Where I live, in south South Gloucestershire, there appears to be some kind of plan to provide residents with as many refreshment opportunities within the smallest possible area. From what I can tell, the idea is to give each individual a Lidl, an Aldi, a Starbucks and, inevitably, a Costa, for their sole use. Given that Costa also has places in the local Sainsburys, soon to be replaced by a Starbucks, the local Tesco and the local charity shop (I may have made that last bit up), have Costa outlets, too, it can only be a matter of time until we get one in our local barber shop. As a coffee addict, I think to myself: what’s the attraction?
I get through three large mugs of filter coffee pretty well every morning, until the cut off point which is midday, because I fear the effects of post lunch caffeine on my ability to sleep later in the day. I brew – is that the right word? – the coffee myself, using a cheap coffeemaker bought in Sainsburys and Ethiopian filter coffee bought in Asda. The packs seem to last ages and it’s considerably cheaper than using, say, Costa. I can buy two packs for £6. You can barely get two cups of coffee for that. But that’s not the issue for me. It’s the ‘coffee’ products they sell that irk me.
“Good morning, Sir,” they don’t actually say. “Would you like a Latte, Cappaccino, Flat White, Flat Black, Americano. Mocha, Cortado, Caramel Cortado, Espresso or Mocha Cortado?”
My eyes glaze over. Isn’t Mocha Cortado a beautiful Canadian singer? What’s she doing here. I look blankly.
“We’ve also got seven types of Frappé, seven types of coffee over ice, other types of hot drinks, iced drinks, fruit coolers …”
“Stop! can I just have a regular coffee?”
“Certainly, Sir, Would that be a Latte, Cappaccino, Flat White …”
“Aargh.”
I always end up with an Americano, which is basically an Espresso, whatever the fuck that is, and water, which in Costa arrives in a bucket-sized container that’s almost impossible to lift up to drink. And it’s never as good as the coffee I make at home, despite my having no barista skills whatsoever.
Despite my pathetic whingeing, when I go to a Costa to meet a friend, and never because I just fancy a coffee, the shop is always busy. And that applies to the drive-throughs, too, where you can purchase your scolding hot drink and leave it half an hour until it’s too cold to drink. At least that’s what happened to me when I stopped at one of their outlets in south Bristol. But clearly I am the exception because, certainly where we live, people are always arriving with their Costa coffee containers. Has it not occurred to people that facilities exist to make the stuff at home?
I didn’t realise until a friend told me that there was actually a bloke called Costa – Sergio to be precise – who was that most hated type of person to Daily Mail readers, an immigrant, from Italy, obviously, who set up the first Costa in 1971. Now this wonderful family-owned business has a branch on every street corner, or to be more accurate 2467 branches in the UK alone. But here’s the thing. Old Sergio flogged the brand that bears his name donkey’s years ago and after a few ownership changes it now belongs to the not exactly family-owned Coca Cola. Not that there is anything wrong or unusual about this because many product brands belong to business behemoths and dear old Costa is but another one of them.
I am looking forward to the day when a new chain comes along. Maybe I should start it myself. I’ll call it Fucking Good Coffee. None of these fancy dan products that bear little or no resemblance to actual coffee will be on sale. Just coffee, plus milk and sugar/sweeteners as required. And if you want a takeaway service, bring a flask.
Sadly, I doubt that there would be much call for a coffee outlet because it appears the vast majority of customers prefer the kind of products that I could barely describe as coffee at all. I think I’ll stick with my little coffee shop in south South Gloucestershire, thank you very much. It’s cheaper and, in my humble opinion so much better, especially when served in a proper mug.
