i don’t get matcha(guy version)
it tastes like lawn clippings and judgment
(part 2, the actual aggressive version out in 2 weeks)
and everyone now drinking it looks like they run a moodboard.
occasionally, i will persuade myself that i am ready, at long last, to be the sort of person who consumes matcha. not the sort of person who tries it out of curiosity one time, but one who fully embraces the entire experience - the mug, the whisk, the subdued feeling of seriousness. the entire process feels soft and earthy, as if it is something that belongs to some improved version of myself. someone more even-tempered, tidier, the sort of man who doesn't constantly have the sense he's behind on something unknown.
it always starts with the same urge, that quiet tickle of self-betterment. not grand or revolutionary, just the little bits of improvement adulthood appears to require: drink more water, discover what magnesium does, quit sucking in coffee as though it's an coping mechanism. and then matcha comes into the equation. it tastes like the drink version of a person who gets up early and stretches because they want to. it's languid, it's lovely, and it radiates in that gosh-darn, healthy manner. people don't consume it, they embody it.
so i give it another go. i enter a café that reeks of eucalyptus and warm lights. the menus are in fonts i don't know the names of, and the pastries appear to be more expensive than my pride. i order matcha as i have before, as if i'm familiar with it, as if i have a clue, and i nod when asked if i'd like oat milk. (i still don't really get oat milk, but i do say yes because it's like being in costume.) the beverage comes in a lovely ceramic cup, warm, spare, likely fired by someone named lena who lives in a cabin and owns a kiln. and then i drink.
and every single time, i instantly recall that i don't get it. it doesn't taste nasty, not nasty in the way a mistake is nasty, it just tastes like something i wasn't supposed to like. like overly philosophizing grass. like the scent of a fresh yoga mat, but in drink form. it has this bitter, mossy staying power that makes me feel like i'm supposed to be learning something from this. it tastes like work. and not the enjoyable kind.
everyone says it's "earthy," which i believe is their way of saying "you shouldn't enjoy it, you should honor it." and i do, in theory. i honor what it represents, the slowness, the ritual, the conscientious pace of a life lived with purpose. but taste-wise? it tastes like something green which is disillusioned with me. like the beverage equivalent of a teacher who used to tell me i had potential but sighed as they said it.
i consume coffee. not the artisinal kind, not the kind with a scale or a timer, just whatever's hot, strong, and somehow forgiving. coffee doesn't ask me to be anything. it finds me exactly where i am, jittery, under-rested, somewhat bewildered, and it says, yes, this is okay. there's allegiance in that. coffee doesn't claim to cure me. it merely gets me through the next thirty-seven tabs.
yet, i attempt it. every other few months, i attempt it again - because something about it continues to beckon me. perhaps it's the advertising. perhaps it's jealousy. perhaps it's expectation that this time, it will taste like tranquility rather than detritus. i sit there, drinking contemplatively, feigning serenity, and then, invariably, i set the mug aside and return to the acrid solace of coffee. it's a routine. it feels intimate.
some things can't be figured out. some things are simply green, pricey, and require one to taste discipline. matcha is not my nemesis, but nor is it my buddy. it's something that i still encounter in passing, politely, awkwardly, like a person i went on a very quiet date with, and now i nod to them in public.
and truthfully, that's alright.
even the cup seems to understand.