Sydney's coffee is freshly-ground, but the service is bitter and burnt

“Moan, groan, whinge,” blurts out the man in a suit behind me. He actually said something else but it was incomprehensible.

Frantically shaking his leg, getting agitated and waiting. Waiting to get his hit of caffeine so as to feel human again.

One drink. One ingredient. One sip. That is all it takes.

Call it a social movement or simply a lethal addiction; a cup of coffee, every morning, is inevitable for Sydneysiders. For many it’s a necessary, magical drink.

One steaming hot cup does it for them. Okay, maybe two … or three. No one, apart from your doctor, is counting.

Organic. Freeze-dried. Roasted in-house. Freshly ground.

But, unlike the robot-like baristas and grumpy customers, a ritualistic cup of coffee is about more than the beverage.

Some might argue that it’s just a drink, but secretly they know there’s more to it. They stand in the line for a sense of escapism or a therapeutic rendezvous.

But it’s also an entire package that entails valuable features. Let me explain.

You enter a café and are instantly engulfed by nutty aromas. You’re in the earthy, soothing vicinity for a reason. The process of ordering, grinding, brewing and drinking is an experience.

The liquid gold has been custom-made for you. But it’s not perfect when the seamlessness is dragged down with a blunt, rude and aloof service (not to mention jostling customers satisfying their addictions).

In Sydney, the coffee has become a mere drink. Not a story.

The good coffee here is usually served with almost a threatening uncheerfulness.

Blame it on a fast-paced lifestyle or ignorance, but several baristas have been blacklisted from the city’s café guide, solely for their impersonal behaviour.

Being a barista is not just any job. Their creation is a real deal breaker.

It can make customers beam like a 10,000 watt bulb. Board meetings are more efficient and rational because of the drink. Sometimes it’s even responsible for eliminating the awkwardness from a blind date.

Baristas need to believe that their cup of coffee can lead the world to a better and safe place. They have to take up the responsibility of being a psychologist to others. It’s part of the game. 

Although they have to serve these sometimes pompous, other times agitated customers, there are still no excuses. Coffee is as sacred as anything in Sydney. It is a challenging job, but they should do it with a smile.

Not everyone is just after the buzz, but they walk into the coffee shop for an experience similar to a morning prayer.

So when I get my daily caffeine hit, my checklist for the perfect brew has little to do with the coffee itself.  I want an impulsive conversation with my coffee-maker. My barista.

It can be a nonsensical palaver on my hair or a bona fide discussion about the political uproar. I like a side serve of personalised jabber. It’s therapeutic enough to be qualified as a medical treatment for loneliness.

It’s hard to find in this city. A person who provides an aid for my fuzzy head each morning and never judges me on my weekend (or weakened) shenanigans.  

Call me a dreamer, but I want someone who knows my first name (and how to pronounce it) but never my surname.

This weird, but amazing friendship is like a whimsical drug that’s better than caffeine itself.

It’s surprising how refreshing it really is to vent your thoughts to someone who only sees you five times a week, for precisely 15 minutes each day. There are no egoistic comments or opinions involved. You’re not judged on your retrospective life decisions. 100 percent rambling is all that is to it.

We’re living in a world where every second person is ready to pounce on you the minute a mistake is made. When I need a shelter from the nastiness, I want to simply walk to my café.

Not just any café, it’s got to be my café. A place where I get a burst of energy.

From Bondi Beach to Chatswood, I am seeking an exquisite café that can accommodate my bizarre outlook of sipping the world’s second most traded commodity.

But just this week, I might have found someone. I just need to write down my name for him. He hasn’t nailed that yet.