Why is coffee the only thing we will pay for in a cost of living crisis?

Jonny Mahon-Heap is a Stuff culture reporter and is on his third long black of the day.

Opinion: There’s a genre of annoying people on TikTok (I promise to narrow this down) who make a literal song and dance about their daily habit of “going off to get a coffee and a ‘lil treat’.”

Through the prisms of memes, voiceovers, and indecipherable live streams, the ‘lil treat‘ TikTokers make one thing clear – the single most important act in their day is popping out to buy a coffee.

Today, the cult of coffee is so powerful becoming a ‘coffee influencer’ might even score you hosting duties at the Met Gala (cc: Emma Chamberlain). It can persuade you to dish out thousands of dollars on Italian equipment to prove your Nespresso-drinking friends wrong.

For a nation adrift in the backwaters of South Pacific, our biggest perk is the fact we’re always perky (thanks to whatever’s sitting on the percolator). All this, despite a barista coffee now costing $7.

How do you take yours? The raw adrenal power of a single espresso? The bottomless pit of a diner pour? The chug of a vanilla-infused Wild Bean bottle? The comforting foam of a sedative decaf latte? Or a ruminative sip from your favourite ceramic mug?

Aside from being an aromatic, addictive, conversation-making, and good for you, why does coffee still possess a chokehold on us? (And why am I still willing to pay $7 during a cost of living crisis?)

In the same way that some people wither away without a daily jog, or a morning gossip, or several rounds of Magic: The Gathering, I feel bereft without my takeaway coffee.

I personally have it down to my daily, self-invented sport.

This involves me waking to the coffee shop, standing orderly in line, squeaking my order over the grumbling belly of the La Marzocco, idling patiently until 330mls of coffee is ready, in a cup, with my misspelt name on it (usually Donny, Jhon, or Jon – one time, exotically, Julian).

What’s the long German word for that sense of satisfaction derived from watching someone perform a task they’re really good at? That’s how I feel watching the barista stand behind his machine (if my barista is reading this – call me).

As New Zealanders, coffee has come to define us. What New Zealand lacks in fifteen-minute cities, it makes up for in the sense of kinship and community to be found at the local coffee shop (again, shout to my barista).

We’re second in devotion only to Italians, who revere coffee so highly, they announced plans last year to seek UNESCO heritage status for their famed espresso.

In the face of this vast, meaningless world (and the consensus that it’s soon ending), there is little more gratifying than stomping to the barista every day for our cup of bitter stimulant.

So, pop out for a coffee and a slice of almond cake. Flirt with the barista to your heart’s content. Idle back to your desk a little wired. This is your one wild and precious life, and you will never own a home anyway.

If you need to justify the addiction to yourself, well, know that study, after study, seems to confirm the good news that coffee has health benefits. There’s little I can do about a biological imperative, and my love of coffee bringing people together (like me and my barista).

Every so often, the urge appears to try to improve myself, to reduce my intake. Just as swiftly, it’s washed away. If this is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

Nor do I want to quit my barista (again, if you’re reading this – I’ll have what you’re having).