squeeze bottle of spare coffee shots. Rancid behaviour. 

The reader will be comforted to know that by the time I moved to Melbourne, I did graduate to a Big Girl order – the double mac. However, the rate at which I sunk these undercut my flailing attempt at sophistication. Maybe it was the overconsumption in response to hours of (unpaid) overtime, coupled with how my aforementioned brain chemistry reacts in wonky ways to stimulants — but I eventually reached a point where coffee ceased to have the desired effect. I skipped the high, and crashed straight into the come down. 

So, I dropped the bean juice cold-turkey about six years ago, and I must confess, I haven’t missed it. 

I even held fast, give or take a few educational sips, throughout a four-year relationship with a jazz musician. A VCA graduate, no less. This may not seem all that impressive a feat, but consider: he also worked at a cultish pasta bar next door to a Seven Seeds venue. This places him solidly in the demographic of people most likely to pontificate upon which roasting faults can cause excess acetic acid. He was one cupping event away from being the packs-a-V60-for-a-multi-day-overland-trek kind of insufferable. 

Granted, he did introduce me to the caffè corretto, which I will admit is a perfect beverage. And I still fondly associate him with the sound of a hand-wound coffee grinder in the mornings. 

If you can wade through the ethical quagmire of yikes geopolitics whilst ignoring the machinations of imperialism at play for a moment, the ubiquity of coffee is rather remarkable. To think that an East African berry of ancient renown, used in cultures throughout the SWANA region for spiritual communion, would come to have such a chokehold on the world — truly, an economic marvel. 

To be fair, suggesting that coffee is a great equaliser would be an egregious piss-take. But the fact that it is just as likely to be wielded in the 7-11 polyethylene of a bleary-eyed cabbie on his third journey from the CBD to Tulla post-midnight, as it is to be cradled in the bespoke ceramic of the Carlton North mum in the backseat on her way to catch the red-eye to Lord Howe, tickles me. 

I reckon it’s about on par with petrol, in terms of the global dependence on a single commodity. And it is, indeed, a dependence. I’ve witnessed my fair share of withdrawals, and I can assure you: I’d rather navigate Victoria Street on any given night, than manage the fallout from a head chef rawdogging Mother’s Day lunch service without their emotional support espresso. Heaven forfend youse ever run out of the shit.

So, what does this sanctimonious prat drink instead? 

Well, the blessed thing about living in a wank town is that the list of substitutes is extensive. For one, I am the child of an English father and a Cantonese mother, so, at any given time, I have upwards of 20 varieties of Camellia sinensis in my pantry. I would be summarily disowned otherwise. From the former, I have inherited a love for budget, utilitarian teabags — always Yorkshire Gold, always black, always brewed strong enough to strip paint. From the latter, I have inherited an apothecary’s assortment of loose leaf: silver needle, jasmine, oolong, pu’er. 

I am also a devotee of chai, in all its myriad permutations: brewed on the stove, with macadamia milk for my funny tummy, and leatherwood honey in lieu of jaggery. 

Likewise, teh tarik, an equatorial ol’ reliable, transports me back – if only briefly – to the kopitiams of Kuala Lumpur. 

Matcha also features, however removed it may be from the ceremony of bamboo whisks. 

My beloved flatmate is a Baiano from Brazil, and thus, is responsible for my indoctrination into the cult of yerba mate, as well as its decoction, chimmarão. (Our fridge also looks decidedly naked without a few Guaraná tinnies.) 

Lastly, and perhaps the cheekiest loophole of all, there is cascara, a bittersweet brew derived from sun-dried coffee cherry skins; delightful served iced on a blistering antipodean summer day. 

Beyond that, the only grace I grant myself for coffee consumption are the following:

• The occasional, shamefully desperate ‘sprotini;
• More enthusiastically, sweet yuenyeung nectar, the bastard child of tea and coffee necessitated by any worthwhile Hong Kong diner feed; and
• The soaked savoiardi base of a really, really fucking good tiramisu. 

Happy tweaking. 

* The obvious answer to which is that green Chartreuse is the elixir of the gods while crème de violette is an abomination.

** (Please deliver me from this shit chat.)

 ***(The sun is rising, your mate’s gone on a 10km round-trip Uber run to the 24hr off-licence, and I just saw the apprentice dump a less than judiciously ratioed kitty flip into the SodaStream. Allow it.)

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Levinia Brown (she/they) is a writer from Hong Kong, based in Naarm. She is a devotee to le mot juste, re-entering the fray of wordsmithing. When she is not scrawling stories, you will find her vamping tableside, pattering in the group chat, and always, marding.
Instagram: @glyphsandclutter