How Did Chicory Become the Villain in our Coffee?
Brandon Langston examines the history of chicory in beverages around the world. Historically, chicory has been deeply rooted in the tradition of Indian coffee, a marker of regional identity. And to single out this ingredient as a marker of bad or adulterated coffee becomes a rejection of culture. Is it time to take a closer look at the source of our bias?
I first encountered South Indian coffee in an Indian grocery near my home in the United States and instantly recognised that its unique flavour came from an extra ingredient in the blend; the same ingredient I tasted in the strong, dark roasted coffee that’s popular in the American city of New Orleans. That ingredient is chicory.
Chicory is a Mediterranean plant with edible leaves, blue flowers, and a thick taproot that, when dried, roasted, and brewed, creates a thick, dark drink with notes of chocolate, nuts, and caramel. For centuries, Europeans consumed this brew for medicinal benefits it didn’t actually have. But this practice familiarised them with its flavours, and when the Islamic world introduced them to coffee, Europeans noted the similarities and began mixing them together. The result was coffee with deeper flavour and colour, and both stood up well to additions of milk and sugar.
Chicory is a Mediterranean plant with blue flowers and edible leaves.
It has a thick taproot that, when dried, roasted, and brewed, creates a thick, dark drink.
Chicory makes a dark drink with notes of chocolate, nuts, and caramel.
The origins of chicory coffee are similar everywhere; an inexpensive crop that is blended with coffee so non-affluent people could afford it. This practice was first popularised in France, and then the rest of Europe and its colonial outposts, like New Orleans and South India, caught on. But chicory only became central to coffee culture where people developed a lasting taste for it. In New Orleans this preference was born out of necessity when the Union Navy blockaded the city during the American Civil War and banned most coffee imports. Locals used chicory to stretch their dwindling supplies and found the strong mixture agreed with their intensely flavoured cuisine.
South Indians didn’t need an economic crisis; they just enjoyed the flavour. Coffee was grown locally since its arrival in the 1600s, and was commercially cultivated by the British in the early 1800s. But almost no Indians drank it until the turn of the 20th century. Its availability in Chennai and surrounding areas exploded around that time, and within just a few decades, aided by the affordability of chicory blends, all but the poorest in Tamil Nadu were drinking it.
Despite coffee’s popularity across class and castes, the culture of its preparation and consumption was shaped by middle-class Tamil Brahmins, who could consistently afford it. In their hands coffee was both a symbol of status and a ritual of precision.
Dr. Venkatachalapathy explains in his paper, In Those Days There Was No Coffee, that in Brahmin homes, fresh beans were meticulously hand-sorted, roasted to perfection, ground, and brewed. Milk and sugar are added in precise amounts to achieve a hue resembling a muddy river and a flavour that balanced bitterness with subtle sweetness.
Caste inevitably played a significant role in this Brahmin-led culture as well. The rimmed tumblers and davaras, symbolic of South Indian coffee, are a material legacy of Brahmin concerns about being ‘polluted’ by members of oppressed castes. Serving coffee to guests became a social obligation of respectability, so balancing hospitality with caste considerations, they designed rimmed tumblers that allowed coffee to be poured into the mouth from a height, avoiding contact with the lips. While coffee is no longer consumed in this manner, its caste heritage still lingers in these iconic cups.
The rimmed tumblers and davaras, symbolic of South Indian coffee, are a material legacy of Brahmin concerns about being ‘polluted’ by members of oppressed castes.
In the hands of middle-class Tamil Brahmins, who could consistently afford coffee, it became both a symbol of status and a ritual of precision.
That Brahmin-led culture also defined ‘good’ coffee as pure coffee and rejected chicory outright. This was reinforced by the perception of chicory as an adulterant, sometimes added to coffee without the consumer’s knowledge while charging them full price.
Dr. Venkatachalapthy cites a Tamil short story by Pudumaippithan called ’Kadavulum Kandasami Pillaiyum’ where both of these Brahmin perceptions are displayed in a conversation between the protagonist and Lord Shiva inside a coffee hotel.
“As God sipped the coffee, a divine demeanour of having drunk soma suffused His face. ‘This is my leelai (wonder),’ said God. ‘This is not your leelai, but the hotelier’s. Mixing chicory with coffee is his handiwork. Show your mettle when you pay the bill,’ whispered Kandasami Pillai into his ear, content that he had sorted out the issue of paying for the coffee. ‘Chicory … what’s that?’ God looked up quizzically. ‘Chicory powder resembles coffee, but it is not coffee—like those who deceive people in the name of God,’ replied Kandasami Pillai.”
I learned that this idea still exists when I told a Bengali friend about my search for chicory-coffee and they asked why I wanted ‘adulterated’ coffee. They acknowledged that their perception was inherited from a grandparent and that they never tried it themselves, but it was interesting to see the association alive and well. Back in colonial Tamil Nadu though, eventually even the Brahmins developed a liking for chicory and it became accepted. Today traditional south Indian coffee is blended with anywhere from 10-40% chicory. But now there is a new wave of coffee culture spreading across the country that may challenge chicory’s place.
Modern cafes are now widespread in India, frequented by students and young professionals more for socialising than for coffee itself. This reflects a café culture rather than a coffee culture. Every coffee grower and industry leader I spoke to, from Kerala to Kalimpong, saw this as the greatest challenge to revolutionising Indian coffee culture: Beyond the South, there is no coffee culture.
Coffee growers and industry leaders in India are trying to build a culture around specialty coffee, which emphasises high-quality, single-origin beans, and often promotes drinking it black to fully appreciate its inherent flavours. I’ve asked every grower for their opinion on chicory. It was uniformly dismissed, while also noting its importance to the South. However, sweeteners, creams, flavourings, and other modifiers added to coffee after it is brewed are more readily embraced, revealing an inconsistency in reasoning.
One cafe-owner sidestepped this inconsistency over an interesting conversation. At his specialty café in Calicut, I asked for chicory-coffee and was informed that he didn’t stock any additives at all: no milk, no sugar, not even other beverages. Just specialty coffee, served black. He explained a lack of familiarity with quality coffee in the market; one that he is trying to rectify in his own way. His purity-based standard of ‘good’ coffee bordered dogmatic — he dislikes the French press, while on his menu, because it leaves a little sediment in the cup. I respect what he’s doing because he’s honest and does it well. Though perhaps too honest: when I initially mentioned I was looking for chicory-coffee he responded, “Oh, I only serve good coffee.”
The perception of chicory is that of an adulterant, and while it is dismissed as such by coffee growers, it is sometimes added to coffee without the consumer’s knowledge.
‘Good’ coffee is subjective. I enjoy strong, dark, thick black coffee, sometimes with a little sediment, and believe any cup I already enjoy could be improved with a bit of chicory. On the other hand, some people dislike black coffee, and who can blame them? While the culture needs connoisseurs, the same attention could be given to different kinds of high-quality, artisanal chicory. Surprisingly, while coffee growers I met seemed to passively ignore chicory, it was laypeople outside the South who openly derided it as cheap, adulterated, or ‘bad’ coffee without ever trying it.
Industry leaders may unintentionally reinforce these perceptions by defining good coffee as pure coffee and not incorporating India’s historic traditions into their products. Embracing that tradition would highlight what makes Indian coffee unique on a global stage and help assert India’s individuality as it integrates further into the global economy. Historically speaking, chicory is the very root of Indian coffee and defines a regional identity. Singling out this ingredient as a marker of ‘bad’ coffee is not merely an opinion—it is a rejection of a culture.
Brandon is an American historian and writer. Follow him on Instagram at @brandonraylangston
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