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Expat reveals Aussie coffee culture shock
I sold everything I owned, hopped on a plane and set out for a brand new life across the globe.
There was no turning back. I was about to be landing on Australian soil and into what turned out to be the biggest adventure of my life.
I was kindly greeted with an unsuspicious attitude when I reached customs, which was the polar opposite to the aggressive norm of LAX. I took notice and cheerfully bounced my way into my new fiancé’s arms. He helped me with my four suitcases filled with only clothing – which was all I now owned.
On our way home, I rolled down the window, letting the breeze blow through my hair. I let my shoes fall from my feet. I felt I had finally arrived.
After a week of settling in, it was time to get a job. Luckily for me, the local deli was hiring. I had worked as a waitress at a retro diner in LA, so I could rely upon that experience. It was hectic racing between the maroon, vinyl booths, balancing blue-cheese bacon burgers or cream-cheese filled French toast, tossing coins in the jukebox and drinking cup after cup of American coffee. Adam Sandler had been a regular – he was the kindest man ever and his tips were pretty hefty!
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But this one-time LA waitress was now a newly hired Sydney deli worker.
“Can you make coffee?” my boss asked.
“Sure, where’s the coffee machine?” I replied.
“Here…” He pointed to the large espresso machine behind him.
“Ohhh, you mean like Starbucks coffee.”
His face resembled one witnessing a horror movie scene and cautiously he muttered out the words, “No, not like Starbucks coffee…”
Quickly realising his disgust for Starbucks, I backtracked. “Oh no, don't worry, I don't like Starbucks either, I much prefer Coffee Bean.”
Again, it was as if he’d seen an alien or I was speaking a completely different language.
“Have you ever made a real coffee?” he asked, suspiciously.
“I'm guessing no...” I cautiously replied.
“Right, then: barista school,” he ordered, pointing his finger out to the sidewalk.
“Not only have you never made a real coffee, but you’re American, so off to barista school you go.”
Was he joking?
What did being American have anything to do with coffee? Coffee must be a serious thing around here.
“So, you’ll learn how to make all of these in barista school,” my new boss bluntly said.
The possibility of making a new friend crossed my mind... and this encouraged me.
On the day of my new education, I hopped into a taxi to get to the city. Incidentally, I find it so funny that the city is called ‘the city’ – isn’t all of Sydney a city? In LA, we call that ‘downtown’.
Anyway, I strolled through and perused the Victoria Building, overwhelmed by everything new and in awe of the intricate architecture. I knew there was a queen named Victoria, maybe it was named after her?
(Sidenote, I have since learned that it’s actually called the Queen Victoria Building, so yes, that would be correct!)
In Los Angeles, we have nothing named for the British empire. Oh, except for the Queen Mary ship, which I annually visited on Halloween for its epic, scary Halloween show. But this building felt uniquely and honourably royal.
“How ya goin’?” asked the instructor, when I got to the barista course.
“I’m not going anywhere... I think I’m supposed to be here?” I replied, completely confused.
“Canadian?” he continued.
“No, I’m American, my name is Kirsten?”
“Oh, American! You’ll definitely need this course!” he replied, with a belly chuckle.
“You can sit anywhere within this section.”
Feeling slightly insulted, I sat. A wave of protective emotion for my culture was so new to me – I had never felt this before.
What is it about Americans and coffee? I silently pondered.
I suffered through the two-day course, and as a part of passing it, I had to independently brew and steam my first cappuccino. The teacher tasted my coffee and his eyebrows shot up.
“Now you’re one step closer to being an Aussie – well done, Miss America!” he exclaimed.
I knew I could do it.
I proudly sipped my cappuccino, revelling in the success of my barista efforts. As the sweet milk froth weightlessly rolled onto my lips, it felt like a slice of heaven. As it cascaded onto my unsophisticated coffee palate, it all came together. I finally got why this was such a thing!
I realised how much care went into making a good coffee. The beans, where they came from, the acidity levels, the oil that is brewed from espresso shots, how the milk is steamed... it was all worth it.
Did I have my 8-ounce large jug of watered-down coffee from a percolator? No, not any more, but what I did have was an experience.
I made a new friend, too. A best friend actually. Her name is Cappuccino. She is my gal and we meet up every single morning!
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