Back in my youth, coffee at the office came from a single, hulking metal beast that looked like it had been forged in the basement of a post-war shipyard. Its surface was mottled with decades of brown stains, as if it had been gently marinating in coffee since the Nixon administration. The pot itself was so infused with the ghosts of brews past that it probably could have walked out of the building on its own, perhaps hitchhiking to a better life, where the only demand on it was to hold rainwater for a modest rooftop garden.
And yet, there was something honest about that coffee. It tasted like it had fought in a war and lost. You drank it not because it was good, but because it was there, and it was hot, and you were too polite or too desperate to say no.
Then, the world changed. First came the one-pot drip machines, clean and plastic and smelling faintly of hope. Then the “multi-temp” contraptions, as if coffee needed the same precision heating as sous vide salmon. Offices installed enormous chrome monstrosities that could’ve been stripped straight from the deck of a steampunk airship. Each machine arrived with more buttons, more lights, more ways to look like you were preparing for liftoff instead of a morning meeting.
But this wasn’t the end. This was just intermission before the true revolution: Keurig-style machines. Suddenly, coffee was not a communal act. It was personal. A kaleidoscope of K-cups appeared, each promising a bespoke caffeine experience: Vanilla Biscotti, Dark Magic, Jamaican Me Crazy. The break room became a coffee Eden. Everyone had exactly what they wanted, exactly when they wanted it.
And then came the fall.
As in all Edens, there was a serpent. Or rather, several. People began taking K-cups home. Just a few at first, hidden in the lunch bag. Then a sleeve. Then whole boxes vanished overnight. The Keurig became a liability. The machines were replaced with “coffee packet systems,” devices so expensive that no one could afford one at home. They were safe from theft but developed … personalities.
Now, before you could brew a cup, you had to engage in a humiliating checklist. Empty the packet bin. Refill the water tank. Clean the drip tray. In some offices, the machine made you sign a pledge of loyalty before dispensing Colombian Medium Roast. One intern told me he had to swear fealty while kneeling, though to be fair, he’s the kind of kid who’d kneel if a printer jammed.
If this continues, I see our future clearly: the office coffee station as an American Ninja Warrior course. You start on the warped wall, sprint across the foam lily pads, and dangle from the monkey bars over a pit of decaf. Then, jousting with senior leadership (foam lances only, because HR), and finally strapping on a jetpack to soar over the cubicle farm and press the Brew button before your competitor does. All this for a cup you could’ve made with a $15 Mr. Coffee at home.
Is this who we are? A people willing to strap into corporate jetpacks for the privilege of mediocre caffeine?
I yearn for the days of the old pot. Yes, the coffee was burnt. Yes, the last inch at the bottom was mostly radioactive grinds. But if you drank it, you stood a decent chance of developing superpowers by lunch. And that, my friends, is worth more than all the single-origin artisan roasts in the world.