Melbourne's Douchey Dude Baristas

Kines Coffee: 11 Hope St, Brunswick Photo cred: Broadsheet

Welcome to Kines. One of the newest ultra hip coffee spots to grace 3056. In their short lifespan they’ve already achieved a meek Broadsheet write-up and their Instagram has ticked over a thousand followers - but Kines you have filled the beast with rage and she’s gotta let it out.

Funnily enough my mate told me to drop in here for their plant game - of all things - which she described as “lit” (need I mention my mate is defo at the tail end of gen Y whereas I’m still trying to make “fetch” a thing). I get around the traps in Brunswick and am always keen-as-a-bean to check out some hanging Devil’s Ivy or a standing succulent wall to help balance out my sharkra whilst I’m sipping on caffeine. However Kines, your plant game sucks. My grandma has a better selection and she’s a 90 year old Nanna who grew up in arid Malta during the war. And you know what else sucks? Your pitiful patriarchy party, it’s stinking out the whole block.

I checked in on a week day because hospo lyfe, and as fate had it was confronted with a smoke storm. The open kitchen has poor ventilation you see, which means that the place smokes up. It’s obvious however that the owners have designed it this way so that the townsfolk are forced to watch the staff’s performance of prepping and cooking food in their makeshift stainless steel kitchen; to be honest though, the whole spectacle was pretty gross.

I was greeted and seated by a tall skinny dude in a black t-shirt who was utterly and genuinely unenthused by my presence and with life in general. I felt like giving him a hug and a soft knock on the chin and saying “Cheer up Charlie”. Coffee orders were taken and I got to sit back and survey. The fit out is what us gays call “masc”. Dark blue and grey walls, dark wooden furniture, grungy warehouse vibes all round with eerie jam jars to hold spices and herbs - some dexter shit going on right there. I felt like I had stepped into my one and only ex-boyfriend’s bedroom. He was a semi-famous basketball player with huge muscles and a tiny dick. Kines, do you guys know each other?

There were two lady babes working hard on prep (remind me again why it’s a good idea to show customers how you portion noodles into plastic containers?) Cowboy, however, stole the show - he was tall and presumably an owner (or maybe it’s just his larger than life bravado). This dude was prepping along with the ladies with a cowboy hat straight out of a 1950′s western, and I mean that in the sense that it looked ancient and icky. Whilst these three worked tirelessly, one only had to pan their vision to the left to witness the douchiness coming from Skinny and Curls.

These two dude-bro male baristas were standing off to the side doing absolutely nothing. 

Skinny came over to take my order and had to ask for clarification as I slowed my speech and said plainly “The, soba, noodles, please”. He finally got it and off he went. After putting my order through Skinny strolled back to the La Marzocco. The cafe was quiet and Curls was hanging by the EK grinder. Skinny picked up his coffee and took a sip - the dudes exchanged a few words, a laugh, then Skinny noticed me staring. He took a few steps into the front corner of the bar and stood there for a while whilst Curls did a lap of the floor and came back empty handed. This time Skinny went to play with the EK. No coffee was run through, he just kinda touched it a bit, gave it a loving little tap and then chatted with Curls some more. Every now and then they would start on a remedial task, put some glasses away, stroke the grinder, but basically these dudes were hiding, from their fellow staff members and from the public - they were doing sweet jack all and Cowboy, who I’m going to be presumptuous and guess was running the show (hey, Patriarchy), let them get away with it. Even though you are working hard Clint Eastwood, doesn’t mean you’re not complicit in this diabolical douche-storm.

I’m not going to go into the grottiness of watching Cowboy stir up my noodles with his bare hands then pulling out a long hair from my meal after it arrived. This is a coffee blog Alex, stay focussed.

Kines - you’re just another example of an over-masculine, douche-heavy and pretty gross cafe striving for Brunswickian grunge glory. If I worked on Moreland City Council I would send my health inspectors over your way pronto but alas the closest I get to council these days is watching meetings in bed on my laptop whilst eating liquorish and crying over public toilets. It’s a glamorous life. 

I wish I could say this place had some redeeming features, but it didn’t. It was my ex-boyfriend’s bedroom - a nice sound system, a dark blue Ikea colour scheme and a whole lot of promise with very little reward. 

325 Johnston St, Abbotsford, 3067

So it’s been a while since I’ve “douched”. This is for several reasons: First, I don’t like going to douchey cafes, it makes me mad. Second, I’ve been busy, (I’m a really busy woman). I’ve been managing my own cafe for the past two years as well as doing a range of other side projects and blogging has taken a bit of a back seat. Third, I haven’t been inspired, and this is the important one because today of all days, is the day that I have been injected with a dose of douchiness so potent that it’s compelled me back into the douchesphere. That poison has been delivered today by the dude-bro cast of the once great Abbotsford hipster gem, Admiral Cheng Ho.

Now, I used to go here all the time. I have friends who have worked here (awesome lady friends), I used to know the baristas by name, fist bump them, talk about their politics and arts degrees and deepest darkest secrets, you name it. However, since moving to the other side of town I haven’t been able to frequent as often and it’s been during this time that there has been a slow but steady decline into an all-male star cast of wank. I’ve been back in Abbotsford for the past week house-sitting for a friend and mate, these douche levels are off the chart.

So, where do I begin? My girlfriend went in this morning and stood at the register feeling like a fool as she waited to be served by a douchey dude barista who was chatting to a male customer whilst looking her up and down (creepo) yet ignoring her. She just stood there feeling increasingly uncomfortable until he finally took a hiatus from his chat to take her order.

I dropped by at lunch and had a similar experience x 4. Upon walking into the quiet cafe I was met with the sight of two dude bros behind the counter and two dude bros sitting at the communal table in front of the counter, the two pairs facing each other and chatting. I figured the guys at the table must have worked there but maybe they were douchey customers, it’s hard to tell these days. The entitled male hipster takes many a form but is one and the same.

So, I awkwardly shuffled into the tiny space between the customer dudes outstretched legs and feet and the counter. Ordered my coffee and banana bread (man do I love banana bread) with a douchey dude with a fierce red beard who asked me where I was sitting before lazily pointing to the water bottles and telling me that if I wanted some I could ‘help myself’. No probs bro, I work in hospo, I’m no snob to fetching my own H2O. So I awkwardly shuffled a bit further down the narrow foot corridor to fetch some water before heading outside to wait for my goodies.

Obviously the douchey dudes were far too caught up reciting love sonnets to one another, as the time ticked by I had obviously been forgotten. After six minutes, red-beard came out to clear a table, saw me, started like a baby deer in a headlight then practically galloped back inside, appearing a minute later with my charred banana bread. He cooly slid it down in front of me and asked me if I wanted “some butter or something?” (I assume to take the edge off the charcoal) then assured me that my coffee would be another minute.

The coffee came out. I tried to enjoy it but it was thick with male entitlement and as it slid slowly down my throat I remembered the rad Canadian female barista who used to work there. She knew everybody’s names, never slacked off or forgot you were in the cafe, and sometimes I even caught her dancing whilst she cleared tables. Now Admirals has transformed into an army of men who have swallowed the Kool-Aid of male hipster arrogance, I wonder if it will ever recover?

DOUCHE RATING: 5 STARS / EXTREME DOUCHE ALERT! Do any women even still work here? If they do they haven’t had any air time during the weekdays the last few times I’ve been in. Maybe they are being reserved for busier days where they can be given singular demeaning roles such as wiping tables, smiling at customers or handling the till. This place has become an all-male douche haven, the guys have perfected the attitude, right down to making their female customers feel uncomfortable and unwanted whilst they enjoy their patriarchy penis party with whatever cock is on show.

Hi, I read your submission to reddit. Felt quietly superior that my preferred hangout (Little Collin, in the CBD), doesn’t suffer the same problems, and went on my merry way.

Today, I took advantage of an RDO to get lunch at Aucuba at 108 Bank St in South Melbourne. It’s so new that you can practically smell the paint drying and the veneer hasn’t yet worn off the honestly-not-ikea chairs. Unfortunately, the dudebro barista effect is already evident. Inside, I found a pair of chirpy and helpful uniformed waitresses who directed me to a table. When asking about the non-espresso options, they got a bit flustered, and said that they’d get the barista to come to my table to help me.

Instead, the non-uniformed, unshaved, and possibly un-showered barista finally stopped talking to his mates, and wandered back to fiddle with his gear. When pressed for information on a roast for a V60, he muttered something about Kenya, and then served me a siphon instead (which to be fair, was really good).

*sigh* I really wanted to like this place. It’s got a nice vibe, and has some interesting food options, but the barista is *redacted* *redacted*. Not interested in going back till he stops acting like a complete tool or gets replaced less douche baggy.

240 Johnston St, Fitzroy

Generic. That is the first word that comes to mind when I think of this place. Addict Food & Coffee is your typical minimalist, lifeless, soulless cafe with dudes making the coffee and women polishing cutlery mindlessly, bored out of their brains. 

I dropped in last week and found the whole experience mind numbingly mundane. Let’s start with the aesthetics: White walls, check. Hanging plants, check. Minimalist decor, check. This cafe is so tediously hipster that it has no individuality at all. There is one piece of art hanging on the wall of two old dude bros in caps (they got the uniform right). They have their backs turned away, no doubt about to catcall some sassy lass who’s crossing the street in front of them. “If we’re gonna do it do it right”. 

There were two dudes in the cafe when I showed up. A tall black guy in cap who was stamping cups and a Japanese looking guy (it’s all in the mustache) with a really cool shirt and a Fitzroy fedora. The two bros didn’t make a move to greet us, instead a welcoming gal came over and seated us, gave us menus and chatted to us about the coffee. She took our order, put it through then went back to the end of the bar and stood polishing cutlery from a halloumi bucket. Dude bro 1 stopped stamping cups to make our two coffees and our gal walked over to the coffee dispense area, set up two saucers and teaspoons and waited patiently. How do these businesses survive their labour costs? I mean, two people to make and run out two coffees because men are allergic to the floor outside of their holy barista sanctuary.

She came by to take our order soon after and engaged with us about the menu, told us her favourite dishes and answered our questions. In the mean time the two bros stood about doing sweet jack all, literally, nothing. A third white guy with a backwards cap appeared in the bar and the three of them messed about a bit behind the coffee machine, laughing with each other side by side, whilst our girl dealt with not only us but the other customers that had come in. I was feeling a bit ill now from all the testosterone in the air, the cafe was thick with it and I looked around and noticed that a good portion of customers were also dude bros adorned with beards, fedoras and luscious long locks not to be reckoned with.  Is this just Fitzroy for you or do dude bros attract dude bros??

When a few more people walked in, rather than one of the bros coming out on the floor to help, another girl appeared suddenly from behind the scenes and the two girls handled the customers whilst one of the guys got on his knees and started sucking another one off. The third was masturbating ferociously whilst looking at his reflection in the silver La Marzocco. It was really a spectacle to behold. 

“If we’re gonna do it do it right”

I’ve got nothing much more to add. Here we have it again folks. Another “top cafe” in Melbourne with a clear gender divide between the men and women. I’m going to say the gap feels more intensified at this place, firstly because there is nothing interesting to keep you occupied whilst the men hang high fives, but also because the girls and guys (at least when I was there) barely spoke to each other; there seemed to be a real disconnect between them. When the gals weren’t serving customers, they stood together at the end of the bar polishing cutlery, watching the male orgy in action with disinterested expressions. The old dude bros above them leered down and I’m sure we were all wondering together just when and how things ended up this way? 

DOUCHE RATING: 5 STARS / EXTREME DOUCHE ALERT Girls don’t get a go on the machine at all. This place is a boys club, it’s thick with testosterone and the girls know their roles, which excludes them from coffee making and are often at times insultingly dull.

ATMOSPHERE: 3/10 - Generic, Boring, Characterless. The minimalist chic doesn’t do this place any favours and the white walls gives the effect of being trapped within an institution of men that even those hanging plants can’t soften up. 

I listened to a great podcast today from This American Life all about internet trolls. In it, Lindy West, a plus sized American feminist, writer and activist, talks about her experience of coming face to face with her worst troll after he had realised the error of his ways. In brief, it turns out that this dude had been going through some serious personal shiz, he was overweight himself and depressed about it, his girlfriend had dumped his sorry ass, he hated women, had lost his job and so, when he saw Lindy, a proud, unapologetic, larger lady, accepting and loving herself, well it was too much for his little man-ego to handle and he flipped the fudge out. He began, as most people do, with google. He researched her family and personal life and decided the best way to get to her was to create a twitter account imitating her recently deceased father and begin attacking her from there. For Lindy, who receives countless hateful messages a day, this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. She spoke out about how this very personal act had deeply affected her, and believe it or not, her troll heard her and experienced, for the first time, shame and remorse for his actions. Almost as quickly as he had began, he wrote to her and apologised for all his wrong-doing and ceased the trolling. He even donated $50 to the hospital where her father had died.

Now, we don’t all get the chance to meet our trolls, and truth be told, I have pretty fucking thick skin. (Did I mention this blog post will have swearing? THIS BLOG POST CONTAINS SWEARING). After all I’m a big butch man hating feminist lesbian bitch, I can take it. What people don’t know is that I am also a researcher, and of course I couldn’t do just nothing with this developing stream of data coming my way, so I began to experiment.

I started to share my blog which is purposefully anonymous on social media to see what would happen depending on how, where and to whom I shared it. I have found the results predictable in that it received wide-spread trolling, yet interesting in how these responses changed depending on the platform, and heartwarming in what happened behind the scenes. So here we go!

“The writer wrote on a specific topic that they felt strongly about, but it wasn’t what you wanted it to be, so it’s ‘lazy writing’. Hmm!”

The most interesting thing about the trolling comments I’ve received are how these men have chosen to attack me depending on where I shared the blog, how anonymous they were at the time and how anonymous I was.

I posted this blog first in a facebook group called Melbourne Barista Union (MBU), a group, as you would expect, comprised of baristas in Melbourne. I did this several months ago after my first couple of entries and the vitriol it created in its short lifespan of a few hours was immense. I had barely blinked before the thread was deleted by the group admin. I did not reply to any comments after my original post and whilst the blog received one positive comment by a brave soul, the rest of the thread was complete and utter trolling abuse. However, interestingly enough, the comments on this social platform were mostly all directed at my ability as a barista. I am still digging for screenshots so until then this is what I can recall from memory:

“You must be such a shit barista if you have to write this to make yourself feel better”

“Does this blog make you feel less insecure about your skills?”

“It’s not men’s fault if they are more highly skilled at these jobs and are hired because of it”

It appears that they wanted to cut me down where it hurt, which in this context, was my skills as a barista. Whilst the torrent was raging overhead, man bun after man bun feverishly slinging insults and high fiving each other on the originality of insults which to me seemed remarkably similar -(though one of them did go to the effort of writing an entire lengthy facebook post on his own personal facebook about how shit me and my blog were, thanks for the traffic bro) - something heartwarming and incredible was simultaneously happening. Whilst man after man spoke out against me and my blog, all save one, the women were also communicating, but not in words, in tags. Between every insult made by a man there was a girl tagging one or two of her friends and behind the scenes, on my tumblr dashboard my followers began to quickly grow.

In this incredible article about the gender division in specialty coffee released today, Lisa Knisely, Portland writer with a PhD in Women’s, Gender and Sexuality studies, describes how work that is undertaken in a public space is valued more than domestic or “caring” work which is usually carried out in private. Public work is associated with masculinity whilst caring/private work is associated with femininity. Knisely goes on to say a bunch of brilliant and insightful things (I’m trying to keep this short, read the article) but basically, the point being made is, “women can inhabit public space, but with the expectation that we’ll accommodate others and police ourselves”.

So to put it frankly, yes I was allowed to be a part of the MBU facebook group, the same way that women can now play professional sports, or vote, or join their college soccer team, or sit in the boardroom of a large corporation. We have fought hard to gain the privilege of being present - we can listen to men treat women like sexual objects in our workplaces, or to our brothers making rape jokes with their mates, or to a customer making a racist slur against our newest employee. We have been let into these spheres ladies! But don’t you dare ruffle any feathers by speaking out against something that you perhaps believe is not ok, especially if it is sexism against women, the least recognised oppression to date. Don’t even fantasise about changing the order of things because if you do YOU WILL BE CUT DOWN! This is a man’s world ladies, as is the coffee world ever since it moved from the private sphere back into the public one and went from women serving coffee to their husbands to bearded bros extracting perfectly even shots for other bros. How dare you suggest that there may be some form of inequality going on here, shut up and play by the rules, bitch.

So where MBU had spent its energy ragging on my lack of barista skills, I decided I needed feedback from a source outside of the coffee world, so I turned to one of my favourite websites, Reddit. I shared the blog in the ‘Melbourne’ subreddit knowing that it’s subscribers would be a mixed bunch of all sorts, of all ages and from all walks of life.

This time, rather than having next to no barista skills, the men of the Melbourne subreddit decided I had next to no writing skills. In fact, my writing was my Achilles’ heel. The blog would have been perfectly fine if it wasn’t for my tragically poor style of writing. I was lazy and unoriginal, I used too much hyperbole and wasn’t conducting deep enough research before reaching these harsh conclusions. I couldn’t string two sentences together for goodness sake, what a waste of online space!

“This just plain old sucks. It’s dripping with hate and absent of personality. At least try to be funny and perhaps even a little bit original.”

Once again however, whilst the fires of reddit began to rage, fueled by men protecting men or perhaps trying to ease their own shame and misery, the same beautiful sequence reignited behind the scenes.

Once again my followers started to climb, majority women. Similarly to the girls tagging each other on MBU, in the background was a more silent, powerful message of support. I said this in the interview to Sprudge recently and I’ll reiterate it here, this blog is resonating because there is truth to it that both women and men are recognising. 

“that’s boring, everybody is already saying how lame whatever the fuck hipsters are and their coffee, as soon as I read the first sentence about one of the cafes I was already frustrated by the lack of originality. It’s just fucking lazy that a writer can’t think of anything other than the word ‘hipster’”

“Perhaps. Using the word hipster just means you don’t have to explain a lot of things. Like using the word apple means you don’t have to go about describing aspects of that particular fruit.”

Now, I really want to take a moment to answer some of these insightful and powerful questions from my trolls. Why? Because they are hilarious and this blog is all about comic relief. So here goes!

Q: Why does making fun of people, specifically male baristas, make you happy? Life going downhill?

A: First, there is no question that making fun of male baristas is both deeply enjoyable but also really easy to do. There is a never-ending supply of ammo being constantly created by said douchey dude baristas of Melbourne. Check out a few high profile cafes and see for yourself. When so much douche is being generated on a daily basis it’s really difficult not to tap into that sweetness.

Taking a different approach, Knisely puts it like this: Male baristas can safely perform and inhabit a ‘coffee douche’ role in a way that women can not in nearly as comfortable a way … it is no accident that when you talk about a jerky barista most people will think of a guy most of the time … This isn’t because men are just worse people; it’s that women simply can’t get away with being cold or distant in a service work job for the most part,

So to re-phrase my answer, I make fun of male baristas not only because it’s easy but because they deserve to be made fun of. The double standards are stark - women inhabiting similar professional roles cannot and do not get away with having off days, with being cold, disinterested, disengaged or snobbish, and when we do it comes with risk. Lord, it’s a sad world we live in and laughing at douchebag baristas makes it a little bit brighter. (Dudes I’m passing you my invisible mankerchief now, I know this is difficult to swallow, blow hard).

Q: Why does the predominant race of the staff matter? Yeah, we need to make sure our hiring practices are non biased but she was relieved to go to a cafe with majority non white staff? Why? Was the coffee better? A: Yes, the coffee tasted so much better. It was free of moronic, racist, xenophobic, misogynistic douchiness. It tasted like fucking heaven in fact. Cheers bra.

Well I thought it was funny.

I love you too.

Until the next post! ;)

Green Park: 815 Nicholson St, Carlton Imagine a sunny afternoon. Hipsters sprawl out on picnic rugs, coffees in hand and The Saturday Paper splayed out. A group of cyclists have parked up their bikes and are debating the new cycle laws whilst sipping on their short macchiatos. Families take up the outdoor seating and couples cram inside. This is Green Park. It is relatively new to the scene, taking over the space from St. Ali North in 2014, but this unassuming cafe packs in the numbers. Show up on a Sunday and you will be privy to what is nothing short of complete and utter mayhem.  Now, I’m starting to get a bit angry. I go to cafes, I coffee, I eat and I call out sexism. I’ve been in the hospitality industry for eons so it’s not like the gender divide is all too new for me, however once those douche glasses are on, it’s very hard to take them off, and when I go to establishments like Green Park, where I see gender division and sexism at it’s worst, some invisible furnace inside me starts to rage. 

I stopped into Green Park last Sunday. I have been here a bunch, it’s around the corner from my lady friend’s house and is her reg. That morning we had somehow found ourselves over in the south side slurping on bluices (blended juices) with an exercise heavy crowd, feeling both uncomfortable and unapologetic about our shabby appearances and braless bodies. When we called into Green Park later that day it was like stepping into a parallel universe. From died hair, perfect make up and pearl necklaces to the best dressed hipsters I have seen this side of the river. Two of the three all male baristas wore beanies (matching bro code uniforms), one of them with high pants tucked into his long socks, a striped t-shirt and round glasses, the other with a long braid down the side of his head which looked straight out of the Viking era. The third reminded me of Clark Kent, black hair and a Rumble For Roasters comp t-shirt, he seemed the least interested in what was happening in the cafe, his back turned for the majority of the time dusting grinders and the likes thereof. Our experiences of Green Park are always the same, read the reviews and you will likely hear similar stories. They go something like this. 

The place was absolute chaos when we got there. We waited at the entrance for a  while before a flustered host who looked like she might cry got to us and took our names. She asked us to wait, no time limit, obviously she was doing the best she could. This gave me ample time to watch what is the shit show that is Green Park. I counted four people on the floor that I could see, all female. 1 host, female. 1 till person, female - she didn’t move from the till the entire time and note, the till is in the barista area. Now to the boys shall we? Whilst these women are literally racing through the cafe, running coffees, running food, taking orders, answering to bells and shouts and the patriarchy, we had THREE male baristas in that little barista space being the biggest douchiest douches in history. Whilst the anarchy took place around them, these guys were protected by a bubble of man-loving douchiness. They moved at a snails pace. They did not step out of their space once, not once, they did not smile once, they did not jump on the till, they did not make eye contact with customers. In fact the only interaction they had with customers was when Wally (striped, beanie guy with round glasses) would yell out the names for take away coffee orders: “DAVE” - Hands over coffee - Looks at Dave as if he wants to punch his lights out - Goes back to being an A+ douche. 

This is a set up people, that is designed to work for the men, and not for the women, and certainly not for the customers. We had our usual experience, after being seated we ordered two identical coffees, twelve minutes later we got one, seven minutes after that we got the second. Half an hour after that our food came out. Why are the men failing so bad? The other men on shift were: A male bartender (of course) who never left the bar, and A guy in a breezy Hawaiian style shirt who I am going to assume is one of the owners, floating about changing water bottles every so often.  This cafe is owned by four men, and you can tell. It reeks of douchiness, I mean the THREE baristas don’t even have to worry about the till because they have their female till girl taking care of it for them. She looked as though she was about to choke herself with boredom, but I didn’t see them bantering with her or sharing a laugh - their surly attitudes trickled down to the entire cafe. None of the staff were happy and the customers weren’t cracking smiles either. At one point I saw a female floor worker stop the rushing host and hold her for a moment, two hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes in a gesture to calm. I felt for her, racing about, unaided by the blokes and aided by her fellow female comrades who were doing the same things in their own sections. 

I looked over to the barista section to Mr. “Rumble For Roasters” Clark Kent who at this time was standing with his back to the action, cleaning out group heads with a tea-towel. He then very sluggishly pulled out a load of glasses and began putting them away. I screamed inside.  

DOUHE RATING 5 Stars / BIGGEST DOUCHES YET Green Park, where you will find sexism at its finest. I would never work here unless I was at the top, then I would fire all the men, hire all women and watch the cafe transform, because women know how to work in teams, they know how to share space, and they don’t feel as though their roles only consist of what they have deemed an extension of their penis, that is the coffee machine.  Once again you see a great venue, set up nicely, but failing to deliver on service as the girls are thrown into managing a shit show that is set up to work against them. The men breeze around as if they are some kind of gods, above customer interaction or floor work. These douche ratings are so profound I am thinking about starting an action, who’s with me? 

ATMOSPHERE 6/10 - The book flipped open in the entrance states that the four male owners of the establishment have sustainability in mind. You can buy what I assume is coffee soil for your garden packaged up in brown bags, and apparently the chefs don’t stress about misshaped vegetables which is nice. Aside from that, the space doesn’t necessarily show their sustainable side, however one can’t deny that it’s quirky and personalised. When I’m there I feel like I’m inside someone’s bedroom - green walls, books, coloured pots, jars and other knick-knacks scattered about. The music is your classic neutral deep ambient beats which does little to boost energy levels or cheer people up, but the cafe does appear to be an attempt to cater to all groups, families, hipsters, couples, cyclists, the works, and they are succeeding. It’s always busy, and is open late too. Quite a feat.

3/62 Rose St, Fitzroy, 3065

Dun dun dunnnnn. So I had heard, from all sources, that this was the place, THIS WAS THE PLACE WHERE THE DOUCHINESS HAPPENS! After beginning this blog, I received an abundance of messages from barista babes about their experiences in Melbourne, and I was almost putting off going to Industry Beans because let’s face it, how much fun can shooting fish in a barrel really be? The stories that came rolling in about the douchiness of this establishment were off the chart, almost, I mean I am trying to create some kind of scale here, kind of like the Kinsey scale but with douchiness, and the fact that I hadn’t visited the Madonna Of Douche was starting to grind on me. I felt like I knew this place after all, and so I popped in, and it went a little something like this:

I rocked up on a Sunday, not your best day to judge the douchiness of a cafe as all its staff will be rostered on. Week days are much better at getting a genuine douche picture of regular Mon-Fri trade. The first thing I noticed was that it’s smack bang next door to a Crossfit gym. Now, my brother went through a Crossfit stage, which I think makes me pretty much an expert on the matter. My brother, an army-marching, box-jumping, hetero-bro with enough internalised misogyny for him to school me on my “extreme feminism” several times and send me MRA videos to change my views, found sanctuary in the world of Crossfit. He wore spandex (right?), he went to competitions, he spoke in Crosswegeon and his muscles were HUGE. Yes, I know there are girls who do Crossfit, I can guarantee you, I have probably hit on most of them, and I’m not judging Industry Beans too harshly here either, after all it can’t be their fault that they happened to find themselves next door to the meat head centre of the universe, but let’s just say, it was already setting the tone for some douche magic to happen. 

I was greeted by a dude host and sat on a communal table in front of the Synesso. I noticed right away the disproportionate number of male floor staff, not only to women, but to the cafe industry as a whole. You never see this many bros on the floor. My friend commented “It’s lovely to see so many male waitresses” touche hombre. It was all hair gel and tattoos (and a lot of both). The men in their little aprons and white tees flittered about the floor and I thought “It must be early still, wait for the gals to start and these guys will get sucked up onto the bar in no time”. I took out my quill and parchment and began to count: Chefs = Four, all male, all white (Auction room repeat). Kitchenhand = 1, male. Hosts = 2, 1 female, 1 male. Floor Staff, 4 Male, 3 Female (thought it was hard to see around the corner to the other parts of the cafe and to be honest, a lot of the staff looked very alike). This place was just dude heavy in general, I could smell the Dove For Men body wash hanging in the air, though of course we gotta talk about coffee (that’s what we’re here for, right girls?) On the machine was Hombre. He had a very very well manicured moustache, gelled hair and a white shirt. He looked like a South American drug barren which I’m sure was completely intentional, and he plodded along on his lonesome for a minute or two before, blow and behold, a gal appeared to his left. Could this really be? What about the stories? The men who laugh in women’s face as they hand in their CVs with shaky hands? The gang-bangs and circle jerks? It took a minute for me to realise that the girl was not only helping him on the Synesso but also cashing people off (ahh that makes a bit more sense now, woman = till bitch). Take note, Proud Mary, baristas CAN work tills too, well female ones anyway, I didn’t see Hombre pressing any buttons. 

I was expecting another full dude Patriarchy Party to commence, and to be fair, Mr. Moustache did remain a permanent fixture at the machine whilst the gal came and went, putting away glassware, cashing people off, multi-tasking like the boss witch she is. However there was this warm Patronus conjuring deep inside my chest, just the fact that she was there, SHE WAS THERE! On the podium, pulling shots, that big tat down her left arm which screamed “don’t fuck with me or I’ll cut ya”. I sipped on my batch brew feeling great, if not slightly queasy from all the hair gel and Dove For Men. When I thought it couldn’t get much better than this A SECOND LADY BABE jumped on the other side of Hombre wedging him in, two wings to the gelled up grease bird. Another dude was manning the brew bar around the corner on his lonesome (typical), but even so, the numbers were even (coffee numbers that is). No way…. a THIRD lady babe jumped onto the EKG behind and I watched in awe. There was this magical moment when Hombre left to take a pee and the three women worked the space, unaccompanied, unkept and without the weight of all that hair gel and lynx clogging up their sinuses. I moved my attention to the floor, to a gal with reddish hair who was charming the pants off everyone. Unlike the rest of the crew she had no tattoos to do the talking and she was switched on. Her eyes smiled with warmth, there was no air of coolness, she was just doing a damn good job flawlessly interacting with guests and talking with her hands the way my Italian girlfriend does - babes of the world unite. 

Industry beans, you surprised me. How accurate this portrayal was of your every day antics is yet to be decided, but those girls, that machine, you’ve got a good thing going. Next stop, a female chef! 

DOUCHE RATING 3 Stars / MEDIUM DOUCHE ALERT Whilst overall the place is thick with testosterone, the girls get some time with the machine and it’s nice. These babes obviously know their stuff and are getting the opportunity to showcase it. Keep it up Industry Beans, you’re making believers out your biggest cynics. 

ATMOSPHERE 5/10 - The venue itself is well, next to a Crossfit, need I say more? Ok ok, it’s more than that. It’s industrial (duh), with a half finished factory feel, heigh ceilings, sacks of coffee piled on top of each other and natural light beaming down onto the worn concrete floor. There are lots of black tiles, black fence palings and an abundance of male waitresses to charm your knickers off. The place itself however feels as though it belongs somewhere in South Yarra. The crowd is almost distinctly un-Fitzroy: manicured or meaty men, dainty blonde women in sundresses with pale faces and engagement rings. I was trying to put my finger on it when I realised it is just so heterosexual, no gender benders or queers anywhere in sight, either on staff or in the crowd. Should I blame Crossfit one more time for good measure? Gay men would surely be terrified and lesbians generally repulsed by all them hetero muscles. 

SERVICE 7/10 - Professional and polished. The dudes who served us were attentive. We got checked on and given recommendations. Everybody seemed to be fully in control, however lacked spark. Aside from the reddish haired gal who was making us mere mortals warmer than a mug of steaming hot butterbeer on a winter’s day, it all felt a bit generic. Tattoos, check; White tees, check; Hair gel, these guys are bringing it back! Remember Wave? That stuff smelled so good, mmphff. 

BEANHUNTER RATING 9/10 out of 75 reviews. Number 13 in Melbourne. 

This was one of the first cafes in Melbourne that showed the processes behind the product. Mark Dundon and Bridget Amos, founders of St. Ali, sold up shop to Salvatore (biggest douche in Melbourne) and started Seven Seeds back in 2008. It is a converted warehouse tucked into Berkeley St, Carlton, in the University of Melbourne precinct and only a stones throw from the CBD. Coffee lovers rank Seven Seeds roasts alongside Proud Mary and a select few others as the best in Melbourne.

Admittedly, I did spend some time at old Melbourne Uni so am pretty familiar with the place, however as per usual, this time was spent prior to my Douche Days. When I think of Seven Seeds, images of long wooden tables, warm lighting and early mornings conjure up. I’ve always associated the venue with a sense of community, but of course, like good insidious sexism does, my memory was a blur of conditioned norms. I couldn’t quite recall who was behind the handle of what? I popped in this morning to suss out the Douche status of this long-loved cafe and to get me some of them sweet sweet beans. 

Upon entry is was apparent that Seven Seeds too was playing the Douchey Dude game. I was there around 8:15 this morning and counted three gals on the floor and three dudes behind the bar. I’ll address the men first: There was Legolas, tall, slim, a blonde man-bun swept up from his perfectly shaven cheeks. This bro was nothing short of beautiful, a pen slotted eloquently behind his ear as his stern expression focussed on the Synesso.  Joining him in the bro brigade was Gimli, named purely because of his big bushy bro beard, (there’s gotta be one).  Last but not least was Elvis, clad in a blue button up shirt, this dude had a seriously styled Graceland quiff that put The King to shame. 

On the floor were three gals: A graciously classy blonde babe positioned at the till seating and cashing people off, a brunette with a bun and glasses who, let’s face it, looked like she owned the joint (I’m going to call her Juliet), and a third babe with plaits and a spunky sense of style who initially seated us and gave us menus.  Juliet was our waitress. She was super personable and on our level. She chatted with us as if we were old friends, made us feel welcome and warm and asked us questions about what we were after. She even touched me on the arm as she left to put through our order (be still my beating heart!) and when she dropped off our meals she came over with a “here you go my lovelies”, sigh. Juliet moved about with such pizazz and charisma, as did all the gals, it was hard to keep my eyes off them and back to the agonisingly boring private patriarchy party.

As per usual it was the ladies who lifted this place up whilst the dudes had some serious doucheness going on. The Three Musketeers were in another world. It was almost as if there was this invisible, intangible line drawn between them and the outside, making them completely oblivious to the presence of customers. I watched the girls. No matter what they were doing they were switched on and aware of their surroundings. When someone walked through the front door all three sets of ears perked up and they looked around to see which one of them would greet and seat the new guest. The bros however were switched off, they were unplugged, pulled from the wall. I mean, I stared at them for twenty minutes and none of them so much as met my eye. I was wondering just how on earth three hospo workers could be so out of touch when something happened which answered my question: the door opened and a customer entered; at this point our blonde beauty was in the bar helping out (not on the machine, don’t get excited), and Elvis was closest to the guest, putting glassware atop of one of the espresso machines. I observed Elvis’s eyes flicker over to the new customer then quickly away, pretending the uncomfortable encounter of perhaps catching eyes with a new guest hadn’t really occurred. It was our lady babe who had to stop what she was doing, put down her tea towel and rush out onto the floor to seat the newcomer. Typical. 

The vibe of the bros matched Proud Mary. They were a tad surly, no smiles and definitely no customer interaction. Legolas seemed particularly melancholy, gazing down into the depths of his lovingly poured latte art as he softly cradled the coffee cup in a smooth pale hand. He reminded me of the story of Narcissus, contemplating his own beauty in the reflection of the lake. Watching these guys was like peering into a parallel universe. They had absolutely no awareness of customers, and they didn’t want to. I counted Gimli twice deliberately shifting his eyes away from customers who walked too close to the bar or through the front door. The three of them chatted to each other and their other co-workers as they messed about with their toys. Not once did I see a lady pull a shot or steam a jug. At one point another bro appeared on the bar, hat backwards, putting away glassware. I wondered if he was a kitchenhand and if so, if he would be next in line to be trained up or let on coffee before any of these bad-ass babes. Who wants to cast their bets?

DOUCHE RATING: 5 Stars / Extreme Douche Alert Seven Seeds, talk about a Douchey Dude Barista problem! Not only do you appear to have an all dude coffee policy, your bros are living in some alternate universe unreachable by us mere mortals. They’re switched off, intentionally so, and it’s the women who are picking up the slack. Yes, your latte tastes great Legolas, but even that Elvish magic is no match for Juliet’s rebellious passion. Let the ladies pour! 

ATMOSPHERE 9/10 - Dundon and Amos did good. The space is warm and well thought out. With high ceilings, soft lighting and no shortage of wood and greenery, the space has a very tranquil feel considering it’s so close to the CBD. The vibes here are relaxing and the crowd is great, lots of singles and barely any suits (heaven). With plenty of glass to see into all the spaces, including the lab where the magic happens, this simple, non-pretentious fit out will chill you out. 

SERVICE 9/10 - Now it’s rare for me to go on about exceptional service, but if there is a cafe in Melbourne who has it, it’s this place… well, these three gals, this morning. Good job ladies! I was surprised and impressed. I chatted to all three at various points and they were accommodating, kind and genuine, with charisma and spunk. Juliet, I wrote my number on my napkin ;) 

North Melbourne’s Auction Rooms is a gem in the somewhat quiet neighbourhood. The venue, unsurprisingly converted from North Melbourne’s old auction rooms, features a chic modern bar as the showpiece, placed centre stage, it can’t help but command attention from the seating sprawled around.   I had been in the past but without my douche glasses, so eagerly made my way in this morning to suss out the douche level of the establishment.

Upon entry we said hey to the gal behind the counter and asked for a table, however she kindly directed us to the host, a tall handsome lad in a crisp white button-up shirt who seemed to be floating around the floor like a model on a catwalk, it was obvious that he was running the show. He seated us and I looked around and began to count: 1, 2, 3 floor staff aside from him, and surprise surprise, all female. 1, 2 baristas, one behind the espresso machine and one pottering about in the brew bar. And surprise surprise, all dudes. My eyes began to roll involuntarily but I told myself to hold on, order some food to overcome the nausea and GIVE IT TIME, see how it plays out, perhaps I would be pleasantly surprised… (insert another eye-roll because we all know where this is going). 

Our waitress was a very cool Canadian babe who looked like she had come straight outta Smith and Daughters. She came by promptly and asked us about drinks. We ordered and I got to watching the show. Douche no. 1 (D.1) was hanging tight behind the La Marzocco with a gal to his left working the till and the other gals working the floor (seemed like they weren’t even allowed on stage). The place was busy but not packed, Monday morning vibes. I observed D.1 who appeared to just be gazing out the front window over the top of the machine. There were no orders on, or very few, but stand he did, and gaze he did. At least at Proud Mary the douches pretended to blow out little puffs of steam, where was the steam damn it? I focussed my attention on Douche no. 2 (D.2) behind the brew bar - it was like watching a sloth masturbate in slow motion, painful! My eyes watered with boredom as he fluffed about doing nothing in particular (perhaps organising the retail section, a matter of great importance). Eventually D.2 slunk over to join D.1 behind the espresso machine and a few orders came through. They very casually made the meagre, manageable load together (as good bros do) then I realised I was starting to nod off at the predictable monotony of the situation and refocussed my energy on my pals. 

After devouring a beautiful and delicious meal I went for a stroll and noticed another gal and guy had started. The third dude was, of course, in the bar, and the gal was, of course, on the floor. I noticed also that all the chefs were male (but hey that’s another blog). As we went up to pay D.2 was literally standing next to his entourage with his arms folded and a faraway look on his face as he stared out into space. I think he caught me looking at him - though his expression didn’t change from the utmost boredom, he began to pace a bit up and down the space before coming again to a slow halt (sloth I tells ya!). His blank expression no doubt masking a mind hard at work pondering the deepest questions of life. By this point the cafe was full and the gals were running about being A+ rockstars. One of them cashed us off (I don’t think these dudes even bothered getting till training) and as we left my friend who doesn’t know a thing about my blog, yet is herself a head chef, commented  “All the baristas are men these days, I don’t get it, and the chefs too”. Amen girlfriend, sing it true. 

DOUCHE RATING: 5 Stars / EXTREME DOUCHE ALERT Auction Rooms, you are a victim of the patriarchy! A pawn in the game of barista-douchiness! Not only that but your dudes are lazy and have as much personality as a liberal voter at a cocktail party (note, that isn’t much). Train your ladies up, they’ve got skills and will run circles without the jerk.  This place gets extra douche points for having a dude running the show (aka, Mr. white-shirt ultra clean host) and an all male kitchen cast. ATMOSPHERE 9/10 - The fit out here is sweet. It’s comfortable, spacious and beautiful. The decor features a lot of soft tones, wood, a large tree growing inside the courtyard and vines crawling up the white-washed bricks. It is a good combination of old and new. Comfort has been accounted for and there are lots of handy little things like a shelf in the bathroom which shows thought in planning. I’ve also gotta throw this place brownie points for playing Beyonce’s latest jam “Formation” (for those of you who haven’t heard it, get onnn it!)

SERVICE 8/10 - Our waitress was knowledgeable and edgy. She knew the menu and was on top of her tables, checking up on us and remembering what we were contemplating to check in with us and ask about our meals. She did that great ninja thing where floor staff top up your water and clear your empties without you realising, and although she was a bit prompt with little time to chat, we couldn’t blame her, she’s got a lot of extra work to do with all the slack hanging off the dudes. 

They made the news as recent as yesterday with the Herald Sun slapping them on the back for consistently rolling out the best coffee according to Beanhunter (why do corporate douches love Beanhunter so much? I swear, check their phones, they all have it).  Yep, it’s Proud Mary. Anyone who knows anything about coffee in Australia knows these guys. They are casually showy, with bright cartoon branding and huge bold RUN PMC stickers and merch. Not to mention that six group Synesso which meets you as you walk through the front doors of the little Collingwood hideout tucked into Oxford St behind Wellington. It’s either a baristas wet dream or worst nightmare and I had my premonitions about the douchey dude rating of it’s operators, I mean, check out the owner. However I popped back in the other morning to scope the place out with my douche glasses on. 

Needless to say, I wasn’t disappointed (well, always disappointed but that’s kinda the point of this whole blog). Upon entry I was greeted by douchey dude barista #1 (stood next to douchey dude barista #2) who glanced up from behind the machine and kindly told me to grab a seat where I wanted with a smile (it was 7:25am and the place was pretty quiet). I positioned myself in the corner to get a good look at the machine from behind and all the goings on. It wasn’t long before a chipper babe with blonde hair and runners scooted over to me and gave me a menu. She was super polite and friendly and I ordered a coffee whilst watching the double douche act that was going on behind their Synesso. Whilst the two gals on shift worked the floor and stocked up for the day, setting up the cake display, getting glassware and the rest ready, these dudes set about with serious frowns on their faces (it’s hard work being so cool) tweaking the handle of the six headed beast, blowing out little puffs of steam, brushing away excess grind and tapping lovingly on the side of their EKG. I felt like I was in some kind of slapstick comedy, they just needed to replace the smooth jazz with a Charlie Chaplin piano piece.  

Perhaps the douchiest part was when at one point a customer came in to order a take away coffee yet both ladies were out on the floor talking to customers OH NO! WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT? Well, the punter had to wait whilst both bros quickly took to furiously tweaking the beast, blowing out little puffs as if their lives depended on it and brushing invisible grind. Eventually one of the gals came back from the floor, processed his order and handed over the docket. CRISIS AVERTED! Whew that could have gotten messy. 

I took a break from the show to devour my avocado toast and then looked up to see another body in the coffee area. From behind, the mystery beauty had silky long blonde hair, and like their counterparts, was clad in black. They were messing about with a third grinder and I thought, could it be...? Then the figure turned profile on and I caught a glimpse of a bro beard, ahh, I knew it was too good to be true. Back to my toast. 

DOUCHE RATING: 5 stars / EXTREME DOUCHE ALERT Bros bros everywhere. The hats, the black shirts, the little puffs of steam - lady babes do not get any time with the machine and I don’t blame them, being stuck in the middle of that six group Synesso would be like drowning in a festering testosterone cesspool. The girls keep the show going, racing around the floor with lightning speed and making customers feel fuzzy inside, whilst the dudes practice some ancient ritual of mutual masturbation / worship the Synesso deity. 

ATMOSPHERE 9/10 - I was there early but the cafe is cute and retro. They play jazz and have both raw and panela sugar on offer (not sure how necessary that is). It gets crammed during busy times so I’d recommend getting in early or going elsewhere that serves the bean.

SERVICE 10/10 - My badass lady babe was perfectly friendly and helpful. She pointed out different recommendations for me and came back to check how everything was going. The other gal who cashed me off in the colourful dress looked a bit more fed up by the masturbation show that was going on next to her, but hey, who wouldn’t be? She was frank but friendly and the dudes were too busy making out to give me any real attention. 

I dropped into St. Ali yesterday with two of my best girlfriends after the shame of “you haven’t been yet?!” built to unmanageable proportions. We use St. Ali beans at my cafe and I have grown friendly with some of the reps (all dudes)  and of course their famous roasts which are found in just about every good damn cafe in Melbourne (ok, maybe not, but you get the gist). However, despite the sweet smiles of my reps and the chocolatey goodness of their smooth blends, a burning question remained, will they too be Douchey Dude culprits?

We were seated by a sexy tall dark man with an accent, way over the other side of the large converted warehouse, so I had to strain my little lady eyes to get a good peak at the machine (a Lamarzocco this time) and see who was pulling the moves behind it. Whilst all the staff wore aprons I could spot one strapping young lad behind the grinder in a clean button up patterned shirt, apron free. Just as I began rolling my eyes and sipping on my single origin pour over from Colombia, the hope fading from my eyes, what did I see in the distance? Is that a bobbing head next to the clean-cut shirt dude? I went for a wander and to my delight found a bad ass lady babe rocking the machine alongside her male counterpart. At first I was sceptical, but one pour over and one quirky named breakfast later she was still standing strong, pouring coffees and being generally bad-ass. Whilst she was still uniformed (perhaps she hadn’t earned her no apron, button up shirt stripes yet) she appeared to be a permanent fixture of the coffee space, so for that reasons I am going to give St. Ali a moderate douche rating. However, some things need to be mentioned:

Special Douche Mention The menu has a section called the “St. Ali Hall of Fame” with several signature house dishes accompanied by little descriptions of the chefs who created them and what they are up to now. DOUCHE ALERT, all the chefs are dudes, and Caucasian sounding dudes too (though I better not assume). We’ve got Benjamin, Andrew, Andy, Mark, Christopher and Nick - no ladies in sight :’( Whilst this isn’t technically coffee related I feel it deserves a Special Douche Mention!

St. Ali, you’ve surpassed my expectation for now however whilst stalking for pictures of the cafe online I have come across a MOSTLY DOUCHEY DUDE BARISTA situation which is stopping me from jumping for joy. I was there fairly early in the morning and can’t quench that nagging suspicion that when the heat is turned up closer to lunch my gorgeous gal pal may have been booted off the machine to run drinks and clear tables. What do you think readers? Let’s hope not!

DOUCHE RATING: 3 Stars / MEDIUM DOUCHE ALERT Ladies get their fair share of tamping and pouring in this place however the dudes are still working the more essential components of the machine and outnumber the ladies.

ATMOSPHERE 8/10 - The vibe feels almost Brunswick (just replace Northern hipsters with south-side families). Set in a large converted warehouse, there are fairy lights strung up on the ceiling and minimal signage/flags hung around the place. The tables are mostly communal and comfy and are big enough to not feel as though you are on an intimate date with the couple next to you (drats). My less cafe addicted gal pal Em who doesn’t get out of Essendon very often commended that it was “cool” and cool it is, somewhere you’d take your less-cultured date to show off, or your entire family as there is plenty of space. 

SERVICE 5/10 - We had the same waitress the whole time. She wasn’t overly friendly, however answered our questions and came back to check on us before we ordered. To be honest the service wasn’t spectacular, however I’ve heard mixed reviews - that it can be great or awful and ours was just your run of the mill, take the order, drop the food, clear the food, no check backs or smiles unless smiled at first, but hey, it’s a hard gig living under a patriarchal regime. We can’t blame her. 

Photo cred: Broadsheet Broadsheet has already written these guys up and the buzz has obviously taken hold of Melbourne’s corporate world. When you get to Patricia Coffee Brewers on Little Bourke St you will be swamped by suits all lining up for their daily fix. There is a tiled sign that reads “standing room only” and another inside behind the Synesso which boldly gives you your three coffee options: black, white or filter. What caught my attention first though were the DUDES! Four of them, in identical uniforms (crisp white button up shirts and brown aprons) standing behind the machine whilst the girls, clad in dowdy beige shirts, fervently took orders. Whilst the guys get away with looking somewhat cool, these gorgeous gals are shoved into awkward, frumpy shirts straight out of a 1970′s hospital wing. It’s clear who the attention is supposed to be on here - why the coffee of course! *Raises eyebrows*  DOUCHE RATING: 5 Stars / EXTREME DOUCHE ALERT This place gets an extreme douche alert rating, not only because there are no ladies on the machine at all, but because of the uniform which reinforces a serious gender divide, not to mention all the corporate dudes who swarm to this place like white people to Father John Misty. There is a serious overflow of testosterone going on here and bromances are blossoming not just between the male baristas but the baristas and their suited up boyfriends who outstrip the women 10-1.