How specialty coffee has confused looking impressive with looking after people

A story about my Brussels coffee crawl

The last time I wrote about truly bad hospitality was after a visit to a café in Cape Town. That’s how bad the experience was. I was inspired to write about it.

Like I am now after my visit to World of Coffee Brussels.

The exhibition wrapped up the day before and I had the day free before my evening flight home. So I did what every coffee person does in a new city. I set out to visit the best coffee shops the city has to offer.

I was particularly excited about this coffee crawl because my companion is his country’s national barista champion. Fair to say he knows a thing or two about coffee. I was keen to see hear his thoughts on the coffees we would have.

And he’s a good guy. I just genuinely like hanging out with him.

Have we forgotten espressos need to be enjoyable?

The first café we visited was serving espresso on a lever machine that’s currently trending on social media.

You know the one.

Beautiful. Minimal. Chromed out. Photogenic AF.

My friend ordered the espresso. It was prepared on the lever machine and therefore charged at a premium.

(I don’t know how to type the rolling eyes emoji)

He took two sips. Then quietly pushed the cup away.

I’ve seen toddlers show more commitment to broccoli.

The espresso wasn’t “challenging”. It wasn’t “modern.” It wasn’t “expressive.”

It was battery acid.

Then the service started

I ordered what I believed was a flat white. I couldn’t tell from the menu.

So I guessed. Then I waited.

Two customers who arrived after me were served before my drink arrived. No problem. Mistakes happen.

Eventually I asked if my drink had perhaps been forgotten. The response wasn’t an apology.

It was confusion.

It was the look of someone surprised I'd interrupted their afternoon by asking where my drink was.

When my drink finally arrived, it came with a complimentary cold drink. It's name escaped me almost immediately.

Not because I’m forgetful.

But because somebody had invested more creativity into naming it than making it memorable.

It wasn’t offensive. Just not interesting.

Then I met Frank

Brussels was in the middle of a heatwave. At the time of writing this, it still is.

So when I saw the queue outside Frank, my first instinct was to skip it. But my friend told me he had heard good things.

So we waited.

Ten minutes later we were shown to a table.

The welcome was warm. Not theatrical. Genuine.

The drink I ordered had sold out. The waitress apologised. Then smiled and said,

“Can I recommend something else? It’s actually my favourite.”

Not the café’s favourite. Her favourite.

The drink was excellent.

A few minutes later she came back. Not to clear cups. Not to upsell.

Simply to ask whether she’d chosen well. She looked genuinely pleased when I told her she had.

My favorite moment of the day

Our next stop was one of Brussels’ most celebrated cafés. I was told by a few “insiders”, one of Brussels’ top 3.

Friends had arrived ahead of us and found a table.

I walked through the door, spotted them immediately and headed over. I managed perhaps two steps.

“Excuse me!”

“We queue here.”

“And we respect the queue.”

I explained that I was joining friends. The explanation seemed inconvenient.

I genuinely can’t remember the coffee. Because I was annoyed.

I do remember the cinnamon bun. Enough to know that Birch Bakery still makes the best cinnamon bun I’ve ever eaten.

Hospitality isn’t loud

Specialty coffee often treats hospitality as performance.

Big smiles. Warm greetings. Long conversations.

Real hospitality is quieter than that.

It’s making sure customers receive what they ordered. It’s noticing someone has been waiting too long. It’s choosing equipment because it makes better coffee, not because it photographs well. It’s writing menus people can actually understand. It’s asking a question before making an assumption.

It’s remembering that every interaction either adds to the experience or chips away at it.