On Espresso Routines
At last, I have peered into the abyss, and it has revealed itself to me in the form of a meticulously choreographed espresso ritual on YouTube.
The screen flickered with the image of a serene, disciplined man performing the delicate rites of coffee preparation, his hands moving with a steady reverence, as if invoking a deity of caffeine. There was something almost absurd in his precision—like a surgeon, but with an air of detachment, as though this ritual, this dance of measurement and tamping, was as much about form as it was about function. As if in these small, measured gestures, he was attempting to outwit the larger, unyielding chaos of life.
I watched, almost hypnotized, as the machine exhaled a quiet mechanical sigh. Water flowed through the tightly packed coffee grounds with an almost ceremonial smoothness, drawn out slowly, with a steady hum in the background. A few dark droplets hesitated before surrendering to gravity, and then, a steady honeyed stream began to curl into the cup below. A moment of perfection, brief and fleeting, as though the world held its breath for just a moment. In the mechanical precision of it all, I sensed both the beauty and the absurdity of the act—this perfect, almost sacred process for what, in the grand scheme of things, is just a cup of coffee.
And yet, there was a certain peace in it. Not the kind of joy one might expect from a child, innocent and reckless, but a kind of solemn peace—the peace of a man who knows his fate is sealed, but who straightens his collar before facing the inevitable.
As I watched, I began to think that this espresso ritual was a perfect metaphor for modern life—a constant, ceaseless repetition of gestures meant to convince ourselves that we’re in control. The beans must be weighed, the water temperature exact, the shot timed to the second—a futile illusion of mastery in a universe that laughs at our attempts to control it. And yet, in this small act of control, there was comfort, like a joke shared by a group of people in on the same secret. A small rebellion against the larger, indifferent cosmos.
But it wasn’t just me who found myself transfixed. In the digital echo chamber of the comments, a curious array of reactions bloomed. Some were enraptured by the precision, by the almost religious reverence paid to each step of the process. Others, however, couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the absurdity of it all. The ritual seemed, to them, more like a spectacle—a bizarre performance of gears and filters that felt more suited to an elite, secretive club than to something as humble as making coffee. For them, the meticulousness was a bit too extravagant, a playful acknowledgment that this was a world governed by different rules.
Some couldn’t help but comment on the mind-boggling expense of the equipment, almost as if recognizing, however unwittingly, the absurdity of this pursuit. It was as though in the extravagant care given to something so simple, they saw a desire to extract order from chaos, to force meaning onto a world that often resists it.
But I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony—the extent to which a simple beverage had been transformed into a delicate, orchestrated dance of tools and time. The process had become so intricate, so meticulously constructed, that it almost seemed less about coffee and more about making an offering to the gods of control.
The barista, like a minor bureaucrat in a vast, unknowable system, performed his role with reverence. Perhaps he knew the futility of it all, perhaps not—but in the end, he was no different from the rest of us, performing his role in the grand theater of life. Each gesture, no matter how small, was a quiet assertion of control in a world that is, at best, indifferent.
And then, at that moment, the cup trembled slightly in his hand. Was it excitement? The anticipation of that first, bitter sip? Or was it the tremor of a man who has glimpsed the terrifying vastness of existence and, in response, chooses to focus on the small, manageable variables of coffee-making?
The machine whirred to a halt, the crema settled, and the world, as ever, continued its slow, indifferent grind. I closed the video and sat in silence.