When Coffee Customers Say “Don’t Educate Me”… A Barista’s Honest Reflection After 4 Years

 Four years is long enough for a young barista to grow from awkwardly identifying flavors on a coffee tasting wheel to being able to sense—eyes closed—the subtle pull that water temperature and grind size have on extraction.

Four years is also long enough for me to witness how the gap called “understanding” between baristas and customers deepens quietly, tugged back and forth by “educating” and “being educated.”

The first time a customer, with a hint of impatience, told me, “I don’t like being educated,” I was stunned—and then uncomfortably silent.

And so I, along with many peers, slowly chose to “give up.”
But what exactly did we give up?

At first, we gave up those instinctive “knowledge points.”

When a guest pointed at “Yirgacheffe” on the menu and asked, “Is it bitter?” I swallowed the familiar explanation—“It has charming citrus and jasmine notes, very clean and bright”—and simply said, “Not bitter, more on the acidic side.”

When guests asked to add sugar and milk to a specialty pour-over, I held back the polite suggestion, “Pour-overs highlight the natural flavors of the beans—maybe try the pure taste first,” and instead quietly handed them the sugar jar and milk pitcher, offering only an understanding smile.

I thought this was respect.
I thought stepping back from the “educator” role and becoming a pure “service provider” was the right thing to do.

I stopped trying to build a bridge. I simply completed the transaction quietly.
The bar suddenly became “harmonious”—but also eerily quiet.

The passionate conversations about coffee itself, the brightened eyes when discovering a new flavor—slowly faded away.

Coffee, something that once brought warmth and joy to my heart, began to feel… strange.

We baristas were like people guarding an isolated island we deemed sacred, holding what we believed were treasures—knowledge about origins, processes, roast curves, brewing techniques.
Meanwhile, outside the island, consumers hurried past, just wanting a simple cup of “black water” to start the morning or a sweet pick-me-up for the afternoon.

We said: “Try something good!”
They heard: “You’re trying to upsell me.”

We showcased “champion beans, champion brews, champion farms.”
They wondered: “Okay? What’s that got to do with me?”

We said: “Find what suits you.”
They reacted defensively: “I know, no need to teach me.”

Is this gap really impossible to bridge?

Until one afternoon, a regular brought a friend.
The friend tried a carefully brewed Kenyan, frowned slightly, and told the regular, “It’s kind of sour, not used to it.”

Following my new “no educating” rule, I should’ve apologized and asked if he wanted to adjust it.

But that day, something made me softly say,
“Does it feel a bit different from your usual Americano? Maybe a little like fruit juice? Or even a touch like dried plum?”

He froze for a moment, took another sip, and the resistance in his eyes softened—replaced by curiosity.
“Huh… now that you say it, maybe it does taste like that.”

And with that spark of curiosity, the conversation opened up.

I didn’t lecture.
I simply shared how I went from “not used to” Kenyan coffee to loving it. I told him that acidity in coffee—just like in fruit—can be good or bad, and that baristas learn to tell the difference.

When he left, he said, “Next time, I’ll try something else you recommend.”

In that moment, I realized I never gave up the “educator” role—because that’s not what mattered.

What I really gave up…
was my own original, burning curiosity for coffee.

Four years ago, I didn’t enter this field because I had memorized all the origins and processes.
I entered because, for the first time, a cup of pour-over gave me something beyond its flavor notes—a personal imagination.
It was the scent of grapefruit blossoms lining a street.
It was citrus melting on my tongue.

That tremor of excitement, that hunger to explore—that’s what fueled my passion and discipline.

So when did “coffee education” become a one-way dump of knowledge and standardized answers?

It was supposed to be an invitation—an opening of the senses, a sincere sharing, the fuse that sparks someone else’s curiosity.

At some point, I mistook “knowledge” for the goal, forgetting that it’s merely the bridge toward experience and feeling.

When customers say, “I don’t like being educated,” what they resent may not be the knowledge itself, but the condescending tone—the sense of “you’re wrong and I will correct you,” the judgment that places personal preferences under a universal standard.

What they’re defending is their right to their own experience—the sovereignty of their taste—the freedom to spend money on what makes them happy.

Is that wrong?
Not at all.

The mistake is ours: confusing “sharing” with “lecturing.”

So I’ve stopped “giving up.”
What I’m picking back up is not a teacher’s pointer—but the heart of an explorer.

Now, when a customer hesitates at the menu, I ask:
“Are you in the mood for something refreshing, like fruit tea? Or rich and cozy, like nuts and chocolate?”
Much clearer than “washed” or “natural.”

When customers are curious about flavor notes, I say:
“This bean is fun—kind of winey with a sweet raisin finish. Try it and see if you get that too?”
See? I return the judgment to them. I’m just a companion on the discovery.

When someone wants sugar in a specialty coffee, I smile and say,
“No problem at all. But if you’re open to it, take a tiny sip first—just to see where its natural sweetness goes. Then add sugar if you want. It might be interesting.”

I’m no longer trying to “teach” them anything—just inviting them to play with coffee.

A coffee bar shouldn’t be a lectern for delivering knowledge;
it should be a shared space for exploration.

Here, there’s no absolute right or wrong—only honest feelings and open conversation.
I share my expertise, born from my experiences, but always for their enjoyment.
They share their reactions—good or bad—and they’re precious, because they show what my craft stirs in the real world.

A communication gap can never be bridged by one side giving up or giving in.
It asks both sides to take a small step forward.

Professionals can let go of the preacher’s posture and return to guiding experiences.
Consumers can soften their guard a little and give unfamiliar flavors a chance—even just out of curiosity.

Four years in, I still love coffee.
I love its scientific precision and its artistic freedom.
It can be refined like a piece of art, or comforting like a daily ritual.
Coffee embraces everything.

So the next time you walk into a café, if I’m behind the bar with light in my eyes, eager to share a tiny story about your cup—please don’t shut down right away.

It’s not preaching.
It’s someone who’s explored for four years, still full of wonder, offering you a sincere invitation—

“Hey, there’s a little world hiding in this cup.
Want to explore it together?”