Copywriting/Copy Editing

Drive Coffee was started from humble beginnings to deliver an entirely different coffee experience. We believed that better sourcing, better roasting, and roasting and brewing as close to the ship date as possible, would lead to a better coffee experience for customers. We believed that we needed packaging that would not only elevate the experience, but also protect and maximize the freshness and flavor of what was inside. From that vision, the can was born.

As The Official Coffee Provider of Formula 1, we approach coffee like engineers and designers. We believe that details matter and we take a relentless approach to improvement. Our team has close to a decade of experience on the ground in coffee growing regions around the world, from Africa to Central and South America. When we say we know coffee from the ground up, we mean literally from the soil up. From the soil to the farmer, the methods, logistics, and ultimately roasting, every detail matters to us. We care about where our beans come from, their impact on the environment, the people that produced them, and the quality of the product that ends up in our customers' cups every morning. We are also proud to carry a Fair Trade Certification.

Coffee is one of the longest lasting, most important rituals in our lives. It is how we start each day, and often that first step in the process of putting our own Drive into action towards our goals and dreams. Coffee is the ignition to our day, and we believe in the power of coffee to tell stories and inspire.

At Drive Coffee, we are devoted to perfecting this ritual. To provide not only the best coffee, but inspiration to start each day, and fuel lives forward.

It's almost 11 a.m. when I arrive at the city center.

Trying to meet the restaurant manager right before the lunch rush service might have been a bad idea. Today is Sunday; will the restaurants be more crowded? Or less than usual? I have no idea. Too bad; I don’t want to wait. I get out of Knightsbridge station, a few steps from Bar Boulud. Paulo, the head server, is an acquaintance of my uncle who, as a successful lawyer in Montreal, patrons the finest restaurants of Europe and North America.

At 66 Knightsbridge, the door is still locked, but the the hostess opens up for me. Even though I haven’t taken any appointments, I ask to meet Paulo and introduce myself as my Uncle Robert’s niece, hoping Paulo will remember him.

“Wait a moment, please. I will check if Paulo is available to see you.”

The lobby is sumptuous and airy. The wooden floor glows under the cream and burgundy tables and chairs. The benches match the sepia hue of the walls and paintings. The cellar accommodates some three hundred bottles at the back of the spacious and bright room. Through a bay window, overlooking Knightsbridge, the sun’s rays penetrate and sparkle through the delicate stemware suspended over a thin metallic support above the bar.

Thank goodness I put on a fancy shirt this morning. My stomach twists and turns; I’m an impostor. The entirety of my catering experience was inherited from a countryside village pizzeria, where I’ve worked all weekends and summers of the last five years. I am not fluent in English, not to mention the London accent! Even in French, I am so shy; simple conversation with clients is a stressful challenge. How could I have imagined myself working in a top range restaurant like Bar Boulud?

From the back of the huge dining room, the hostess appears, walking in my direction. With each of her steps, my discomfort grows. Within a few seconds, my hands and armpits are sweaty.

“He is in a meeting,” she says flatly.

I exhale slowly. Obviously. Who would hope to meet the manager of one of London’s most famous restaurants just by showing up without notice? Gabrielle, from a little suburban city called Longueuil. Alright, I’m leaving now; I’d rather quit while I’m ahead.

“Can I get you a coffee in the meantime?” I ask the barista in the shop across the street. Quietly sitting at the bar, legs crossed, back straight, I try not to attract attention to my anxiety, carefully dipping my lips in the foam of my dense cappuccino: floral, delicious. I relax myself and even manage to smile at the barista... until my embarrassed gaze dives back into my cup. The next time I lift my eyes, a brown, almost black-haired man in his forties is approaching with firm steps; It's him.

“This is very bad timing”, he laments, while shaking my hand as I attempt to vanish.

A warm and firm grip. Is it because he remembers his promise to my uncle that he pulls up the neighboring stool and sits next to me? His carbon black eyes, gentle but piercing, hang on to mine. My eyes, burning with shame, probably starts to blend into the shimmering green of the Perrier bottles stowed behind the marble counter.

“Your uncle told me you are looking for a job. How long do you plan on staying here?” he asks lightly.

“Six months. I mean...my flight is scheduled for September, but I can change it.” I manage to sputter out.

“Do you have someone you know in London?”

“No. Nobody. I came by myself.”

Paulo pauses, then asks about my catering experience. I’m unable to lie; I tell him about my job at the pizzeria, a bistro famous among local vacationers, where I quickly climbed the ranks. As a teenager, it was one of the rare places where I could challenge myself. The owners, two young, and strong-willed young women, kept offering me new challenges. It was they who pushed me to pursue traveling.

“I started as a busgirl, then a cook, then I became the kitchen manager...”

Tenderized as we all are when viewing cute vulnerable creatures, Paulo smiles.

And there it is

I’ve been expose; I have no knowledge of gastronomy whatsoever; hell, I even confuse snacks with fine cuisine. Why have I disclosed my incompetence in such a burst of spontaneity?

“You're sweet,” he muses. “You remind me of myself when I was sixteen. I had left for New York...”

Thoughtful, he triturates his fingers, as if he was rolling the dice of my fate.

“I'll try to find you something,” he decides, while holding my hands between his for a memorable instant.

And then, as if a mirage, he gets up and disappears behind the swinging kitchen door. I leave the restaurant alone, laughing and feeling thankful for my perpetual naivety and my courageous – or rather foolish - actions.

... but my sudden lightness is disrupted by a shadow of fear: if he ever calls me back, what will I do? I hope he doesn’t hire me for any position other than dishwasher! Scrubbing cauldrons in the back of a kitchen? I can do that, no problem!

After my visit at Bar Boulud, I bring my resume to a few other restaurants before going to Moorgate station, where I have a meeting at 1 p.m. I’m meeting with Stephen, an English legal advisor who studied finance in Quebec with a cousin of mine. He now works in one of the massive skyscrapers London’s business district, The City.

13:00. I get a text;

“I am here. Black suit jacket.”

Couldn’t Stephen be a bit more specific? In this area, ninety percent of the men are wearing a black suit. Thank goodness I’ve seen pictures of him. I’m only three minutes behind; unfortunately, the only thing I seem to be talented at is being late.