Is iced coffee really unprofessional at a job interview?

A few weeks ago, I met an acquaintance for coffee at a Cuban café attached to a downtown hostel, where people with backpacks of varying dimensions passed steadily through the lobby. He worked at a nearby university and had messaged me on LinkedIn saying he wanted to tell me about the campus and talk about teaching some night classes. Knowing academia and the speed at which it tends to move, I interpreted “talk about teaching” as something closer to perhaps someday, pending several committees and a minor geological event.

I ordered a large black iced coffee in a clear plastic cup with a black straw. After sitting for a few minutes, he asked if we wanted to turn this into a walking meeting. 

Somewhere between being handed a peel-and-stick visitor badge by a friendly security guard and being introduced to the dean with, “This is Ashlie, who I told you about,” I realized our casual coffee had become considerably more interview-shaped than I had anticipated.

I, meanwhile, was carrying a sweating plastic cup.

Thankfully, I had taken an extra napkin from the café. After being shuttled in less than half an hour between aggressive air conditioning, a muggy Chicago street and the temperate library, the cup had begun producing condensation at an alarming rate. I swaddled it in paper and successfully completed my introductions with a non-moist handshake.

All this to say, I understand why the question of whether iced coffee is unprofessional has taken over my feeds for the last several days.

By the time I reached the argument on Sunday — while scanning my phone on the train, heading, truly, to get another iced coffee — the original TikTok from a corporate recruiter warning that bringing one to an interview looked overly casual had migrated to LinkedIn. There, the discussion shifted from seven-part heroes’ journeys centered on skipping little luxuries like Starbucks to drink-based dominance theory. One piece of advice I encountered warned against accepting any beverage during an interview because doing so made you “the beta.”

I scoffed.

Soon, however, I started mentally moving my own cup through different rooms. Coffee-shop meeting: obviously fine. Conference table: Less so? Hot coffee: more professional somehow? Dunkin’, in one of its decidedly undemure pink-and-orange vessels? A tasteful local cup, perhaps communicating discernment and neighborhood loyalty?

Admittedly, my professional history makes me a poor control group. I have spent most of my career in newsrooms and restaurants; one restaurant poured me an iced coffee before we sat at the bar to discuss a front-of-house job.

Still, I eventually found the fear. My brain furnished the room immediately: C-suite office. Pristine mahogany desk. No coaster. One sweating plastic cup inching toward permanent damage.

The more I thought about the coffee, the less the coffee seemed to be the point. Professional life is crowded with micro-signals — clothes, cups, phones, tone, timing, posture — ordinary things that remain perfectly neutral until someone decides they are evidence of character.

Maybe this is why I have long treated “Ask a Manager” as both advice column and anthropological expedition behind the cubicle wall, where completely ordinary behaviors can become freighted with professional meaning. In one personally beloved 2015 post, readers confessed to cheerfully disappearing for two-hour lunches because the company had advertised Spanish classes, heading off to yoga in the middle of the afternoon because, well, yoga was offered, showing up to a board meeting in jeans and a hoodie, and maintaining what amounted to a full-service beauty counter in a cubicle, complete with makeup brushes and a plugged-in hair straightener.

Some of these people were not flagrantly blowing off work. They were trying, quite earnestly, to understand it. You said the company values work-life balance; I am therefore going to yoga. There is something almost touching about the literalism.

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The problem with unwritten rules, of course, is that some people have already been taught them.

A friend of mine once received paternal advice to retire his collection of personality socks until he had secured a job at a law firm. These were not, I should stress, shocking socks. They were J.Crew socks: tiny lobsters, reindeer, tasteful little acts of rebellion occurring mostly below the trouser cuff.

This is the maddening bargain at the center of so much professional advice: show personality, but not too much. Be memorable, but not for the wrong thing. Be yourself, but preferably the version of yourself who already knows how much of yourself this particular room permits.

“You don’t want to give them a reason to say no,” his father told him, “especially a dumb one.”

That wisdom becomes less funny the farther you stand from whatever a workplace has already decided looks like belonging. If you fall outside the traditional corporate default — by class, race, gender, disability, accent, education or simple familiarity with white-collar culture — more of those supposedly intuitive rules may have to be learned in real time.

And then there are people with enough status to become their own code. I once had a news director who, in the midst of marital issues, carried a guitar from cubicle to cubicle like the world’s saddest bard. Some found it charming, some unbearable, but in the end everyone shrugged: Well, he’s the boss.

Then the pandemic arrived and made the whole system stranger.

For a brief period, Americans thought very hard about what was behind their heads. A bookshelf became a statement. So did a plant. Room Rater built an audience scoring Zoom backgrounds for lighting, depth, art and visible cords; books themselves became set dressing.

This now feels faintly incredible. We were all amateur production designers of our own domestic lives.

And yet something did change. A dog wandering through frame became normal. So did a kitchen. A child interrupting a meeting became, depending on the meeting, either completely understandable or still mortifying. The rules did not disappear; they became even more dependent on that maddening instruction: read the room.

Which may be why we keep turning tiny behaviors into evidence of enormous generational shifts. Take the “Gen Z stare,” that supposedly blank look younger service workers give customers expecting a burst of social acknowledgment. I’m less concerned with whether a cashier performs delight at my arrival than with the more substantive question of whether younger workers had fewer chances to practice things like communication, adaptability and conflict resolution during a digital-first, pandemic-disrupted adolescence. Employers have reported concerns in precisely those areas, though those skills can also be taught and practiced.

There are rituals of professionalism whose disappearance I will survive. I do not require the personality socks to remain hidden. I do not need a service worker to beam. I do not believe hot coffee carries an innate moral seriousness unavailable to iced.

What I do think we owe one another is basic situational awareness.

There is an old Yiddish joke: the schlemiel spills the soup; the schlimazel is the person it lands on. My professional philosophy may amount to little more than avoiding becoming the iced-coffee schlemiel.

There is also an evergreen iced-coffee joke online: the person who arrives late blaming the train, fresh coffee still in hand. That, frankly, bothers me more than almost anything else raised in these etiquette debates. The coffee isn’t the problem. The suspiciously fresh coffee accompanying your late arrival might be.

Don’t put the sweating cup on somebody’s papers. Don’t make your convenience someone else’s inconvenience.

Bring the iced coffee. Just don’t be late because of it.