The Spiritual Death of the Café

Credit, Juan Fuentes, 2007

I’ll never forget the first time I sipped a cup of specialty coffee. It was an Ethiopia Natural-processed Yirgacheffe, and it tasted like blueberries—bright, sweet, and entirely unexpected. I couldn’t believe coffee could taste this way naturally, without any flavoring. The barista shared the story behind the cup: the farm where it was grown, the relationship between the roastery and the farmers, and—what moved me the most—the social impact of sourcing coffee directly. This moment for me was transformative and started me on the journey that would become my career.

Specialty coffee is amazing, and I’ve dedicated my life to it. But, as the years go on and I spend more time in this industry, there’s a hole that has become increasingly hard for me to ignore.

Craft and quality matter, but coffee is about something so much deeper. For centuries, coffee has been more than a beverage—it has been a bridge, a catalyst for conversation, connection, and deep intellectual introspection. Cafés are supposed to be spaces where people gather, exchange ideas, build relationships, and… well… change the world.

With specialty’s push against the excesses and commodification practices of coffee mega-corporations, it’s sad that in many ways we’ve done a worse job than them in this particular regard. We’ve perfected brewing, honed sourcing, elevated quality, increased justice and equity throughout the supply chain—but in many ways commodified coffee culture, like the mega-corporations we sought to defy.

And let me get this out of the way before we jump in: I’m not talking about cafés as a third place. The concept was definitely part of my thinking when writing this, but the reality is that the concept of the third place—at least how Ray Oldenburg conceived it in 1989—is very difficult to apply to the era we live in now. I don’t think it’s fair or necessary to expect cafés to be third places. What I really want to do here is explore what coffee culture has been historically, why perhaps we abandoned that, and what we might aspire to again.

Coffee and Connection:

Coffee culture began in Yemen, where the drink was first brewed by Sufi orders in their gatherings. These weren’t cafés, but they were spaces with purpose. Gatherings known as majalis adh-dhikr—“gatherings of remembrance”—used coffee to sustain spiritual devotion and bring people together. Coffee wasn’t just a drink; it was a catalyst for connection. It fueled late-night discussions, poetry recitals, and acts of worship, creating a rhythm that bound individuals to something greater than themselves and to one another. The spaces these gatherings took place in were mosques, the homes of devotees/teachers, or zawiyas (Sufi lodges). Coffee was a constant, and both the brewers and the drink were honored.

This tradition continues to this day in most Arab and Muslim countries. Coffee is the first thing you are offered when entering a home or even a hotel lobby, and it’s a symbol of hospitality. In some Sufi circles, there’s actually a saying that an angel accompanies those who bear the smell of coffee and that when Satan hears the clinking of coffee cups in the morning, he despairs and abandons all his notions of being able to guide the drinker astray that day. It’s a beautiful way to think about this drink we all treasure so much.

As coffee culture spread beyond Yemen through the Muslim world, it flourished in cities like Cairo, Damascus, and Istanbul, becoming a thriving enterprise. Yemeni students in Cairo, studying at Al-Azhar—one of the oldest universities in the world—popularized coffee as a scholarly drink. Abdul Qadir al-Jaziri, a 16th-century scholar, famously wrote, “Oh coffee, you dispel all cares; you are for the seeker of knowledge, their greatest desire.” Coffee was seen not just as a drink but as a companion to intellectual and spiritual pursuits.

This eventually gave way to the development of coffeehouses. In the Ottoman Empire, coffeehouses (qahveh khaneh) became vibrant centers of urban life, hosting music, storytelling, games, and discussions. They were places where people of all walks of life could meet as equals. These spaces became so influential that authorities often viewed them with suspicion, fearing they might spark dissent—which they frequently did.

When coffeehouses spread to Europe, they became vital hubs for intellectual and social revolutions. In 17th- and 18th-century England, coffeehouses were dubbed “penny universities” because, for the price of a cup, patrons could engage in lively discussions on science, politics, and art. Specific coffeehouses catered to distinct groups: Lloyd’s Coffee House, where Lloyd’s Bank was founded, served merchants and insurers; The Grecian attracted scientists; and Will’s became a haven for poets and writers. In Paris, cafés like Café de Procope provided a space for revolutionary thinkers during the French Revolution. In Boston, the Green Dragon Coffee House became a meeting place for American revolutionaries and where the Boston Tea Party started.

This tradition continued into the 20th century, with coffeehouses serving as gathering spots for modern subcultures. In Vienna and Paris, they nurtured the works of intellectuals, artists, and writers. In Greenwich Village, Beatnik cafés like Café Reggio (where Al Pacino was discovered) became homes for counterculture movements and creativity, while Café Trieste in San Francisco inspired creativity across art forms—Francis Ford Coppola even wrote parts of The Godfather there. At every stage of its history, coffeehouses reflected the communities they served, belonging to the people as much as they belonged to them.

But something changed toward the latter part of the 20th century.

Commodity Coffee, Commodity Community, Commodity Culture

In the latter part of the 20th century, the idea of the café as a space for connection wasn’t lost—it was reimagined, packaged, and sold. Modern café chains saw the potential to capitalize on the allure of coffeehouse culture: a place where people gather, linger, and feel part of something. It was a smart idea. How many times a month do you go to your favorite restaurant? Once, twice maybe? Compare that to a coffee shop, where people will go on average 15–20 times per month. If you can scale that model, it’s big, big, big money.

But this approach came at a cost. It took what was once organic and authentic—spaces born and bred in community, culture, and ideas—and distilled it into a replicable formula. The café became a brand. A lifestyle. The wooden tables, the curated music, the menu boards with hand-drawn typography—all carefully constructed to create a sense of intimacy, of connection. But this connection wasn’t with each other; it was with the brand.

Cafés became spaces where you could feel like you belonged, but only as a consumer. Buying a coffee wasn’t just about the drink; it was about buying into the image of yourself as the kind of person who sips lattes in a café, working on your next big idea or catching up with friends. This commodification of connection worked brilliantly for business, but it fundamentally altered what cafés had been. And most of that would have been fine and good if those cafés were made available to the communities they operated in as communal spaces. But they weren’t. Far from it, in fact. These were tightly controlled corporate chains.

As a result, the embeddedness of cafés completely disappeared. The cafés didn’t just scale coffee culture—they flattened it entirely. Historically, cafés were always either a reflection of the places they were in or allowed, in some sense, to be appropriated by the subcultures they attracted. They were shaped by human beings, in all their beautiful sounds, ideas, images, and movements. But the modern café doesn’t belong to the community it serves any longer. It belongs in large part to a corporation and, in smaller part, to franchisees who have very little say in how the cafés operate in a cultural or communal sense. They’re homogenized and provide little to no meaning. In fact, they rarely even make much sense. Playing Norah Jones in Greenwich Village might work, but that same playlist in the Bronx doesn’t. Cafés no longer reflect community; they overwrite it. They don’t live in places; they occupy them, colonize them, gentrify them.

And in doing so, they destroy culture. Every community in the world has something to say, something unique to offer. Historically, coffeehouses gave those people a place to be heard, and coffee itself assisted in sharpening and amplifying those voices. These cafés aren’t just failing to connect—they’re actively erasing the things that make communities… well… communities at all.

And today, these same cafés are even failing to deliver on their one laudable promise: to offer space. Increasingly, we’re finding practices like purposely uncomfortable seating, covered wall outlets, and a focus on drive-throughs. They have quickly realized that getting people in and out the door as quickly as possible is more profitable than creating the community spaces they told us they were building. Just last month, newly appointed Starbucks CEO Brian Niccol said he aims for a brewed cup of coffee to take less than 30 seconds. At least they’re being honest now about what their real intentions were from the beginning.

Specialty’s biggest missed opportunity.

Specialty coffee began as a rebellion—against the mediocrity of commodity coffee, against exploitation in the supply chain, and against the loss of the story and craft behind each cup. It promised something better: coffee with integrity, transparency, and unparalleled quality. It gave us flavors that spoke of their origins and relationships, with each sip a testament to the land it came from and the hands that cultivated it.

With such an incredible set of ideals, specialty coffee had a unique opportunity—not just to rethink the sourcing, roasting, or brewing of coffee, but to reimagine what a café could and should be. Sadly, this opportunity has been almost entirely squandered. While there are exceptions, most of these aren’t even specialty coffee shops. They’re second-wave neighborhood cafés or community-focused restaurants that happen to serve coffee. Few specialty cafés succeed in combining high-quality coffee with a truly inclusive, community-centered café space. It’s a tragic missed opportunity.

From the outset, many specialty coffee shops have made their spaces intentionally inhospitable. Seating is limited, uncomfortable, or non-existent. Wi-Fi is deliberately absent. The message is clear: stay just long enough to drink your coffee, then leave. While some may argue this approach encourages people to “appreciate the coffee,” let’s not pretend this doesn’t also serve their financial interests. Quick turnover means more sales.

But the most egregious failure of specialty coffee lies beyond these inhospitable spaces. Many of them actually are reasonably hospitable. It’s the fact that specialty coffee shops are deeply entrenched in gentrification. In countless neighborhoods, the opening of a specialty coffee shop has become a clear marker of impending displacement. These cafés don’t just fail to engage with the communities they operate in—they actively contribute to their erosion. They push out families and erase culture, all while profiting off ideals of fairness and connection. It’s the greatest hypocrisy of specialty coffee and one that’s impossible to ignore.

Every time I walk into one of these cafés, I think about what could have been. The worst of these experiences is when a person of color enters a specialty café in a historically POC neighborhood and feels out of place—or worse, not welcome. This happens to me throughout the year during my travels.

What Next?

The solution is simple: embed yourselves in the communities where you operate. Open your doors—not just to coffee enthusiasts for cuppings or latte art classes, but to the people who live in these neighborhoods. Collaborate with local businesses, poets, creatives, schools, community centers, and nonprofits. Make your café a space for the community to gather, share their interests, and build relationships.

If you’re in a gentrifying neighborhood, be proactive. Create space for young people in the community—not to teach them how to grade coffee or take Q courses (though you could also do that)—but to give them a space to explore their own passions. Be a safe haven. Be what cafés were for centuries: hubs of culture, creativity, and connection.

Before expanding to your next location, consider investing in the one you have. If you’re on the ground floor of a building, as many cafés are, consider renting the space above and turning it into a community hub. Host events that reflect the interests of your neighborhood—poetry readings, book clubs, art showcases. But it doesn’t even have to be limited to those kinds of things. Specialty coffee founders are often fascinating, creative people. So, build community around your interests: surfing, music, tattoo art, Magic: The Gathering—it can be anything. Whatever resonates with your space, your particular interests, the community you’re in, or the people around you.

Coffee is more than just fuel for creativity; it is its very soul. The sacred, innermost secret of these little seeds are the values they heighten: epiphany, collaboration, depth, introspection, shared experience. Coffee has been the beloved companion of inspired artists, writers, thinkers, scholars, and revolutionaries for centuries. Honor that legacy. Become spaces that build and sustain culture. Contribute to the creativity and vibrancy of the neighborhoods you serve.

Do this, and specialty coffee can finally live up to the ideals it was built on. Do this, and we’ll all be better for it. I promise.