Indiana University

Indiana University School of Journalism

Summer in London: Coffee

Thirteen honors students from the School of Journalism are spending their summer in London, working in British media and studying British culture.

 

In search of coffee in London

May 13, 2008
Professor David Boeyink

Editor’s note: Dave Boeyink is director of the IU School of Journalism Honors Program. When not looking for coffee, he is supervising 13 honors students during the Summer in London program.

Dave Boeyink
Courtesy photo
Professor Dave Boeyink, finally fueled with good coffee, settles down to the business of journalism. He’s overseeing 13 students during the Summer in London program.

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Hi. My name is Dave. I’m addicted to coffee.

In Bloomington, my first stop of the day is at Soma for a half-caff Americano, two-thirds water, with a splash of cream. Only then can I claim status as a human being, though my colleagues challenge that claim.

So when I traveled to London, one of my first priorities was not the Tower of London or Buckingham Castle. The question was where to find caffeine.

Finding coffee turned out to be no problem. Finding good coffee is an assignment worthy of New Scotland Yard.

My first stop was Starbucks, which is spreading through London faster than a virus. At this rate, the number of Starbuck’s outlets will outnumber pubs by 2010. By 2030, each Londoner will have his own personal Starbuck’s barista.

This massive cultural encroachment is reason enough to avoid the U.S.-based coffee franchise. Indeed (love those English words), I’d rather have coffee at a local shop like the Notting Hill Tea and Coffee Emporium. But I was desperate.

So despite my preference for local coffee houses, I stopped in at the nearest Starbuck’s. After all, I like the coffee at the Starbuck’s on Indiana in Bloomington.

But even though they speak the same language here, the coffee seemed to lose something in the translation. Starbuck’s London espresso (I’ve tried several outlets) doesn’t have the bold, rich taste I expect. And at $3 a cup, they don’t even offer cream.

I admit I’m not a coffee connoisseur. I can’t describe the nuanced differences of Kenya AA and Jamaica Blue Mountain. And Starbuck’s must be delivering what most Brits want or you wouldn’t find a store in every block. But I know what I like. And this wasn’t it.

Days later, wandering in a caffeine-deficit haze, I found a promising Italian coffee shop near the study centre where our students are based. After Starbuck’s, I felt I’d been promoted to the British aristocracy. Now this was real coffee, by Jove.

The next day, however, the same coffee shop delivered a cup that looked and tasted like the Thames. Forgive me; I exaggerate for literary effect. But I couldn’t drink it.

This isn’t the half of it. Every sandwich shop in London will offer you espresso. Bad espresso. Coffee, coffee everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

Enter Stefan.

Stefan, a Swedish expatriate, runs a mobile coffee stand near the Underground. No, his coffee wasn’t much better. But he knew about this place in West London. . . best coffee in London, he said. . . near Piccadilly Circus. . .something about Eliza Doolittle.

Dave Boeyink at Monmouth Coffee Company, London
Courtesy photo
West London’s Monmouth Coffee Company has all the right elements to satisfy a coffee lover’s demands, according to Boeyink.
No, wait. That was my withdrawal talking. But the Monmouth Coffee Company was in West London. Suddenly, I had many academic reasons to visit West London.

You can smell the coffee before you walk in the door. Worn wooden bins of beans line the far wall; a counter of fresh pastries runs down the center. Customers line up 10 deep in the narrow passage along the right hand wall. Calls for cappuccinos and lattes are yelled to the back, their echo from one of three baristas signaling receipt of the order.

Chris Willoughby has been working at Monmouth for seven years. “It’s just a nice place,” he said. And the beans, though not fair trade, are “fairly traded,” giving coffee growers a good price for their labor. What more can you ask than to feel morally superior when indulging in a vice?

But to be honest, I was thinking of my own needs more than those farmers. So I ordered an Americano. I sipped its frothy cream. I wept.

Minutes later, empty cup in my hand, I drifted back into consciousness. Where was I? What language were these people speaking? And just what was I supposed to be doing with those IU journalism students? I think it’s coming back to me. . .