ESSAY
In the early 1990s, the United States—one of the world’s biggest coffee-consuming countries—had neither iced coffee culture nor canned coffee. What was completely ordinary in Japan felt strange, even novel, in America. This story traces a firsthand encounter with that gap, and how ready-to-drink (RTD) coffee eventually reshaped the way coffee is consumed.
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■ In the Country of Coffee, There Was No Canned Coffee
In 1991, in Sacramento, the dry air carried the sharp, nearby hum of propellers. I was sitting in a briefing room at a flight academy, surrounded by charts and paperwork, the kind of space that felt unmistakably like we’re about to fly. And yet, on the instructor’s desk, there was something that didn’t belong. A single object, small and ordinary—and completely out of place. It was a can of coffee.
It had been left there by a Japanese trainee, a small souvenir from home. A familiar steel can, the kind you’d see in vending machines all over Japan. Something so common it barely registered back home. But here, in that room, it stopped everything. Because to the Americans around me, it wasn’t familiar at all. It wasn’t even recognizable.
■ “Canned… coffee?”
The instructor picked it up first, turning it slowly in his hand as if trying to understand not just what it was, but how it could exist. “Is this… canned coffee?” he asked, carefully, almost politely, as if the object might correct him if he got it wrong. I remember that hesitation. It wasn’t disbelief. It was distance—the quiet space between something known and something that had no category yet.
I found myself explaining, just a little proudly. That in Japan, this was completely normal. That you could buy it anywhere, even from vending machines. That in winter it came hot, and in summer, cold. That you could open it and drink it as is. And most importantly, that it was already sweet, already mixed with milk, already finished. That you didn’t have to do anything at all.
The reaction was immediate, and bigger than I expected. “Cold coffee?” “It’s already sweet?” Each detail landed separately, each one surprising on its own terms. It wasn’t just a drink they were encountering. It was a different idea of what a drink could be.
■ Why It Didn’t Exist
Looking back, the gap makes perfect sense. At the time, in the United States, coffee was something you made. It was poured and refilled endlessly at diners. It sat in office pots, always hot, always waiting. Sugar and cream were choices you made yourself, cup by cup, moment by moment. Nothing about it was predetermined.
In other words, coffee wasn’t a finished drink. It was a process. The very idea of a fully prepared, pre-sweetened, ready-to-drink coffee sealed inside a container—complete before you even touched it—barely existed. Not because it couldn’t, but because it didn’t need to.
■ In Japan, It Already Had
At the same time, something entirely different had already taken hold in Japan. In 1969, UCC上島珈琲 introduced the world’s first canned coffee. It didn’t succeed immediately—there are stories of unsold cans piling up—but the 1970 Osaka Expo changed everything. From there, it spread quickly, and then it found its perfect partner: vending machines.
Insert a coin, press a button, and it was there. Hot or cold, your choice. No waiting, no adjusting, no decisions left to make. It fit seamlessly into movement, into work, into the small gaps of a day. Held in the hands of truck drivers pushing through the early hours, it became something closer to fuel than a drink. As more companies entered the market, flavors multiplied—sweet, less sweet, black—and canned coffee settled into everyday life so completely that it stopped feeling new.
■ A Small Reversal at 30,000 Feet
A few years later, I found myself on a flight with United Airlines. Somewhere between departure and arrival, drinks were handed out, and among them was something that caught my attention. A can of coffee from Starbucks, manufactured by ポッカコーポレーション, a name I knew well.
That same “canned coffee” that had once been a curiosity in Sacramento was now being served in the cabin of an American airline, without explanation, without surprise. It had crossed the distance quietly. For a moment, it felt as if the world had turned—not dramatically, but just enough to notice.
■ A New Word: RTD
By the 2000s, the shift had a name. In the United States, it wasn’t called canned coffee. It was called RTD—Ready-To-Drink. The term was broader, less specific. It included cans, bottles, plastic or glass, and extended beyond coffee to tea and other beverages. The definition was simple: open it, and it’s ready.
The turning point came when Starbucks partnered with PepsiCo. Product met distribution. What had been an idea became availability. And availability changed behavior. Coffee appeared in refrigerated cases. Bottles fit into car cup holders. People drank while walking, while driving, while doing something else. What had once required a pause—a seat, a moment—became something that moved with you.
■ And Yet, the Difference Remains
Still, the American version never became identical to Japan’s. In the United States, coffee is still primarily brewed or bought fresh at a café. RTD is simply one option among many. Sweet coffee, especially, sits slightly off to the side, closer to dessert than to routine.
In Japan, it’s different. Sweet canned coffee is ordinary. Vending machines are part of the landscape. Grabbing a can and pushing through one more task is almost instinctive. It’s not a break. It’s part of the motion.
■ The Idea of a “Finished Drink”
I still think about that conversation in Sacramento. “Already sweet?” “Cold coffee?” It wasn’t really about taste. It was about whether a drink should already be finished. Whether coffee is something you prepare in the moment, or something you simply reach for, complete.
It’s a small difference on the surface. But behind it, you can see different rhythms of time, different ways of working, different expectations of daily life. One begins with the act of making. The other begins with the act of taking.
■ And Now
In the country of coffee, there was no canned coffee. At least, not back then. Today, cold coffee lines the shelves, and people walk with bottles in hand as if it had always been that way. The change feels natural now, almost inevitable.
And yet, somewhere underneath, that original question remains. Was coffee ever meant to be finished? Or is it, after all, something that should be made each time?
Because back then, inside that small can, there may have been more than just coffee.
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