For years, I have endured the judgment of coffee purists, the incredulous looks of baristas, and the outright confusion of well-meaning friends who have tried—and failed—to understand my particular method of consuming coffee. I like it black. I like it hot. But not too hot. And so, I add ice.
Not an iced coffee. Not a cold brew. Not some fancy nitro-infused nonsense. Just a perfectly brewed cup of coffee, cooled ever so slightly by the strategic addition of a few ice cubes, rendering it immediately drinkable without the risk of third-degree burns to my tongue. It’s a simple request, and yet, society has made me feel like a heretic for it.
"Why not just wait for it to cool?" they ask.
"Why not order an iced coffee?" they scoff.
"That’s not how coffee is meant to be drunk," they declare, as if they alone hold the sacred knowledge of the One True Coffee Experience.
And so, I have lived my life as a misunderstood soul, quietly slipping ice cubes into my coffee when no one is looking, bracing myself for the inevitable interrogation should I be caught in the act. It has been a lonely road.
But today—today, dear reader—I was vindicated.
As I shuffled, still groggy, toward the hotel’s coffee station, expecting the usual setup of stale, lukewarm drip coffee and those tiny tubs of creamer no one actually likes, my eyes fell upon a silver beacon of hope. A humble ice bucket. But not just any ice bucket. This one carried a label that shook me to my core:
“ICE FOR TEA OR COFFEE.”
Not just tea. Not “for beverages.” Not “for your convenience.” For coffee.
I had never felt more seen in my entire life. Somewhere in this hotel, there was someone like me. A kindred spirit. A silent warrior who had, perhaps, suffered the same ridicule, the same raised eyebrows, the same accusatory, “Wait… what are you doing?” when they dared to cool their coffee with ice. Whoever they were—a hotel manager with taste, a rebellious breakfast attendant, or perhaps an enlightened traveler who left their mark on this place—I owed them my gratitude.
This morning, I poured my coffee, reached into that glorious ice bucket, and, for the first time in my life, added ice to my coffee without shame. There was no need to justify, no need to explain, no need to endure side-eye from strangers who believe coffee must be scalding to be enjoyed.
For once, the world and I were in perfect harmony.
I sipped my perfectly tempered coffee—not too hot, not too cold—and smiled. This, I thought, is what it must feel like to be truly understood.