The simple cup of joe my grandfather once enjoyed at the local family-owned diner gave way to my father’s Starbucks venti dark brew, a nominally Italian cup of corporatization. The millennial wave of boutique cafés would be inscrutable to them both, as the hues of shop interiors lightened alongside the color of roasts, blond wood and beans sweeping uniformly across the planet.
% Arabica, a specialty chain hailing from Japan, has so far avoided the fate of Blue Bottle, La Colombe, or Stumptown—former artisan roasters that now firmly reside in the portfolios of multinational conglomerates. Since its founding in the twilight of the Obama years, % Arabica has charted rapid expansion in markets from Kuwait to Canada; the first US outpost landed in 2021 in Dumbo, Brooklyn, as Joe Biden ambled into office. In contrast to the (at least implicit) variety of its geographical spread, the company has hewed to a thin, Dezeen-baiting brand of minimalism.
Its latest New York location, located opposite the Museum of Modern Art’s staff entrance, is made from stronger stuff. White walls of board-formed concrete tunnel from deep within the shop’s narrow, partly underground space toward its 54th Street glass storefront. The floors are covered with unfinished wood, which finds its way into the flanged wainscoting that doubles as a countertop. One end of a long bench (also wood) hugs a rotund column that presses up against the façade, forming two paths of entry/exit. The total effect is of being in a submarine designed by Muji. (Or, as was in fact the case, SelgasCano. The Madrid architectural studio was also responsible for the nearby 30 Rock shop.)
“Not an architect, and not a New Yorker, but have fallen in love with NYRA.”
The menu was standard, in that it boasted % Arabica’s globe-trotting collection of drinks. The Caffe Latte, and not the Kyoto Latte, was billed as the best-seller at the Kyoto flagship. The description of the “Italian style” Espresso didn’t specify ristretto or lungo, while the Spanish Latte promised “a good amount of sweetness.” I thought everyone already agreed that we like the taste of coffee now.
I settled for an espresso and a canelé and sat down on the bench. Snippets of other people’s conversations echoed off the curved concrete with surprising clarity. Several feet away, a barista recounted to her coworker an angry customer’s complaint: “I was in Korea and your latte wasn’t this color. You don’t have standards across stores?”
What shadowy economic forces have made it impossible to make a consistent cup of coffee anymore? Were the prices of beans too volatile, and tariffs too unpredictable? Had the caffeination crisis exposed fault lines in the imperial core?
“…and I would say never date a Japanese man. They always cheat. I saw a TikTok about this.”
It was time for me to go. I judged the espresso to be competently pulled. And considered the high price an upcharge for some of the easiest eavesdropping in Midtown.
3.5 beans out of 5.