I'm a coffee snob. Always have been, always will be. I like to blame my Wellingtonian upbringing and the fact my first boyfriend was a particularly picky barista. Regardless of how it came about, coffee is something I take very seriously.
I remember my first coffee with fondness, like many other childhood memories. I was 16 and had travelled into Wellington CBD with some friends. My 19-year-old brother agreed to meet up with me afterward. It was about 10pm and he took me to the oh-so-grown-up Midnight Espresso, a long-running institution on Cuba St. He ordered a long black. I'd never had proper coffee before, but was keen to try it, so my brother ordered me a latte - a milky introduction to what would become a life-long love.
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I've since graduated to flat whites, always in a tulip cup. If I'm offered a large cup, I'll usually crack a joke about how I didn't realise I'd entered a time portal to the '90s and you may as well give me caffeine soup. I will sometimes order a long black, but mostly if I'm not sure of the quality of the brew where I'm ordering. (It's harder to muck up a long black than a flat white.)
Nowadays I make the journey from my office, two blocks down the road to my local spot for my morning brew. I'm there so often my colleagues jokingly refer to it as my second office. I'm even friends with my barista on Facebook. We send each other coffee memes and joke about our pickiness when it comes to how our bean is served. The staff at my local know me by name but, come to think of it, that's not actually exclusive to my weekday coffee spot. I also have a few select weekend coffee spots, where I know I'll be served consistently great coffee. Those baristas also know me by name. As a result, out-of-town visitors are always given the impression the Bay is a super-friendly place. I mean, obviously it is friendly, but the familiarity with which my fellow coffee-lovers refer to me has become somewhat of a running joke.