ESSAY
In early 1990s America, not only iced coffee but also liquid sugar was far from common. Sugar didn’t dissolve in cold drinks—and no one seemed to mind. Drawing on firsthand experience, this piece explores the cultural context behind that quiet difference.
→Browse a complete overview of coffee culture in 1990s America.
There Was No Liquid Sugar
It was a hot afternoon in 1992, somewhere in California. A glass filled with large ice cubes made a quiet, occasional sound as they shifted against each other. At a small neighborhood café, a kind Japanese owner had prepared an iced coffee for me—something not even listed on the menu. Back then, iced coffee simply didn’t exist on menus in California. Seeing my surprise, he added something even more unexpected. “It’s not just iced coffee,” he said casually. “We don’t have liquid sugar either.” For a moment, I didn’t understand what he meant. In Japan, those small, portioned packets of clear syrup—so familiar, so ordinary—were simply part of cold drinks. And here, they didn’t exist. “Then… what do you do?” I asked. He shrugged lightly and pointed to a tray. “You just use that.” On it were small paper packets—white for granulated sugar, pink for diet sweetener—something you could find in any café. I did as he said, sprinkling sugar into my iced coffee and stirring it with a small plastic spoon. The sugar didn’t dissolve. I drank it anyway.
Drinking It That Way
At first, it was just a small discomfort. The sugar wasn’t dissolving—that was all, and yet it lingered. I looked around. No one seemed to mind. People poured sugar into iced tea, into cold drinks. It didn’t dissolve. They stirred, watched it settle, and drank it anyway. It seemed completely normal. Strangely, no one tried to fix it. It was as if the fact that it didn’t dissolve wasn’t even recognized as a problem.
A Drink That Becomes Sweet at the End
After a while, I began to notice something. The idea of making a drink evenly sweet didn’t seem particularly important here. The first sip was almost unsweetened. Then, gradually, the sweetness began to emerge. By the end, it was strong, almost concentrated at the bottom of the glass. The flavor changed over time. In Japan, I was used to drinks that tasted the same from beginning to end. Here, it was different. Sweetness had a gradient. It felt unfinished at first. But then I remembered the way rock sugar is dropped into a glass of Shaoxing wine, dissolving slowly, changing the taste as you drink. Somehow, it made sense.
Sweetness Without Design
At the time, there was no such thing as liquid sugar in the United States. More precisely, there was no concept of designing sweetness specifically for cold drinks. Hot coffee used regular sugar. Cold drinks used regular sugar. There was no adjustment, no special consideration. Of course, there were exceptions. In the South, sweet iced tea was made by dissolving sugar while the tea was still hot, then cooling it down—avoiding the problem entirely. But on the West Coast, things were simpler. If the drink was cold, you added sugar to it cold. That was all.
It Didn’t Have to Be Uniform
In Japan, flavor is expected to be consistent, especially in drinks. From the first sip to the last, the taste should not change. That’s why liquid sugar exists—to dissolve perfectly, even in cold liquid, ensuring uniform sweetness. Undissolved sugar feels incomplete. But in the United States, it was different. Flavor didn’t have to be uniform. If you wanted it sweeter, you added sugar. If it didn’t dissolve, that was fine. There was less need to perfect it, more willingness to accept it as it was.
A Grainy Sweetness
That sensibility appeared in food as well. Sponge cakes sold in vending machines sometimes contained visible sugar crystals. You could feel them between your teeth—a faint crunch, a grainy sweetness. In Japan, that might have felt careless, unfinished. But there, it was simply another texture. Sugar didn’t need to disappear completely. It could remain as it was. Sweetness didn’t have to be even to exist.
Now, It’s Normal
Things have changed since then. Today, the American equivalent of liquid sugar is everywhere—simple syrup, liquid sugar. Walk into a café and you’ll usually find it. At Starbucks, it’s standard. Iced coffee itself has become completely mainstream, and choosing liquid sweeteners or flavored syrups is part of the routine. Still, unlike in Japan, it’s not always something placed automatically on the table. If you want it, you ask. That part hasn’t entirely changed.
The Memory of Sugar That Wouldn’t Dissolve
Looking back, it feels like a slightly unusual time. Iced tea existed, but it hadn’t yet been optimized. Sugar that wouldn’t dissolve. Drinks that became sweet at the end. People who didn’t seem to mind. I remember that feeling clearly. Sugar wasn’t something that had to dissolve. It was something that could simply be there. Sweetness didn’t need to be uniform. If anything, it lived in its unevenness. Now, wherever you go, syrup dissolves perfectly. Just like in Japan, the flavor in the glass stays consistent from beginning to end. You don’t have to think about it. It’s simply sweet. And sometimes, I think back to those glasses of iced tea—the ones that never quite dissolved, the ones that grew sweeter toward the end. At the time, it felt inconvenient. But perhaps, in its own way, it was an early version of something we now call “changing flavor.”
→Read a complete collection of articles on coffee culture in 1990s America.