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So, you're thinking of setting up a café? Or, perhaps, you already have?  Or you serve coffee as part of your business?

Selling coffee to the public—that noble, slightly unhinged pursuit where you take a humble, roasted bean and try to serve it to the masses with a smile, a grinder, and a rapidly deteriorating sense of inner peace. Whether you're running a cosy café or serving flat whites out of a trailer in a windswept field, one truth remains: the public is weird, coffee is sacred, and your patience is on a timer shorter than your espresso shot.

From the outside, it looks charming. A whiff of fresh coffee, the soft hiss of steam, latte art shaped like a tulip, a heart—or let’s be honest, a vaguely wet splodge. People assume it’s all romance and oat milk. But behind the counter? It’s a battlefield of burned fingers, broken card machines, and customers asking for “an iced mocha... but hot?”

No one tells you that selling coffee is 30% making drinks, 30% therapy, and 40% trying not to scream into the hopper.  Jean Paul Sartre once said that "Hell is other people" - the joy of coffee is that it brings people together - the horror is that it brings people together.

You’ll meet a number of types of people:

• The Flat White Philosopher: Orders one flat white, then takes up residence for four hours with a laptop and a spiritual crisis
• The Decaf Double-Shot Confusionist: Orders decaf, then insists on an extra shot. When you explain it defeats the purpose, they blink at you like you’re the idiot
• The “It Tastes Burnt” Whisperer: Drinks 80°C black coffee in one gulp, then tells you it’s over-extracted
• The Oat Milk Oracle: Demands oat milk, then glares at you because it tastes like oats. Somehow this is your fault.

Serving coffee to the public is like hosting a tasting menu for a group of sleep-deprived, half-listening toddlers. Everyone wants it different. Nobody knows what they actually ordered.

Let’s not sugarcoat it. Being a barista looks cool on Instagram, but in reality, you’re one slip away from third-degree burns and a nervous breakdown. You’re doing three things at once—texting a supplier, steaming milk, and pretending to understand what someone means by “half-strong, but not weak.”

The espresso machine? It's your best friend and your worst enemy. Every hiss and sputter could mean a perfect shot or that the machine’s about to erupt like a caffeinated volcano. Either way, you smile. Because you're a professional. Or you're in too deep to leave now.

Despite it all—the awkward orders, the lukewarm complaints, the person who asks if you “do instant”—there’s a weird, genuine joy in it. Someone takes that first sip, eyes light up, and for a moment, you’re not just selling coffee. You’re making mornings bearable. You’re fuelling lives. You’re a bean-based miracle worker. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself between shifts and stress-sips of lukewarm batch brew.

Serving coffee to the public is not for the faint of heart. It’s exhausting, exhilarating, and occasionally soul-crushing—but also deeply human. You learn patience. You learn humility. You learn that someone, somewhere, will ask for a “cappuccino without foam.”

And you will smile. You will nod. You will serve them the coffee. And then you’ll take a very deep, very caffeinated breath... and do it all again tomorrow.