The release of Anza's updated concrete espresso machine represents the latest example of how coffee culture has embraced brutalist architecture's austere aesthetic. This phenomenon extends far beyond kitchen appliances, reflecting a broader cultural fascination with one of architecture's most polarizing styles.
The historical connection between coffee and brutalism runs deeper than many realize. When Le Corbusier was constructing the famous L'Unité d'Habitation housing complex in Marseille, France, coffee was practically the only source of caffeine available, as Coca-Cola had just arrived in the country when the development was completed in 1952. Photographer Will Rizzo actually captured the Swiss-born urbanist preparing a black cup of coffee during construction in 1949. Similarly, when Marcel Breuer arrived in New York City in 1946, Americans were consuming twice the amount of coffee they drink today, suggesting that brutalism may have literally been born on a caffeine high.
Today's coffee culture has developed what can only be described as a fetish for the austere. A Pinterest search for "brutalist coffee shop" reveals how corners of global café culture have repeatedly adopted the architectural style's devastatingly spartan aesthetic, echoing the no-frills character of the beverage itself. These establishments share brutalism's wholesale rejection of nostalgia, frivolity, or embellishment, where a building's form speaks for itself—much like a perfectly crafted ristretto, cortado, or flat white.
This aesthetic preference extends beyond stripped-bare warehouses in gentrified neighborhoods and board-formed coffee counters in financial districts. At-home espresso devices aimed at fans of both brutalism and coffee are experiencing a surge in popularity. At the end of 2024, Brazilian company Bruta released a countertop device that allows users to pull shots by hand, featuring a concrete base and metal lever that represents the bare-bones essence of espresso making. Now, Anza, which originally released a concrete-shelled machine in 2017, has returned with an updated second version.
The timing couldn't be better for this architectural renaissance. Last year, A24 brought concrete architecture into popular culture with "The Brutalist," followed this year by the documentary "Architecton," a meditation on what stone and concrete structures reveal about society. Brutalism is clearly occupying the collective consciousness.
However, according to Anza machine designer Andrew Smith, bringing solemn reverence for brutalism to kitchen counters was never the primary intention. Instead, he sought an alternative to the market's ubiquitous "generic stainless-steel boxes," a trend he observed while sharing commercial space in Berkeley, California, with an espresso machine repair technician. "People really enjoy making espresso at home, but these machines weren't contributing to that experience," Smith explains. "When you see how dominant these things are in your wonderful designer kitchen, it's like, isn't there something missing here?"
While stainless steel's dominance has obvious practical reasons—it's easy to clean splattered espresso and milk—Smith deliberately chose the opposite direction. "We thought, wouldn't it be funny to use some sort of non-intuitive material? Concrete was the obvious choice. It was the opposite of shiny and polished and machine-made," he says, contrasting his approach with brands like La Marzocco. "It was going to be handmade and rough and a bit gritty."
The design parallels between the Anza machine and brutalist architecture, particularly the Breuer Building, are striking. Marcel Breuer's structure, with its top-heavy massing, doesn't suggest its architect was being playful when creating it. However, its shape fatefully overlaps with the Anza machine's form. The museum features a recess that carves out space for an entrance with a basement-level patio below, while the Anza uses a similar cutout to accommodate the portafilter, steaming wand, and water-catching tray. "It looks like a mini building in many ways," Smith observes. "The concrete and its shape immediately starts talking the language of brutalism. You kind of can't avoid it."
For many design-conscious consumers, the espresso maker's inevitable merger with brutalism works perfectly as both aesthetic statement and practical solution. The machine appeals to households with strict "no-appliances-on-the-counter" policies, where steel-wrapped boxes decorated with steampunk-style gauges, wands, knobs, and levers would be unwelcome. The Anza offers surprising visual restraint, providing a subtle nod to brutalism while joining other essential kitchen items.
Functionally, the R2 model includes several technical improvements that cater to home baristas. The upgrades include a removable water reservoir, a pressure adjustment screw for fine-tuning extraction, a pre-infusion option that allows users to "bloom" the grounds like a pour-over method, and a somewhat insulated steam wand to prevent burns while foaming milk. Three switches on top provide streamlined functionality: one for hot water (useful for Americanos or cleaning), another for espresso shots, and a third for the steaming wand.
The machine's design philosophy places responsibility on the user's expertise rather than relying on automated features. Success depends on external factors like proper bean grinding, correct tamping in the portafilter, quality beans, good water, and proper milk steaming technique. As Smith explains, the R2 is "doing as much as it can with as little as possible"—a principle the great brutalist architects would have appreciated.
This convergence of coffee culture and architectural aesthetics reflects broader trends in design philosophy. The embrace of brutalism in coffee-making equipment suggests a desire for authenticity and craftsmanship in an increasingly automated world, where the stark honesty of concrete and the ritualistic precision of espresso preparation share common ground in their rejection of unnecessary ornamentation.
