Coffee Shop Sociology

The subtle magic of working from coffee shops, written as this magic unfurled while working from coffee shops

I’ve been doing a lot of writing from coffee shops these last few months, and would find myself jotting down thoughts or anecdotes of what I was observing while sitting there, working on something else. One day, as I was jotting down a note about an interaction I’d observed, I just kept writing. I wrote this piece slowly and organically, finding myself coming back to it in various coffee shops.

So, this essay about coffee shops was written and edited fully while sitting in different coffee shops around my neighborhood, at different times of day, while I was in a few different moods. It ended up a bit more academic than I’d planned, but despite that (or because of that, perhaps?) it was really fun to write.

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Throughout my life, I’ve spent a lot of time in coffee shops. Somehow, I became a thirteen-year-old who drank the occasional iced coffee after school (half and half and three sugars, please), a habit which turned daily by the time I got to high school. Long before cold brew went mainstream, when a large iced coffee in Manhattan was $1.25. What a time to be alive (and a teenager drinking iced coffees).

The iced coffee in question

I learned the art of working from a coffee shop early on. When I was a kid, I had a Portuguese tutor and sometimes we’d work from a coffee shop (I can’t remember my order, but I’d bet it was a Hot Chocolate, this was elementary school, after all). I have memories reading To Kill a Mockingbird from a Starbucks in 7th grade, drinking a *decaf* Caramel Frappuccino—this was before Starbucks was selling these (let’s call them what they are) milkshakes without coffee in them.

In high school I would regularly do homework, practice lines for the school play, or work on my college applications from various coffee shops around the city. I found myself killing time while the girl I babysat was in her dance class, commuting into Manhattan over the weekend just to sit at the Joe Coffee (then known as The Art of Joe) on Waverly, and wandering into different shops that looked interesting as I was bopping around the city.

It was through curiosity and ordering different things that I learned the difference between a latte and a cappuccino at that age. I experimented a lot with my order. I always loved finding a coffee shop that served a latte so big, they just gave you a bowl to drink it.

In college, there was a cafe on the lower level of the building our library was in, and I often found myself working from those tables instead of hauling myself upstairs to the quiet, designated spaces for work. Post-college, I studied for the GREs before my Apple Store shifts and have done many a job search from cafes.

Throughout my career, especially since transitioning to fully remote work, coffee shops have become a place I can go to when I need to get out of my space but not go too far. If I’m struggling with the same scenery at home or am just finding myself less productive, I find the transition to these new environments specifically to be particularly helpful and inspiring.

Now, coffee shops are my absolute favorite place to write—especially those with ‘sit and work’ cultures. There’s something about being in these spaces with others who are getting things done, sitting and chatting, enjoying a book, or just taking a break that, I don’t know, helps me come alive?

There’s a quiet and subtle energy that I’ve not found it possible to replicate yet. The Library is too quiet, the WeWork too… something, but the coffee shop, for me, is just right. The sound of an espresso machine frothing milk will forever be one of the most soothing sounds (for me). Something about that not so quiet whir that really kicks me into peak productivity mode. It’s like a grounded reminder that I’m in a coffee shop, amidst the chatter, playlist du jour, and all else.

I’m in a space of experimenting again with my orders, which has been fun. I went through a black coffee phase but I’m over that now. I do love a good cold brew, but it’s been so cold recently I find myself gravitating towards warmer drinks. Sometimes a drip coffee, but more often I have been finding I want to ‘spice it up’ and get a *gasp* latte. Sometimes, I get really crazy and add something like a toffee syrup to it. I’m embracing this new latte girlie era, and fully relishing a drink that I used to poo-poo for being a cup of hot milk with a dash of coffee in it¹.

I was at one of my favorite coffee shops the other day, embracing my renewed love of lattes when the barista handed me a goody bag. “It’s our 5th birthday,” she said, “help yourself to a cupcake”. I wished them happy birthday, and picked out a lemon cream cupcake to enjoy, for later, I thought. I got to my table, eyeing the cupcake, and ended up finishing it by 8:40 am. Breakfast of champions, I thought to myself. But after all, I am an adult, and a lemon cream cupcake can be a breakfast of champions if I want it to be.

I also appreciate a coffee shop because it is a masterclass in Sociology². Community and connection quietly unfold around us, even if we’re consciously unaware of that happening. There are little rules, spoken or unspoken, that we all try to follow while we take up space in these third places.

Third places, a term coined by urban sociologist Ray Oldenburg, refer to public, neutral places—bars, hair salons, post offices, coffee shops—where people can gather with one another. These places “host the regular, voluntary, informal, and happily anticipated gatherings of individuals beyond the realms of home and work”³. Unlike first places (our homes) and second places (our work places), these third places are more neutral, allowing people to put aside their concerns and enjoy each other’s company.

Oldenburg argues that these third places are at the heart of what helps community thrive, but Robert Putnam, in Bowling Alone, argues that public gathering spots like churches, civic clubs, etc—are vanishing. As that happens we are becoming more and more isolated⁴. Unlike those spaces, which require active effort and commitment to be a part of them, coffee shops allow us to just…exist, together. There’s no signing up, no need to be there at a certain time, but rather an invitation to just show up, be yourself, and share some sort of connection with one another.

Since I spend a lot of time at coffee shops, I’ve done a lot of research⁵ about exactly how long does one cup of coffee grant you a seat? I’ve seen answers ranging from 90 minutes to three hours, and it of course depends how busy it is. For a busy cafe, if there are NO empty seats, I try to limit myself to a two-hour visit before I either order something else or head out for the day. If it’s emptier, I often push the three-hour window.

Especially in places that embrace a laptop culture, it’s common courtesy to share a table with someone else should the place fill up. I try to pay attention when I’m working too, if I see a group or duo trying to sit together and I have a table to myself, I offer to relocate. I’ve observed that not everyone does this.

Some people linger, waiting until a table is offered, while others jump right in and ask. I prefer the latter—if you want something, ask for it. We’re all very caught up in our own worlds, our own work, and it can be hard to break the focus. Last week, I observed a guy choose to sit outside (in like 30º weather⁶) rather than try to squeeze himself in between two others at a communal table (a communal table that is totally meant to fit three across, mind you). I wouldn’t have done that. I probably would’ve squeezed myself in (politely, of course).

People who choose less favorable seats wait in the wings for a spot to open up. I’ve done that. Sometimes all that’s left is a bar seat (the worst) or a couch seat (nice but tends to hurt my wrists if I’m writing for too long). But if I’m sequestered to one of those, I’ll keep my eyes peeled, ready to pounce when a precious table-and-chair combo opens up. I know others are doing it too. I see it happen all the time.

I enjoy watching those dynamics. It reminds me that we’re human but also reminds me that, in the grand scheme of things, we’re all in our own worlds and coexisting together. Our lives are incredibly significant to us but in the larger picture, we’re just a tiny piece of a massive puzzle. You know, a grain of sand on a massive beach. That analogy.

I tend to look around a lot while I work, and don’t notice I do it until I make eye contact with someone. I’m not watching you, I think to myself, but rather am watching everyone and no one all at the same time. And god forbid we acknowledge each other! I used to look away quickly, recently I find myself doing a quiet nod or little smirk before I divert my eyes.

At a coffee shop last week, I am waiting for the bathroom and I smile as the guy who walks out holds the door open for me. A few hours later, I am waiting for the bathroom again and the same guy walks out and holds the door open for me. I think to myself, ahh, we're on the same pee schedule, but decide not to voice it out loud. I know I have a good memory for faces and not everyone does, so I don’t know if he'll remember I'm the same person who has peed after him twice now in a three-hour period.

There are moments where we, as humans sitting together but very much also by ourselves, acknowledge our collective presence. On that one particularly busy and cold day, as people were going outside to sit, this one women kept forgetting to close the door behind her. She went outside to set her stuff down, left the door open. Came in to wait for her coffee, left the door open. Went back to her seat, left the door open. Came back in 20 minutes later to use the bathroom and—you guessed it—she left the door open.

The first time it happened, I looked up, about to stand up and close it myself, but someone closer beat me to it. This continued each time, but those of us sitting became collectively more aware of what was going on, sharing glances and chuckles with each other instead of just thinking about it quietly.

After the bathroom incident, a woman to my right says “next time, I’m saying something”! Next time never happened, at least not while I was sitting there. The transition between this is happening to ME and this is happening to ALL OF US was subtle and slow. As each moment passed, we went through the motions of connection with one another briefly, before we getting back to our own lives and books and screens.

As I visit the same places over and over again, I’ve also started to observe who the regulars are and how the various barista teams work with one another. At one cafe I frequent, the baristas work in a meticulous song-and-dance, balancing efficiency with smiles. They’re mostly business, but sometimes you’ll catch a chuckle or laugh behind the bar—a glimmer of an inside joke that sneaks out during an otherwise quiet and focused moment.

At another one of my favorite shops, it’s a bit more fun and casual behind the bar. The owner walks through often, checks on his team, and usually shakes a few of the regular’s hands (I’m not currently at a status where I receive a handshake, but I’ll let you know when that happens). He’s charismatic, and has what I would call a “presidential energy”. When I’m wearing a Mets hat, he always makes a point to tell me how much he disapproves. “Nobody’s perfect,” I usually say. Other retorts have included: “would you prefer I show up in a Red Sox hat?” and “I’m from Queens, I can’t help it!” and “even you have to admit we had a good season last year,” and my latest (and probably most heartbreaking, to him, a Yankees fan,) “don’t worry, we’ll make Soto feel right at home”.

I like watching, and engaging in, those interactions. One day, that coffee shop was out of oat milk, which was a travesty for everyone else and also out of skim milk, which was a travesty for me.

The charismatic, presidential owner walks in, and the barista immediately questioned, “when is milk going to come?” The owner looks at his phone, and start to say “it should be here in the next few—” before he can finish, the barista announces, “it’s his fault, everyone!”

I laugh, she laughs. The rest of the coffee shop laughs. The owner laughs.

“I know, I’m on it,” he says.

I almost missed this moment too. I had planned to go to another coffee shop that day, closer to day care, but I couldn’t leave our stroller like we usually do because of some snow and ice. So, I found myself faced with a decision. I could bring my empty stroller and take up some room (even if I fold it). This coffee shop tends to be busy, so I didn’t want to take up that much space. I could go home, take the L, and just work from my desk, as usual.

I could also go home, drop off the stroller, and go back out, to a coffee shop closer to home. It wasn’t the plan, so I was annoyed, but instead of completely throwing in the towel I decided to pivot. I went to the closer-to-home coffee shop, sans stroller, and caught that interaction.

In The Life and Death of the Great American City, Jane Jacobs wrote that the most vibrant communities are built on informal interactions just like these⁷. These subtle acknowledgements and unspoken agreements that happen in parks, street corners, and, I’d argue, in coffee shops, are what make cities feel alive. What Jacobs refers to as “the sidewalk ballet”—the quiet, instinctive, subtly changing choreography of urban life—is apparent in coffee shops, too.

The way we all glance around when someone keeps leaving a door open, the song and dance of sharing tables and settling into the perfect seat, a café owner who pretends⁸ to be offended by my Mets hat are all small ways in which we thrive while coexisting.

Where Putnam warns us that losing our formal third places will make us more isolated, Jacobs offers a different perspective, and reminds us that there is still magic in these more informal interactions and seemingly rudimentary rituals.

Each coffee shop—and each moment in a coffee shop—serves as its own microcosm with its own rituals, social contracts, and ways of working; people intertwining and coexisting at just the right moments. While on the surface these moments and places look like they’re the same, the magic lives in the nuance of how each interaction and experience unfolds within these third places.

These moments and interactions have brought a sense of purpose and joy to my writing and my work days. They’re subtle, but they serve as humbling reminders that I’m not alone in this world (none of us are), and there are thousands of little plots happening alongside my own.

I think that’s why I’ve always found solace in coffee shops throughout my life. I may be accomplishing the same things that I would at home—writing an article, checking off my work to-do list, whatever—but amongst all of that, I get to be a part of something just slightly bigger than myself.

1. To be fair…I’m not wrong? That is what a latte is? But I’m embracing that I like it, lol.

2. Apt because Sociology was one of my majors in college (along with American Studies & an Education minor), something you could argue I don’t use at all or that I use absolutely every day of my life. I’d argue the latter, but would also argue it’s something I use apart from how I make a living.

3. Ray Oldenburg, Cafés, Coffee Shops, Bookstores, Bars, Hair Salons and Other Hangouts at the Heart of a Community (New York: Marlowe & Company, 1999).

4. Robert D. Putnam, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2000).

5. Google searches and reading reddit threads

6. Fahrenheit, for my international readers. I am really bad at Fahrenheit to Celsius conversion, but I know it’s just below zero.

7. Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities (New York: Random House, 1961)

8. or…is actually offended by it?