Starbucks Retreats: 150 Stores to Close as Global Coffee Culture Reaches Peak Foam

Starbucks to Shutter “Underperforming” Cafés—World Holds Breath, Somehow Keeps Spinning
By our correspondent in the land where the Frappuccino is still considered coffee

Seattle’s green mermaid, that twin-tailed siren who has spent three decades persuading humanity that a four-dollar paper cup is the ticket to urban sophistication, announced yesterday it will close 150 North American stores this year. The official reason? “Underperformance.” Translation: even the most caffeine-addicted office workers have finally noticed that $7.50 for a venti iced oat-milk caramel macchiato is roughly the price of a decent lunch in most of the Global South.

Internationally, the news landed with the same shockwave you feel when a billionaire stubs his toe. In Milan—where the average barista can still pull an espresso without consulting an algorithm—local papers ran the story under headlines like “American Coffee Empire Retreats, Realizes Italians Prefer Taste.” Tokyo commuters scrolling past the item on their phones emitted a collective “Shou ga nai” (roughly: “Nothing to be done”), then quietly returned to canned coffee that costs a dollar and doesn’t ask for their pronouns.

But the closures are not merely a tale of American belt-tightening; they are a portentous bellwether for our late-capitalist pageant. Starbucks has spent years colonizing street corners the way 19th-century powers once planted flags. In Shanghai alone, there are more Starbucks than there are rainy days in Manchester. Yet even in China, same-store sales growth has slowed to a limp, prompting executives to pivot to “premium experiences” such as a 30,000-square-foot roastery where patrons can watch beans tumble like bitcoin prices while sipping a $12 cold brew infused with nitrogen and existential dread.

The ripple effects will be felt far beyond the barista counter. In Colombia, coffee farmers—who already sell their beans for a fraction of what a latte eventually commands—wonder if fewer green-aproned megacorps might mean slightly fairer prices. (Spoiler: it won’t.) In Ethiopia, the birthplace of coffee, local entrepreneurs are seizing the moment to promote buna ceremonies that require two hours, a clay pot, and absolutely no Wi-Fi passwords. Meanwhile, European Union regulators—never ones to miss a chance to regulate something—are eyeing the empty storefronts and musing about converting them into subsidized housing for the continent’s growing population of digital nomads who can’t afford Berlin rent.

Back in the United States, the closures are being spun as a strategic “footprint optimization,” a corporate euphemism so sterile it could only have been brewed in a boardroom. Analysts note that the axed locations skew toward “urban cores” and “low-income neighborhoods,” which is investor-speak for “places where people have started brewing coffee at home because the rent ate their disposable income.” The resulting unemployed baristas will, of course, be encouraged to “upskill” into coding bootcamps—because what the global economy really needs is another army of junior JavaScript developers who can make an app that tells you where the nearest open Starbucks used to be.

Yet perhaps the most poignant subplot is psychological. For a generation raised on the idea that personal brand is built one seasonal beverage at a time, the shuttering of their corner Starbucks feels like a tiny apocalypse. Where now to display the reusable cup that proclaims both environmental virtue and caffeine dependency? Where to conduct the ritual Instagram post of red holiday cups against gray November skies? The answer, evidently, is a Dunkin’ Donuts—or, for the truly desperate, a kitchen table and an AeroPress, a scenario so dystopian it might finally make people read the brewing instructions.

In the grand ledger of global affairs, 150 coffee shops barely register against war, plague, and crypto crashes. Still, the retreat of the mermaid offers a concise parable: when the foam subsides, we are left with the same bitter grounds—inequality, overconsumption, and the eternal human talent for paying too much to feel slightly less alone. As the last overworked barista flips the sign to “Closed,” somewhere a street vendor in Hanoi keeps pouring 10,000-đồng cà phê sữa đá into plastic cups, no Wi-Fi required, the universe continuing its quiet shrug.