In Jakarta, I fell back in love with coffee

It started as a trip to cover an event. It ended as a reminder of why I care about coffee at all.

This is my third piece about Jakarta in as many weeks, and unlike the others, it isn’t a guide. It’s not a curated list of where to go or what to drink. It’s a reflection—on a city, a moment, and a feeling I didn’t realize I’d lost until Jakarta gave it back.

For years now, I’ve lived and worked in Dubai, surrounded by beautiful cafés, gleaming equipment, and baristas with well-pressed aprons and signature drinks made for Instagram. But somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling inspired. I still drank the coffee. Still talked the talk. But the spark was gone.

In Jakarta, at origin, it came rushing back.

Pride at every level

You can tell a lot about a country by how its people talk about their coffee. In Jakarta, I didn’t have to bring it up.

Every taxi driver who found out I was in town for World of Coffee had something to say—about the richness of Sumatran beans, about their grandmother’s kopi tubruk, about the fact that Indonesian coffee was finally being recognized on the world stage. And they said it with pride. Real, bone-deep pride.

This wasn’t PR. It wasn’t trained talking points. It was culture. It was identity. And that same energy was everywhere inside the Jakarta Convention Centre. No one I met seemed surprised that World of Coffee had finally come to Indonesia. The only surprise was that it had taken so long.

Business, not charity

There’s a tendency in specialty coffee—especially in the West—to treat origin as a place to be pitied or saved. A backdrop for photos, or a heartstring in a brand story. But that wasn’t the vibe in Jakarta.

Real business was being done. Producers were talking to roasters—on their terms. Cooperatives from Papua and Java were securing export deals. New partnerships were being signed on the spot.

For once, origin wasn’t the whisper in the background. It was the main character.

Suasana, Braud, Fuglen, and Common Grounds

Of course, I didn’t spend all my time inside the expo halls. I made it a point to get out, to see what the city’s cafés felt like when the spotlight wasn’t on them.

Suasana is one of Jakarta’s newer cafés—and one of its most considered. Beautifully designed, quiet, intentional. The baristas didn’t ask if I wanted to see the menu. They asked what kind of coffee I liked, and then made something that felt perfectly aligned. It was hospitality in its purest form: attentive, without performance.

Braud General Store was my breakfast spot on Sunday morning. The name undersells it. Yes, the pastries are excellent—layered, crisp, perfect. But what made Braud stand out was the energy. The team was clearly a team. Service was joyful. You could tell they cared, without making a show of it.

Fuglen Jakarta was a personal milestone. I’ve long admired the original shop in Oslo and the outpost in Tokyo. But somehow, I never made it to either. So stepping into the Jakarta shop felt strangely full-circle. The interior, true to the brand, was all warm wood, mid-century lines, and analog charm. The coffee was as expected: faultless. But it was the experience of finally being there—after years of wanting to—that made the visit memorable.

Common Grounds was exactly what I hoped it would be. A standard-bearer. A place where quality was assumed, not advertised. Baristas were dialed in. Regulars sipped quietly. It didn’t feel like a showroom. It felt like a place that just does good coffee, every day.

A hard reset

What struck me most about my time in Jakarta wasn’t just the quality of the coffee or the caliber of the competition. It was the feeling. The honesty of it all.

In Dubai, specialty coffee can feel like fashion. Cafés open and close like seasonal pop-ups. Everyone’s chasing relevance. There’s a pressure to be seen, to be branded, to post. And while that creates beautiful spaces and impressive drinks, it can also wear you down. Like it did me. You start to wonder if anyone actually enjoys coffee anymore—or if we’re all just playing parts in someone else’s concept store.

Jakarta reminded me what it feels like to love coffee again. Not just the taste. The culture. The people. The stories. The community. The sense that this thing we all obsess over actually matters.

And that maybe it still can.

Looking ahead to Bangkok

Next year, World of Coffee moves to Bangkok. I’ll be there. And while I’m not expecting Jakarta 2.0, I am going in with a clearer heart.

Because of Jakarta, I’ve remembered why I started this journey in the first place. Not to sell coffee. Not to collect credentials. But to be part of something human. Something shared.

If Bangkok can capture even a fraction of the sincerity, humility, and quiet pride I felt in Jakarta, it’ll be worth the trip.