The World's Best Cup Of Coffee

For Aliza

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The best cup of coffee I ever had was in the depths of Brooklyn, New York. It came in one of those paper cups with an orange-and-yellow, global-village-coffee-house sort of aesthetic. It was my first year living in Boston and my first Christmas away from home. I had planned a trip to New York to see the lights, and after a quick and impromptu change of plans, I ended up going with a girl I didn’t know very well at the time, named Aliza.

I loved the city—I still do—and Aliza had never been, so it made sense to give her the extra spot that had just opened up. I was 18 and hideously bad at planning. Our Airbnb canceled on us during the Amtrak ride there. I spent the remainder of the four-hour train ride desperately trying to find somewhere to stay, eventually landing on a shared apartment in the heart of Brooklyn with a man named Justin. (No worries, he was great.) I nervously laughed through the 40-minute subway commute, apologizing to this girl I barely knew, while she laughed along, completely unfazed. She assured me that we could get New York pizza anywhere in the city, and it would still be perfect—maybe even better outside the tourist spots.

I remember feeling so relieved to be traveling with someone who was along for the ride, no matter what that ride might look like. I’ve always considered myself a “journey-over-destination” kind of person, often finding myself in chaotic situations that I choose to embrace as “new lore” or “plot building.” The best parts of any story, to me, are the unplanned ones, but I completely understand the stress they can bring. Traveling with Aliza, a kindred spirit, was a blessing I didn’t realize I needed.

It was around 9 a.m. when we decided to grab breakfast in Brooklyn before heading into Manhattan. I am not sure if it was the long journey we had just traveled the night before or just a shared sense of humor, but we collapsed into laughter upon discovering a spot called Best Coffee Shop near our subway stop. “Oh, we’ve GOTTA try the best coffee,” I said with a chuckle. She agreed, and we walked into the mostly empty joint, settling into a booth behind a group of construction workers speaking thick, nearly unintelligible New York accents. We both ordered the only coffee item on the menu: “coffee,” along with a bagel and cream cheese.

When I tell you the first sip of that coffee convinced me Jesus Himself had descended to prepare it, I kid you not. It was the perfect temperature to warm me from the cold morning, bitter but not too much. While I’m sure I’ve had technically “better” coffees before and since, this one remains unmatched in memory. It wasn’t just the coffee; it was the warmth of the moment—the relief of feeling a budding friendship with Aliza, the freedom of having planned my first solo trip without my parents.

At the time, I had no money, no concrete plans, and everything in my life felt up in the air—in the best way. I was working a retail job on Newbury Street that paid me more than I’d ever earned back in rural Kentucky. It was enough to give me a false sense of independence, the kind you only have when you’re 18 and everything feels possible. At that age, the chaos of adulthood hasn’t hit you yet. You make spur-of-the-moment decisions, and they somehow work out. There’s no voice in your head whispering it’s too much, too risky. You take a chance on a stranger, fully convinced they’ll become a lifelong friend—and, sometimes, they do.

As you grow up, moments like these become fewer and farther between. You learn better. You know that “doing it for the plot” isn’t always a valid excuse.

Eighteen to twenty might not seem like a large gap, but I don’t think I’ve ever grown as much in such a short period as I did when I started university. Independence hit all at once, and I had no clue what to do with it. I thought I was grown when I graduated high school. I thought I knew everything. And then I kept growing. I kept becoming.

But that cup of coffee will always be an integral part of who I’m becoming. Aliza and I became lifelong friends after laughing over that coffee. I spend Thanksgivings at her house now. We’ve planned birthdays for each other, and we’ll keep planning them. In the short time we’ve known each other, we’ve changed so much. These days, we have plans—apartments, internships, jobs, long-term boyfriends (that one’s exclusive to Aliza).

Still, like that cup of coffee, some things remain singular. No matter how much better or worse other friendships have been—or will be—nothing compares to the magic of making a connection so effortlessly. She was one of the first friends I made in adulthood who truly stuck, and it all happened because of such a silly, random twist of fate. But isn’t that life? A collection of accidents, missteps, and wrong turns that somehow lead you exactly where you’re supposed to be.

The truth is, that coffee might have been the worst I’ve ever had, but the memory surrounding it keeps it sweet. When I think about that breakfast, that morning in Brooklyn, and that coffee, I think of Aliza. I think of growing up. I think of the freedom of youth. The sheer joy of making a new friend for the first time since primary school was a high that could make any cup of coffee unforgettable.

We were fresh out of high school. We were in New York. We were strangers. We were infinite.

And yes, I’m still young. Yes, I have so much more growing to do. But moments like that remind me of the spontaneity and blind, ever-present optimism that everything will work out—a feeling I never want to lose, even when I’m no longer the ingénue.

I’ve worked as a barista for a while now, but I’ve never been able to craft a cup of coffee that tastes quite like the freedom and warmth of making a lifelong friend. If I ever figure out the recipe, though, you’ll be the first to know.

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