How the Kiwi cafe transformed from basics to barista culture: Glenn Dwight

Coffee isn’t really about the chemistry. It’s about the ritual. Photo / 123RF

If there’s one thing we Kiwis know, it’s coffee.

We might not know exactly what’s in it, and some of us have discovered the hard way that an app that sounds like it could be used for grinding up coffee grounds isn’t a coffee ordering app.

But we nod along when Brad talks about “grind profiles” and “flow rates,” even though most of us think flow rate is just how fast you can drink it.

But coffee isn’t really about the chemistry. It’s about the ritual.

It’s our excuse to huddle, mutter, speculate, and occasionally solve the world’s problems in under 20 minutes, before deciding they can wait until after another round.

And there’s no better arena for that than the humble Kiwi cafe. A must for any rural township.

Now, once upon a time, the cafe was a very specific creature.

You didn’t go there for “chats”.

You went there because you’d run out of flask tea and your bacon and egg pie had gone a bit sweaty in the car.

Parents begrudgingly dragged their children into a cafe with the rule: just one item.

These places were all eerily similar, like they’d been franchised by an aunt from 1974.

Net curtains clung to the windows and rarely, if ever, got a turn in the washing machine.

The lino was patterned so cleverly that it could disguise a full coffee spill until a quick-response mop team led by Barry, part-time cleaner and full-time gossip, swung into action.

Tables were Formica. Chairs squeaked.

The smell was a comforting mix of chip oil, disinfectant, and a hint of Old Spice from Barry, the aforementioned cleaner.

The food lived inside a giant Perspex display cabinet, like a museum for sandwiches.

Each item was lovingly wrapped in cling film, mummified for preservation, giving the impression they’d been playing a long game of pass the parcel.

If you were lucky, you might get a ham and pineapple toastie.

If you were really lucky, the edges might not slice open the roof of your mouth like edible razor wire.

And the drinks? Oh, the drinks were straightforward.

Tea. White or black. Sugar or no sugar. That was the entire decision tree.

Coffee came in one variety: brown. With milk. Maybe.

And it tasted like the inside of a well-used thermos because it was from the inside of a well-used thermos.

There was no background music, just the occasional zap from the blue light bug killer, punctuating conversations like a tiny electric drum solo.

Then something happened.

No one is exactly sure when, but at some point in the early 2000s, the panini machine arrived.

Maybe someone went to Europe and brought one back in their suitcase, or maybe a flash Auckland café posted something on Instagram before Instagram even existed.

But suddenly, the humble toastie had competition.

Paninis were everywhere.

Chicken, cranberry and brie. Ham, cheese and mustard. Sundried tomato and feta.

It didn’t matter what you put in it, as long as it was toasted until the roof of your mouth required medical attention for third-degree cheese burns.

They came out of the press like delicious bricks, too hot to eat, too good not to.

People ordered them with side salads.

The same people who’d once thought a lettuce leaf was a garnish now discussed rocket and vinaigrette.

And just when we’d got our heads around that, the cafe evolved again.

These days, going to a cafe is like stepping into a lifestyle magazine page.

You can have coffee in a converted bus, a repurposed shipping container, or what appears to be a refurbished beekeeping shed.

There’s music from Iceland playing, the staff all have fringe tattoos, and your flat white is made with oat milk steamed to exactly 62 degrees.

The sugar is organic. The spoon is wooden. And the bill is paid with a QR code.

The menus are full of things I don’t recognise but enjoy saying out loud.

In fact, mispronouncing them has become a competitive sport with friends.

The rules are simple: say the word with total confidence, even if it comes out as “fo-catch-ya” for focaccia or “brusketta” for bruschetta.

The first person to crack a smile pays for the other person’s meal, and the winner gets bragging rights until the next round.

You can order a salad that’s warm. Or a muffin that’s savoury. And half the menu items come with a garnish you can’t quite identify but assume is good for you. Up is down, and left really is right.

But here’s the thing. For all the edible flowers and activated almonds, for all the reclaimed timber and vegan banana bread, I sort of love it.

Because, despite the change in menus and furniture and lighting (which now comes almost exclusively from bulbs inside birdcages), the cafe has stayed true to its roots.

It’s still where we meet. It’s still where we gather before sports games, gossip about work, debrief after a funeral, or plan a wedding over a long black and a slice of something gluten-free.

So, here’s to the Kiwi cafe, whether you love the old-school versions with their cling-wrapped sandwiches and laminated menus, or the modern ones with sourdough everything and a playlist curated by someone named Luca who once milked a yak in Nepal.

We’ve come a long way. And, in this case, I think that’s grounds for celebration.