Pu’er Coffee

 When we order coffee in cafés, it’s common to see certain drinks on the menu offered in “large” and “small” sizes (and let’s not bring up that brand that contradicts itself). But in reality, most espresso-based drinks already come with a naturally fixed serving size by design. Those so-called size options are often nothing more than a blunt, convenience-driven modification for consumption scenarios. I’ve long felt that cafés perhaps shouldn’t think in terms of “large” or “small” at all, but rather in terms of purpose-specific coffee cups . Today, I want to talk about where this idea comes from. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought seriously about this topic. Early last year, when a certain brand launched an 8-ounce cortado, it sparked plenty of discussion within the industry. In the world of specialty coffee, the idea of using a purpose-designed cup for each drink reflects a deep respect for coffee culture and the consumer experience. It shifts thinking away from the purely pr...

  Staying alive starts with knowing whether you’re chasing reality—or an ideal. If you only listen to advice from within the industry, it’s easy to reach one conclusion: To run a coffee shop, the most important thing is making great coffee. I used to believe that wholeheartedly. But once I actually stepped into operating a café, I slowly realized something uncomfortable: the ability to “make good coffee” is overestimated in this business. It matters—but it isn’t the core. 01 | It Sets the Floor, Rarely the Outcome In a coffee shop, making good coffee functions more like a passing grade. If you can’t reach it, the problems are obvious. But once you do, its influence on the final business outcome drops off quickly. I’ve seen plenty of cafés with solid skills and consistent quality that were still operating under constant pressure. And I’ve seen others where the coffee was simply “decent,” yet the business survived steadily. Because what truly creates distance between c...

 When I push open the shop door in the morning, the first thing I do isn’t turn on the espresso machine—it’s to feel. My fingertips glide across the cool stainless-steel counter. Morning light cuts diagonally through the window, casting a bright triangle onto the wooden table—this very first moment of warmth and shadow becomes the day’s opening, silent image in my mind. I’ve grown used to observing with my eyes. When the grinder growls, the burst of deep brown grounds always reminds me of the soft crunch of leaves underfoot in a quiet forest. Tamping is the silent secret beneath the wrist—a breath-holding motion, soft and deliberate, meant to protect something quiet and unspoken. The amber espresso flows from the portafilter like silk. I crouch down, aligning my lens with the stream, gently tilting the cup to watch the liquid settle and kiss the ice—like a tiny, tender rainfall. People often ask me why I pay attention to such small, fleeting things. I show them the photos in ...

 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 s...