'I visited Cambridge's waterfront coffee spot and discovered laboratory-level precision'

The modern coffee scene is a minefield. A scroll through the underbelly of coffee TikTok reveals grinders with chillies or slices of butter inside, mushroom blends and green onion lattes.

If I’m ever offered one of those cups of Joe, I’m afraid my response will be an emphatic “no”.

So, as I took the riverside route down Sheep’s Green to Newnham in Cambridge, home of Bean Theory, I wondered whether I would be faced with coffee craziness. The word “theory” conjured up “science”, which led me to “experiment”, and far away from my go-to no-frills flat white.

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As I walked through the door along Newnham Road, I noticed the simple and stylish décor. No petri dishes, and no Heston Blumenthal greeting me behind the counter. So far, so good.

I looked up at the list of coffees, and relaxed at the sight: espresso, macchiato, flat white, latte, cappuccino, long black, Americano, pour-over. The only mushroom in sight was on the toastie menu.

This cheese and mushroom toastie was sold out, but the three remaining options were still available: piri piri chicken, mortadella ham, and cheese and chutney. All of these cost £8, and a £5 kids’ ham and salami toastie was also on offer.

I opted for the mortadella ham, which the menu said would include mozzarella, olive paste and pickles, and took a seat in the window. The cafe was light, modern and classy.

A few simple plants trailed down the windows and from shelves. The muted colour palette comprised deep blue, brown, black and white.

An off-brand pop of colour came in the form of a Jackson Pollock style painting towards the back of the building. Aside from this aberration, Bean Theory was minimalistic.

From the window, I witnessed a quintessentially “Cambridge” scene. A flag advertising punting tours swayed in the breeze and cyclists trundled past, in front of a lush background of riverside trees.

Pulled from this sight by the arrival of my coffee, I found a neat little foam heart on top of the flat white. It was served in a rust-coloured cup with a saucer and a homely, hand-made quality. And it was perfect: smooth, rich and strong.

The toastie arrived in around ten minutes. It was golden brown on both sides and warm. The thin strips of ham and the super-stringy mozzarella were lovely, but it was the deep saltiness of the black olive paste that elevated the meal.

Cheese and olives are both strong flavours, but the proportions prevented them from overpowering the mortadella ham. The pickles came in a little pot on the side, and were a necessary accompaniment as their fresh tang cut through the salty toastie.

The scientific-sounding name of Bean Theory, I realised as I was enjoying my meal, was a nod to perfectionism. The exquisite latte art and the just-right proportions in the toastie evoked lab-level precision.

This was my first time eating at Bean Theory, but it certainly will not be my last.