Gentrification: a complicated and often depressing topic. Frankly, what even is gentrification? It feels like a catch-all complaint that gets thrown around, like the liberal version of the phrase “political correctness.” Do you even want to read an article about gentrification? Probably not. That’s why I’m blatantly catering by addressing the topic under the guise of two slightly cynical and hopefully approachable cafe reviews.
For that reason, as well as the obvious fact that you should never get your news or opinions from just one source, I would like to preemptively encourage you to do further research than this article. A simple “what is gentrification” into your chosen search engine will even do.
That said, cafes do have genuine significance in the discussion about gentrification. Grand openings of “specialty coffee houses” are said to be the first warning sign that a working-class neighborhood is about to get a) pricey and b) a makeover. Bar maybe SoHo, New York, southern California is pretty much ground zero for gentrification. Here, I rank a few examples by three standards: price, aesthetics, and how out of place I would feel walking in like a normal, un-Instagramable person, with greasy hair and old clothes and all.
Although I didn’t wake up early enough for Senior Sunrise (I set realistic expectations for myself), I did make my way down to Lavender & Honey on Monday morning.
The first thing you will notice about Lavender & Honey is that it is very white. The outside is a summery cream, the inside more stark and printer-paper-esque. It vaguely reminds me of my house right before relatives come over. Clean and aesthetically pleasing, sure, but also still and sterilized—leading me to flee back to my own room with all its peeling posters and haphazardly stacked knickknacks.
Lavender & Honey is only a three-minute walk from my house. It’s also relatively new-opening just earlier this year to weeks of packed tables. But before that, it was your dime-a-dozen drug store, fitting in better with the constant noisy, angry traffic of the street it sat on. On Monday, I walked there for a small lemonade and a croissant—no matter how tired I was, I frankly just wasn’t paying seven dollars for aesthetically flavored coffee. But this same time last fall, I could buy my sister and I two of objectively the best ice cream sandwiches in a fifty-mile radius and an energy drink for the same seven dollars. Maximum.
That’s why I do have to give Lavender & Honey at least a four out of five on the gentrification scale—I literally watched the gentrification happen. The prices (category one): high. And yes, I’m aware that they’re higher because I’m paying for organic or fresh baked or vegan products, instead of whatever chemicals I didn’t pay enough attention in chemistry to pronounce that are in a Monster, but that’s a different discussion.
Categories two and three bump up the score even more. I’ve mentioned the whiteness, and the intimidating menu wall that imitates a handwritten chalkboard—only the writing is a touch too uniformly flourished to be anything but typed. Standing in line, you are also surrounded by a multitude of brightly wrapped additional products: the only pops of color in the cafe, monetized and advertised for those who can afford to pay their way to political correctness. Not that I was counting, but I think I saw the word “organic” twenty thousand times during my brief wait. Additionally, in reference to category three, I felt appropriately dressed only because it was a Monday (before I’ve lost the energy to care about my appearance for the week), and the color palette of white and beige blended me right into the booth I sat in.
Several chai tea lattes were ordered. LuluLemon pants hurried in and then out again (I think it’s interesting how wearing LuluLemon gives people the impression that they have to be in a hurry all the time). My favorite customers of my people-watching session were a trio of women wearing matching bright blue and pink shirts that said “Chevron Fuels Genocide.”
Although the experience was pleasant, the “specialty coffee house” energy of Lavender & Honey is unfortunately apparent.
Listen. All this makes me sound like some sort of weirdo who doesn’t enjoy getting coffee and spending the afternoon studying with my friends. Luckily, I get to tell you that isn’t true: and if I have the choice, I’ll choose Coffee Cartel.
It’s a little darker, but it fits in a little better with its surroundings. Much unlike the often homogeneous crowd at more aesthetic-focused locations, I sat between two very different pairs. On my right, a middle-aged man and woman seriously analyzing the weathered books with cracked spines, plates long empty. On my left, two teenage girls drinking iced lattes and discussing whether the girl one of them has been texting is a lesbian or trying to recruit her to a religious cult. Coffee Cartel has more accessible hours, too, staying open into the evening instead of closing at 3, which alienates not only students but anyone who works regular hours at least five days a week.
The prices are fairly middle of the road, although I did get my after-school snack muffin for three dollars- the food, at least, is relatively cheap. From the counter, you can see boxes of energy drinks and coffee grounds stacked together against the wall. Returning to the analogy of my house the day before relatives arrive, it feels more like walking back into my room- relaxing and familiar.
Instead of flashy, expensive products neatly lined up on shelves, the space next to the checkout counter is used as a pinboard of sorts for advertising local businesses or even individuals: flyers for spanish tutors, calls for halloween festival volunteers, an invitation for a wine tasting that is raising money for first grade classrooms, and many more piled on top of one another haphazardly. There are faded, handwritten letters taped to the walls, and the day I went there was a bowl of handmade bracelets labeled ‘free.’ Bookshelves up against the left wall are filled with secondhand books, labeled one or two dollars each
Instead of looking like they were just passing through or only there to take Instagram photos, the people at Coffee Cartel come and go as a part of the community within its four walls. It’s a small business that feels like a small business, not the cafe equivalent of an industry plant. I would give it only one out of five stars- Coffee Cartel truly represents the idea that for something to truly mean something it has to be a little dirty, and a little imperfect.
Although this article is mainly about jokes, personal preferences, and a lighthearted approach to make a daunting topic more approachable, gentrification is a very real and complex issue that I truly recommend looking into. Read another article. Watch a video essay. At least listen to “All I See Is Wagamama” by Beans on Toast if you can stomach explanative but catchy folk punk for five minutes and forty seconds.
Additionally, I will note that all of the above options, regardless of their faults, are a far better and at least slightly cheaper option than corporate chains like Starbucks. While an aesthetic coffee house popping up may be a warning of spiking prices in your area, the appearance of a Starbucks is, like, THE sign that you’ve been gentrified. And I’d far prefer to sit in the midst of a crowd of mostly pleasant organic chai drinkers than be stampeded by entitled, fussy ten-dollar pumpkin spice enthusiasts.
So really, all of this is to say that if you’re craving a study space with snacks, it is always better to choose local options than corporate ones—but also to keep a little bit of cynicism on hand wherever you go to consume in the first place.