Coffee Cultures Around the World: From Italy to Ethiopia

You can tell a lot about people by the way they drink their coffee. It’s a personality test in liquid form, really. Some sip with ceremony, others chug with abandon, as if caffeine were a competitive sport. Some swear by tiny cups of concentrated rocket fuel, while others nurse half a litre of milk-flavoured caffeine over the course of a morning Zoom call that could’ve been an email. And somehow, in all this mess of mugs and rituals, coffee becomes more than a beverage. It morphs into theatre, rebellion, a badge of identity, a silent protest against mornings, and occasionally, the one thing standing between a person and complete social collapse.

Take Italy. Italians treat coffee like religion, complete with its own commandments, saints and possibly a few miracles. First commandment: thou shalt not order a cappuccino after 11am unless you fancy being judged by a thousand grandmothers from a thousand balconies – and let’s face it, their judgement is swift and eternal. Espresso is king here. Not a long chatty affair, just a quick, no-nonsense shot of dark elixir. You stand at the bar, toss it back, and carry on with your life. No one’s asking about milk alternatives or foam density. It’s caffeine with a purpose, an attitude, and often, a grumpy barista. The entire routine is efficient, elegant, and vaguely intimidating, like the national character itself. Even teenagers know the rules. Even tourists learn, eventually, after the first mortifying attempt to order a caramel frappuccino in Rome.

Then there’s Sweden, where coffee is less fuel, more glue that holds social life together. Enter “fika” – which sounds like a sneeze but actually means the sacred art of having a coffee with a cinnamon bun and a chat. It’s not a break from work; it’s the reason for working at all. Offices schedule fika like it’s a department meeting. Friends bond over fika. Romantic prospects are vetted over fika. Swedes may seem reserved, but get them talking over a kanelbulle and a strong brew and they’ll spill secrets like espresso over a trembling saucer. Fika is about connection, carbs, and pretending to be productive while doing none of the above. And the coffee itself? Strong enough to stand a spoon in. No-nonsense, like the people. Add the long winters, the silence, and a national affection for melancholic pop music, and fika starts to feel like both a cultural necessity and emotional survival tactic.

Down in Turkey, coffee comes with its own fortune teller. The grounds left at the bottom of the cup are read like tea leaves, except more intense and somehow more believable after your third thick, sludgy sip. Turkish coffee isn’t filtered, isn’t rushed, and certainly isn’t for the faint-hearted. It’s robust, slightly gritty, and best shared with someone who won’t judge you for making weird faces on your first sip. It’s a sensory experience – the smell of the brew, the hiss of the cezve, the tiny porcelain cups – and a pretext for gossip that might span generations. There’s always an auntie, somewhere, who knows what your cup is trying to tell you. And the ritual of making it is part performance, part precision engineering – a slow heat, a watchful eye, and a deep respect for the foam that forms on top. Get it wrong, and someone’s grandmother will definitely know.

Meanwhile, in the highlands of Ethiopia, coffee takes on a spiritual air. The traditional Ethiopian coffee ceremony is less about drinking and more about honouring the bean and the people who grow it. It involves roasting the beans over a flame, grinding them by hand, and brewing them three times – because one isn’t enough and three is just right. It’s a communal affair, long and slow, and perfect if you fancy spending two hours not checking your phone. They serve it with popcorn, by the way. Coffee and popcorn – who knew? The air smells of roasted beans and incense, conversation flows without urgency, and for a while, you’re reminded that life doesn’t always need to happen at 100km an hour. Elders chat, children hover, and somewhere in the mix of tradition and storytelling, the coffee does what it’s always done – brings people together, one cup at a time.

Across the ocean in the United States, coffee is less ritual, more personality extension. Here, coffee orders are like horoscopes. The woman ordering a triple almond milk half-sweet vanilla latte is clearly a Virgo with control issues. The guy with the black filter coffee and thousand-yard stare? Probably watched too many noir films and secretly writes detective novels in his basement. American coffee culture thrives on choice, customisation, and massive cups that double as hand-warmers and status symbols. The local café is part confessional, part laptop farm, part therapy session. You’re either deep in your screenplay or pretending to read Camus. Either way, that venti cup is your emotional support item. And let’s not forget the seasonal drinks – pumpkin spice in autumn, peppermint mocha in December – caffeinated markers of time and weather, served with a side of whipped cream and consumer guilt.

Then there’s Morocco, where coffee exists in the shadows of mint tea but still holds its own with an elegant, spicy edge. Wander through the old medinas and you’ll spot older men perched on rickety chairs, sipping strong, cardamom-kissed coffee with a slowness that borders on theatrical. It’s less about the buzz and more about presence. Being seen. Watching life shuffle past with a detached kind of wisdom. In Casablanca or Tangier, a tiny café table becomes a stage, the coffee cup a prop in an ongoing play of glances, gossip, and idle musings. If the mint tea is the national poem, Moroccan coffee is its smoky, short story – complex, bittersweet, and best read slowly. And in the evenings, when the call to prayer fades into background hum, the cafés fill with conversation, laughter, political commentary, and football predictions – all fuelled by demitasse after demitasse of quietly bold coffee.

Hop over to Australia and you’ll find a coffee scene so competitive it borders on snobbery – in a charming way, of course. The flat white reigns supreme, and heaven help you if you mistake it for a latte. Australians take pride in their baristas like others do with surgeons. Cafés are sleek, minimalist, with beans that have travelled more than you have. There’s talk of origin, altitude, and notes of citrus, and if you order a regular coffee, someone might gently suggest therapy. But beneath the artisanal foam art and bean science, it’s still about connection – sunlit tables, lazy chats, and pretending you’re too relaxed to be ambitious. Melbourne, in particular, treats coffee as a subculture, with café interiors doubling as design studios, and latte art so elaborate it should have its own gallery space. Here, being a coffee snob isn’t a flaw – it’s a calling.

Japan? Oh, don’t get me started. Vending machines offer hot coffee in cans, train stations have tiny espresso counters that rival Milan, and kissaten cafés serve pour-over brews in vintage cups with jazz humming softly in the background. It’s a beautiful chaos of old-school service, futuristic tech, and an attention to detail that borders on obsessive. In Tokyo, your coffee might be filtered through hand-woven cloth by a man who bows to the beans before grinding them. In Kyoto, you’ll find a centuries-old tea house quietly serving espresso like it’s a sacred act. Coffee here isn’t just a drink – it’s a haiku in liquid form.

So, the next time you cradle your cup, think of it not as a drink but as a passport. You’re holding a little symbol of human quirk, culture, and connection. And whether you down it in a single gulp or sip it while writing poetry, there’s someone somewhere doing exactly the same – just in a wildly different way, possibly with incense, popcorn, a hint of jazz, or a side of sass.