The Sand Coffee Edition

Colin here. I recently ordered a sand coffee — made in a tiny copper pot with a long handle, partially buried in a tray of impossibly hot sand.

The barista took their time, adjusting depth and position, controlling the heat. A few minutes later, I was handed a small cup of very good coffee. It wasn’t overly bitter, as I had expected, and had a depth that tasted distinct from other styles.

This is sand coffee — or, more precisely, Turkish coffee prepared in hot sand. The trick, and what makes this style unique, is that the sand provides perfectly even, gradual heat from all sides.

It’s a method shared across Turkish, Greek, and Cypriot coffee cultures, though the name has varied for political reasons.

The coffee isn’t boiled, per se — it’s more accurately cooked, like a very small, very careful soup. The sand heats to a consistent high temperature, and the tiny copper pot, or cezve, can be positioned deeper for more heat or shallower for less.

The resulting brew is simultaneously strong and smooth, with texture from the ultra-fine grounds that remain suspended throughout the drink.

Its flavor profile is earthy and intense, often with nutty or slightly sweet undertones of sugar, if it’s added. (In my case, it was not.)

The grounds stay in the cup rather than being filtered out, producing a concentrated, almost thick mouthfeel that’s nothing like drip or espresso. The slow extraction pulls oils and aromatics that other methods leave behind.

Why is this interesting?

Turkish coffee has been a cultural institution since the 15th century, when it first emerged in the Ottoman Empire.

The sand-brewing technique developed out of practical necessity, in an era before precise temperature control. Using sand as a heating element dates back to a time when modern heating methods were unavailable — a reflection of the ingenuity of early enthusiasts.

UNESCO recognized Turkish coffee as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Turkey in 2013, acknowledging not just the preparation method but the social ritual surrounding it.

The joy here is that the process cannot be rushed. Unlike my writing on the Luckin Coffee phenomenon, it’s meant to be slower, more deliberate, and savored. (CJN)