An old Turkish friend, who now lives in Milan with his family, recently brought me a 1-kilogram bag of Arabica beans from Sant’Eustachio, my favorite corner of Rome. It was the perfect gift. There are souvenirs that you appreciate for a moment before placing them on a shelf and forgetting about them. Coffee, by contrast, is the gift that keeps on giving.
One cold morning, I brewed a cup before heading out to row on the Golden Horn. The city was still waking up. The mosques scattered across Istanbul’s historic peninsula were half-lit. And the air was sharp enough to sting one’s hands. I poured the coffee into a thermos and set off. Rowing is rhythmic but lonely. It’s you, the oars, the tide, and whatever thoughts don’t fall overboard.
During a pause, somewhere between fatigue and calm, I took a sip. The warmth cut through the cold, and the taste was instantly recognizable. Roman, toasted, slightly sweet. And in that moment, without ceremony, my friend received a salute from afar. Just a silent acknowledgement carried across water. A gift used, appreciated, lived through.
Moments like this have become surprisingly common: specialty beans in suitcases, freshly ground coffee at dawn, a mug in a backpack, and routines shaped around caffeine rather than convenience. It reflects a broader shift in how coffee is consumed in Türkiye, and where it is consumed. The country that once drank tea by default and coffee socially has become a nation of home baristas, travelers with grinders, and people who start the day with a ritual that is both intensely private and technologically mediated.
And it has happened so fast.
Just 20-odd years ago, coffee was either the traditional cup of Turkish coffee made at home or an occasional indulgence at a cafe. International chains like Gloria Jean’s, followed by Starbucks, transformed that ecosystem by introducing coffee as a lifestyle in the form of cappuccinos and mochas. Holding a branded paper cup in public became a form of identity, as more passionate coffee enthusiasts distinguished themselves with their insulated thermos mugs. Cafés became workplaces, date venues, study halls, and the backdrop for a generation’s coming-of-age.
But something changed after the initial novelty settled. Paying high prices for paper-cup coffee began to feel less like an aspiration and more like a routine. Then the pandemic arrived, closing cafes and shifting habit formation into the home. People bought machines because they had to. And once the dust settled, they kept using them because they liked what they brewed.
Once you own a decent grinder and a reliable machine, the economics make themselves known. At home, I get arguably better coffee than any chain (with the notable exception of Petra, with which I can’t compete) and for less. And I get it without waiting in line, hearing my name mispronounced, or commuting to a location designed around rent rather than comfort.
This shift is not merely cultural; it is economic. According to industry data, Türkiye’s coffee machine market has reached nearly 15 billion TL, with Turkish coffee machines accounting for 60% of that value. Domestic manufacturers now dominate the sector, a notable twist in a country where coffee appliances once meant imports and aspirational branding.
More importantly, the market is growing by roughly 20% annually, fueled not by luxury consumption but by habit formation. Once coffee becomes a planned part of the morning routine, machine ownership feels less like indulgence and more like infrastructure.
Ironically, this boom is unfolding in a country where annual coffee consumption remains low. The average American consumes 4.5 kilograms (9.92 pounds) per year, Europeans around 6 kilograms, while Türkiye remains well below these levels. Industry executives note that machine ownership increases consumption because it lowers friction, reduces time costs, and expands the number of “coffee occasions” per day. People drink more coffee when making coffee is easy.
Manufacturers have responded strategically. They are not merely selling appliances. They are designing hybrid machines that produce both Turkish coffee and espresso. It is a technological synthesis that mirrors a cultural one: the desire to preserve ritual while embracing speed, mobility and global taste.
This flexibility has become the defining feature of urban coffee culture in Türkiye. Young consumers are comfortable moving between categories – Turkish coffee at home, flat whites outside, specialty pour-overs on weekends. They view this as customization rather than a betrayal of tradition.
And perhaps that is the point. Coffee culture in Türkiye didn’t Westernize. It expanded, absorbing new habits without abandoning old ones. And it did so with a pragmatism that reflects the pressures and ambitions of urban life.
Coffee used to be about sitting, talking and stretching time. Today, it also serves the opposite function: it fuels motion. People brew coffee not to linger, but to leave, to work, to row, to run, to navigate fragmented schedules. Coffee became portable, personal and mobile.
In this sense, the rise of home machines reflects not decadence, but the maturity of a consumer culture that recognizes that the quality of daily life matters, and that small rituals can anchor the chaos of existence.
A bag of beans from Rome will not change the world. But when you brew it on a cold morning, carry it across the city, and take a sip somewhere between exertion and reflection, it becomes a small act of continuity. Something that connects places, people, and moments. And for a second, a friend in Milan receives a salute from afar, carried not by words but by the hot steam coming out of the insulated container that brushes against the top of one’s upper lip.
