Matcha’s rise from ritual to retail, and how Blank Street brewed Glasgow’s obsession.
In internet culture, anything can be crowned the next craze — no idea is off-limits, and the stranger, the better. If an influencer bottled puddle water and branded it as “mermaid-infused hydration,” it would be swirling in Stanley cups by tomorrow.
But there’s still a side of the internet with a shred of sanity, one that loves a list of refusals. Open TikTok and, against the flood of new fads, you’ll quickly see content like: “Never tried, never will.” Labubus? Check. Dubai chocolate? Check. Love Island? Check. Matcha might not be a usual culprit in these reels, but as one of the most performative trends of them all, I’m adding it — check, check.
I used to think matcha was the most performa…
Matcha’s rise from ritual to retail, and how Blank Street brewed Glasgow’s obsession.
In internet culture, anything can be crowned the next craze — no idea is off-limits, and the stranger, the better. If an influencer bottled puddle water and branded it as “mermaid-infused hydration,” it would be swirling in Stanley cups by tomorrow.
But there’s still a side of the internet with a shred of sanity, one that loves a list of refusals. Open TikTok and, against the flood of new fads, you’ll quickly see content like: “Never tried, never will.” Labubus? Check. Dubai chocolate? Check. Love Island? Check. Matcha might not be a usual culprit in these reels, but as one of the most performative trends of them all, I’m adding it — check, check.
I used to think matcha was the most performative drink on earth. Unlike most trends, where you’ve either got the diehards or the disinterested, matcha divides the room in two extremes: the certified matcha maniacs or those who will never miss a chance to say, “it literally tastes like grass.”
Fashion’s most recent fixation, the Labubu toy craze, is no different. Some line them up like prized pets beside their Birkins, while others insist they look demonic. And me? I firmly stood my ground in the “tastes like grass” camp. However, once freshers’ fever had settled and classes were in full swing, the new social script became: “Wanna grab a matcha?” In my first week, I must’ve heard this a hundred times, so preconceptions aside, I had to give it another shot.
My first attempt was a raspberry matcha at Sick Coffee — decent enough to suggest there might be some method to the madness, but not enough to sway me.
It was a quick fix from Blank Street on Byres Road, right in the heart of campus, that finally tipped me over. Sweet and subtle notes of flavour, with just the right ratio of blueberry to matcha, presented in a dreamy purple and green ombré. It’s safe to say I’d officially crossed to the other side.
Blank Street’s Glasgow debut came in April 2025, when it opened its first store on Byres Road. The American chain, already a cult favourite in London and freshly launched in Edinburgh, didn’t choose the West End by accident: the student-centric strip is primed for queues, cute cups in hand. Within days, those ombrés were as much a fixture of campus life as the bustle between lectures.
I wasn’t alone in my move to the matcha side. It was Blank Street’s intentional brand positioning that converted many like me.
As an international student in Glasgow, I couldn’t help but wonder how the city secured a spot on the map. But it wasn’t dumb luck. It was deliberate. What Scotland asks for, it gets (though I doubt anyone ever asked for the rain).
Blank Street’s UK lead, Jaime Llado, put it simply: “We got so many people reaching out directly to us, especially on Instagram, saying, please come to Edinburgh. We need a Blank Street.” It proved that in today’s cutthroat business world, sometimes the most unconventional indicators drive the most successful strategies. Blank Street’s DMs were direct proof of demand, and they didn’t just see it, but they came and conquered.
To spearhead the start of their Scottish operations, they opened on Victoria Street in Edinburgh in January 2025 — the most photographed street in Scotland, guaranteeing footfall and a flood of matcha moments on Instagram.
Glasgow followed in the spring, solidifying Blank Street’s presence. Café culture here is as entrenched as anywhere in the UK, the student population ensures a loyal base, and overheads are lower than in central London.
On top of these factors, Blank Street’s automation-driven approach, streamlined stores with fewer staff and faster service, makes the economics even clearer. Efficiency keeps prices low (£3–£4 a cup), students keep the queues long, and Instagram keeps the cups in circulation.
Blank Street’s real genius isn’t just in its pricing — it’s in the fact that the cups’ customers pay double as the brand’s best advertising. The cups are walking, talking ads: people aren’t simply buying a drink, they’re buying something to hold as they walk from class to class or send streaks on Snapchat.
And the beauty of it? Blank Street hardly has to spend a penny to make it happen. Their layered green gradients are gram gravy, their sage branding feels instantly comforting, and every customer is an unpaid influencer. What Starbucks or Costa Coffee spend millions on billboards for, Blank Street achieves with a single cup carried across campus because the brand is perceived as a lifestyle label before it is a coffee chain.
Limited drops, local influencers, and organic word-of-mouth do the rest, leaving everyone asking what Blank Street’s next season’s IT drink will be.
Long before it was frothed into TikTok lattes, matcha had an entirely different life. In Japan, it was central to the tea ceremony. Whisked into porcelain bowls, sipped in silence, tied to Zen rituals of mindfulness. Fast-forward centuries and continents, and the same bright green powder is now packaged into pancakes, bubble tea, ice cream, and yes — skincare serums.
Matcha didn’t stumble into the spotlight by chance. The super ingredient has a “health halo” that makes it irresistible to this wellness generation. It’s not just a drink, it’s “clean caffeine.” Unlike coffee, which spikes your energy in one jittery hit, matcha delivers a calmer, longer-lasting buzz. Coffee wakes you up, but matcha positions you as awake and well.
No wonder brands rushed to paint the town green. Tatcha’s cult “Matcha Mask” sold out within weeks, supplement giants like Moon Juice added matcha to powders, and bakeries sprinkled it over croissants. If it could be tinted green, it could be sold.
The result? Matcha’s not just a viral drink but a buzzword for a lifestyle synonymous with wellness, aesthetic, and aspiration.
And if history tells us anything, the green giant matcha’s infiltration won’t stop at skincare shelves or café counters. Just as avocado leapt from toast to body scrubs post-COVID, the next wave will creep even further. A matcha pre-workout? Matcha mouthwash? Maybe even a matcha candle in every student flat by 2026. It sounds preposterous now, but so did paying £4 for green tea powder a decade ago.
Image credits: Espressorivo
