The price of coffee in Melbourne is not only a matter of beans and milk. It is the city’s quiet rhythm, the pause between meetings, the soft hum of conversation. And it is war. A war of margins and pride. The roaster wants a good price for his beans. The barista wants a wage he can live on. The café owner wants to pay rent, and the landlord wants more. Always more.
You walk into a small café in Carlton. The cup is five dollars. Sometimes six. They say it is because of quality, and that is true, but also not the full truth. Behind the bar, someone pulls the shot. She has been trained, she is fast, and she does not miss. She earns twenty-seven dollars an hour. Maybe more on weekends. The beans came from Colombia. Or Ethiopia. Flown over oceans, brought in sacks, roasted in Brunswick or Abbotsford. The price of green coffee has risen. Climate, pests, shipping delays; they say all of it adds up. And it does.
Rent bleeds them. On Lygon Street or Smith Street, it is thousands a week. The city is no longer cheap. Not for anyone. Not for the ones who cook, pour, sweep, or mop. Electricity costs more. Milk costs more. Even cups cost more now. Compostable, biodegradable, guilt-free. They smile and say, “Takeaway?” and you say yes. That’s another fifteen cents. Or fifty. It depends where you go. Some charge less and call it community. Some charge more and call it heritage.
There is competition. Too much, some say. A new café opens, then closes. Another replaces it, slicker, louder. They all sell the same drink. But not the same feeling. The good places know this. They keep the machine clean. They know your name. That is what brings you back. That is what keeps them alive.
The economists will speak of supply chains and inflation. The café owners speak of survival. They say it with tight mouths and tired eyes. They have lost friends, partners, sometimes hope. But they stay. The regulars come. The sun falls through the front windows. A father buys a babycino. A couple argues about the rent. The espresso is hot and sharp. The price, whatever it is, is the price of keeping something human in a city that forgets to be.
