IF I were to sit in my living room on any given day and suddenly think of having one of those “barista-made” coffees, I would easily have a choice of six places within easy walking distance without breaking a sweat, or wheezing.
That number used to be seven, but one has shut down — because no one came because of their link to genocide.
If I were to hop on my 13-speed pedal bike though, I would then have at least 10 places where they’ll ask for your name so that they can shout it aloud to summon you to get the coffee yourself.
That’s how prevalent and normalised these invasive cultural centres have become in our daily lives.
Conversely, if I were to hanker for a decent teh tarik or even a kopi O there are only three places worth going to.
So, it is natural that when someone like me wants to get out of the house for a cuppa, the odds are overwhelmingly in favour of that cuppa being a coffee.
This explains why an older Malaysian like me, who grew up on kopitiams and mamak stalls find myself in 2024 inside one of these diabolical places more often than I care.
What used to be a straight-forward commercial exchange between a patron and the owner of a Pagoda brand t-shirt has now devolved into a complicated exchange more akin to asking for directions in Sentul Pasar.
I blame it all on the sinister coffee Illuminati who have planned this mind control all along, but last Thursday night I found myself drawn once again to one of these places.
The shop had just opened with giant bouquets of congratulatory flowers lining up the doorway.
“No, we don’t have that. Promo ended at 8pm,” the person behind the counter said when I ordered.
I was confused because it was one of those coffee places with huge Italian espresso machines on the counter. Any half-trained coffee maker would know that a flat white is just espresso with a little milk.
It took more time than it needed to be but I eventually was able to skulk my way into a seat at the corner with my latte.
I paid RM14 for a paper cup of coffee that was over-roasted and milk that had been boiled but at least it was hot.
The opening crowd had dissipated by this time but the tables were still fully occupied.
Two kids at the table next to me were apparently studying. Students, I presumed.
“Every time I go out to study, the boyfriend always disturbs,” one of them said. “Simply want to spot-check me.”
“Why lah he is like that?” her companion asked.
“Last year, I kantoi at Starbucks,” the first one said.
Then they resumed giggling. This is perhaps the very nature of this once-alien coffee culture. We are forced to sit close to each other among the laptops the textbooks and the constant growl of the espresso machines.
Each trying to remain in their own bubble while at the same time enjoying the comfort of being one among a crowd — at once together and separated.
I nursed my coffee, writing up imaginary reviews in my head about the charred taste and the milk that was beginning to make suggestions to my stomach, mainly that it was time to figure out where the nearest restroom was.
The two girls collected their stuff and left. Immediately a young man with a backpack and pink headphones made a beeline for the table.
He took out a load of books from the backpack and plugged his phone charger into the wall socket.
The table on the other side of me also emptied and the gentleman, roughly the same generation as me, taking it over gave me a slight nod.
If I was anywhere else, a kopitiam for example, the proximity and nod would have been a conversation starter and we’d be talking about anything in no time.
The Olympics, Gaza, World War III, or even the weather would have been good talking points as we enjoy our coffee and immersive imported coffee culture.
Outside, I can escape from the restrictions of whatever social rules dictate behaviour inside this kind of coffee shop.
But I am not outside, so I refrain from engaging.
“So, how about those riots in Britain then?” he suddenly said, perhaps out of politeness, after noticing that I was scrolling through YouTube videos.
“I’m not good at global events, I’m afraid. I have trouble finding my keys,” I said, remembering my self-imposed coffee culture etiquette.
Instead, I retreat to my phone and YouTube videos of people falling over.
- ZB Othman is an editor of The Malaysian Reserve.
- This article first appeared in The Malaysian Reserve weekly print edition
