Am I Starbucks’ most conservative customer?

I came to coffee quite late. When I was very small, my mother and I would stop for “middle mornings” (never “elevenses”), which would be a custard cream and squash for me, and a custard cream and coffee for her. Of course, the coffee was from a jar, it being the mid-Eighties: it smelled exotic, but I certainly never wanted to try it.

Nescafé was probably reaching its zenith then: modern, chic – and thanks to those famous TV ads featuring the “Gold Blend couple”, much sexier than I could possibly have understood till rather later. So synonymous had the brand become with the product, that in those days adults were as likely to offer each other a “Nescafé” as a “coffee”. I don’t think it was a euphemism.

Well into my teens, all hot drinks bar a steaming Ribena or hot chocolate were anathema. Only when I went off to university did I realise that this put me at a modest social disadvantage, as other freshers bonded over endless cuppas. Yet still I remained impervious to the charms of these strange brews.

Once, a tutor asked me and my mate Chris whether we’d like an instant coffee, and I watched in horror as he poured lumps of milk into the cup Chris had graciously accepted. I felt my refusal had been validated.

I finally thawed at a dinner given by another tutor to a group of students, at the end of which strong coffee was served in small cups with cream and sugar. This time I felt it would be too rude to decline, and was then startled to discover that this proper stuff, creamed and sweetened, was some sort of elixir. Rather like the first monk to make mead, I took too much of a shine to it – but at least the result was only a lack of sleep.

Thereafter, coffee became my go-to hot beverage. In my first job, I drank endless cups of instant because everyone else seemed to, and because I didn’t know enough about what to do with real grounds. If I went out for dinner, I would luxuriate in a decent coffee, usually before burying it under the more dubious charms of Pernod.

Despite my deepening love, I tended to avoid coffee shops, on the basis of expense. It was only later, in a subsequent job where there was a decent – and marginally subsidised – canteen, that I became a regular buyer. Even then though, my choices remained supremely safe: americano with a little milk for regular days; a cappuccino for treats. A mocha felt far too outré to take a chance on.

All of which brings me to an afternoon last week, when I found myself in a Starbucks for a couple of hours, mainly to use their electricity and wifi. It was boiling outside, and when I arrived I went wild, ordering an orange juice (with ice) and a blueberry muffin (no ice). Then, as I nursed my OJ and snack for as long as I possibly could, I listened in growing awe to the drinks being ordered by other customers.

Coffees were iced or extra hot; teas were soya-milked; syrups and creams were added in any number of peculiar combinations. Once or twice even the baristas seemed mystified at what was being demanded, while the occasional customer – including one young man who wanted a “cold coffee but a bit sweet and caramelly” – also seemed to struggle to know quite what they were after. When someone asked for a “hazelnut frap with oat milk” I couldn’t help but think that Squirrel Nutkin would approve.

I know none of this is new, but I had not appreciated before how utterly conservative my taste in coffee is when compared with the rest of the world (or London at least). I felt like Charlie Bucket meeting a whole crowd of Violet Beauregardes; or a Young Conservative faced with a bewildering buffet, only to play safe by filling his plate with sticks topped with cheddar and pineapple. Maybe it’s a product of being born in the 1970s. Or perhaps I just need to wake up and smell the syrup-infused coffee.