The ubiquitous coffee shop has become our "third place" to hang out besides home and work. But oh, the brew is awful, says Jonathon Margolis. Illustration: Richard Rockwood.

Coffee has always seemed to me an innately disappointing drink. Just as bacon, when it's cooking, smells better than it tastes, and tobacco has a much nicer odour in the packet than in the mouth, coffee in the cup never quite delivers the exquisite aroma it exudes when it's being brewed.

We drink coffee nonetheless, it seems, because it provides a hot, wet punctuation point in the daily routine. It can be a pleasant social activity, it's a bit addictive and appears (although I've never been convinced by this) to "perk you up".

The high-street coffee revolution - Starbucks and the rest - has proceeded in spite of the fact, I would argue, that nobody, if they're honest, is that bothered about drinking coffee.

It is said in catering that coffee shops, especially the branded ones we tend to choose in a place we don't know well, sell 20 minutes of relaxation in familiar surroundings rather than a specific drink. Fresh from Seattle, where the new coffee culture originated, has come the concept of the coffee shop as the "third place" in our lives - a hang-out that is neither home nor work.

Until I complained, the Starbucks in my life sold a beverage which, four times out of five, was not much different from hot milk. Because I was initially content to buy the 20 minutes, I took a while to grumble. If I thought about it, though, I had really enjoyed a cup of coffee only a few times over the years. One was made by a Norwegian chap. I had struggled to his house through a snowdrift and he made it by hand-grinding glistening, oily beans and brewing the coffee in a saucepan. I had another wonderful coffee made in a pot with some people in Yorkshire. I liked their brew so much I asked where they got it: it was bought by post from the famous Valvona & Crolla deli in Edinburgh. More recently, I had a delicious cup in Eat café, in Selfridges' London store.

What made all these cups memorable for me was that they tasted remarkably similar to the smell of coffee. For a long while, however, I assumed this was lack of sophistication on my part and proper coffee was meant to taste of bitter mud. Not so, says David Williamson, the managing director of Scottish coffee roasters Matthew Algie in Glasgow, a city with a vibrant coffee culture due to its historic Italian population. Williamson is Matthew Algie's sixth-generation boss. The company supplies about half of Britain's four- and five-star hotels, plus Pret A Manger, Selfridges and Marks & Spencer's in-store espresso bars. Williamson is also a charismatic, self-appointed evangelist for serious coffee to British drinkers who, he argues, to use a wine analogy, are still stuck in the days of Le Piat d'Or.

"The closer coffee tastes to its smell, the better it is," says Williamson, producing a cup of coffee unlike any I have ever had. A simple espresso, it was rich, thick, creamy, slightly oily, with a gorgeous, fresh smell in the cup - and a flavour as deeply coffee-like after I had swallowed it as before. Williamson was pleased at my reaction, although he is used to it after years of putting hundreds of coffee enthusiasts, along with trainee baristas from Tinderbox, his own coffee outlet, through exactly the same routine.

Espresso is the gold standard of coffee, he explains; it is the basis of all cappuccinos, lattes and macchiatos. Espresso is the sole basis by which a coffee outlet or an individual barista is judged. And if you know what you are looking for, you can tell if an espresso is going to be good without even putting your lips to a cup. That's because there are certain arcane procedures essential to the production of a perfect espresso. Every barista is taught them but very few practise or are allowed by their employers to practise them.
These are the key behind-the-counter twiddles to look out for; there are more, but you'll have to go on the course yourself to discover them. Not all these rules apply to the automatic bean-to-cup machines they use in place like Starbucks, but they are a bit naff anyway.

First, you need to see the beans being ground. No exceptions. Second, the porta-filter - the detachable bit of the espresso machine that the ground coffee goes in - should be stored locked into place on the machine to keep it warm before use. Third, you want to see the coffee "tamped down" - squashed - into the porta-filter twice. Fourth, you want to see the cups stored upright on top of the machine to keep their bottoms warm.

Fifth, the most important bit - when the water starts flowing through the coffee in its porta-filter, you want to see it not gushing but pulsing quite weakly. This should continue for as close to 25 seconds as possible. If it does so for that time, it means the coffee is of precisely the right freshness, grind and density.

Once you have a cup in front of you, look out for the following. First, the crema, the thin, brown foam, should be of such a consistency that if you put a teaspoon of sugar on it, it doesn't sink for a few seconds. Second, it should have a glorious coffee smell. Coffee aroma, says Williamson, consists of over 800 chemical components. The feel of the espresso in the mouth should be thick and the taste should be without bitterness and sourness. That taste should remain in the mouth for at least 20 seconds after swallowing. I went out with Williamson into Glasgow to try out my new knowledge at a variety of coffee places, from old Italian cafes in the city centre to trendy hang-outs in the West End to a Safeways espresso bar to Starbucks.

All apart from one failed to varying degrees. In the traditional places, the coffee was okay but a bit sour and old-tasting. In Starbucks, the espresso received just four seconds in the porta-filter and the coffee was undrinkable. The shop which passed with some splendour, strangely enough, was Tinderbox, which apart from being stylistically almost the definition of cool (a mixture of 1950s Scots-Italian Formica-topped nostalgia and Seattle/Sydney postmodern) also served extraordinarily nice coffee.

Back in London, my day on the Matthew Algie course effectively ruined my mornings at Starbucks. Until, that is, I rang to complain. A Starbucks regional rep arrived. "The coffee is weak and cold," I said. Had I tried asking for a double-shot of espresso in my cappuccino, he asked? "Didn't know it was available," I replied. He said I should.
The shop, it seems, received a kicking. The next day, there were notices all over it advertising the double-shot option. The brewing time went from about five seconds to a good 20. The coffee began to taste not unlike Tinderbox's. Then I began to see the double-shot notice in other branches, from London to Leeds. Soon after, I heard my branch was the best performing in the region. I don't like to claim the credit but I think, with a little help from David Williamson, I might be the responsible party.

Matthew Algie Coffee School (0800-263 333, www.matthewalgie.com).

This article originally appeared in: Financial Times 'How To Spend It' Saturday 1st November 2003