It's moving from niche to mainstream quite quickly.
In the cafes of London and beyond, a quieter Japanese tea is finding its moment — not through spectacle, but through taste. Hojicha, roasted until its bitterness softens into something nutty and warm, is tracing the path matcha walked a few years ago, arriving at a time when more people are asking not just what a drink looks like, but what it actually offers. This small shift in a cup reflects something larger: a culture slowly learning to choose substance alongside style.
- Hojicha latte sales surged 55% year-on-year at some London chains, signaling a genuine consumer pivot rather than a passing curiosity.
- Matcha's dominance is showing cracks — baristas report customers rejecting it when they can't mask its flavor with syrups, exposing a trend built more on aesthetics than appetite.
- Industry insiders place hojicha exactly where matcha stood two to three years ago, raising the question of whether the tea market can sustain two Japanese darlings at once.
- Beyond hojicha, the broader beverage landscape is fracturing — chai, kombucha, mate, and ube are all gaining ground, driven by sober-curious consumers who want something meaningful in their cup.
- The tea market is quietly repositioning itself not as a wellness performance, but as a genuine alternative to alcohol — with late-night chai chains fielding inquiries from university campuses.
Ana Costa was scanning a London cafe menu when hojicha stopped her mid-scroll. She'd been about to order the matcha latte — the safe, photogenic choice — but curiosity won. Iced, with oat milk and vanilla, it delivered something matcha rarely had: a drink she actually wanted to finish.
Hojicha is green tea transformed by high heat. The roasting strips away bitterness, softens the caffeine, and leaves a nutty, almost caramel warmth that surprises people expecting grassy Japanese intensity. At Koya in London, chef Shuko Oda has served it traditionally for years — hot, clear, unsweetened. Now she watches it evolve: hojicha lattes are multiplying across the city, and her own restaurant added hojicha ice cream this year.
The numbers carry weight. At Jenki, a matcha-focused London chain, iced hojicha latte sales jumped 55 percent in early 2026 compared to the same period the year before. Rashique Siddique of How Matcha says his cafes now sell one or two hojicha cups for every five matcha lattes. "It feels like where matcha was two or three years ago," he says. "Moving from niche to mainstream quite quickly."
Matcha itself isn't going anywhere. Greggs began selling it in February. Supermarket sales of the powder have quadrupled in a year, approaching nine million pounds. But the drink has drifted far from its origins — baristas pile in syrups and sweeteners, and customers balk when served it plain. A young barista at a Japanese cafe describes watching people cancel orders upon learning there's no vanilla pump. "For a lot of people it's trendy," she says, "and they can hide the taste so they can still have a pretty drink."
That gap between trend and genuine taste is where the larger story lives. Chai sales grew 38 percent in a year. Kombucha is appearing in supermarket meal deals. Karak chai moves half a million cups monthly through Chaiiwala's late-night locations. The sober-curious movement is quietly reshaping what gets ordered and why — two friends in their late twenties say they choose tea cafes over pubs simply because they don't drink alcohol.
No one expects hojicha to detonate the way matcha did. But something more durable may be forming: a tea market diversifying around flavor, function, and genuine preference. As Bird & Blend founder Mike Turner puts it, surveying a landscape of roasted teas, spiced chais, and fermented drinks: "It's an exciting time for tea."
Ana Costa stood in a London cafe, scrolling through the menu, when a name stopped her: hojicha. She'd been eyeing the matcha latte—the safe choice, the Instagram choice—but something about this roasted tea caught her attention. She ordered it iced, with oat milk and vanilla, and discovered something the bright green powder never quite delivered: a drink she actually wanted to taste.
Hojicha is green tea subjected to high heat until it transforms. The roasting strips away bitterness, mellows the caffeine, and leaves behind something warmer—a nutty, almost caramel-like flavor that tastes nothing like the grassy intensity people expect from Japanese tea. At Koya, a Japanese restaurant in London, chef Shuko Oda has served it traditionally for years: hot, clear, unsweetened, the kind of drink you reach for any time of day without thinking. But lately she's watching it mutate. Hojicha lattes are appearing across the city. Her own restaurant added hojicha ice cream to the menu this year.
The numbers tell a story of momentum. At Jenki, a matcha-focused chain with six locations in London, iced hojicha latte sales jumped 55 percent between January and April compared to the same months the year before. Rashique Siddique, who runs How Matcha, describes hojicha's growth as "significant"—his cafes now sell one or two cups for every five matcha lattes. "Hojicha feels like where matcha was two or three years ago," he says. "It's moving from niche to mainstream quite quickly." Even Grind, an east London coffee roaster, added it to the menu this summer, though the head of coffee acknowledged the brown color lacks matcha's photogenic appeal.
Matcha itself remains everywhere. Greggs, the ubiquitous British bakery chain, started selling it in February. Supermarket sales of the powder have quadrupled in a year, with shoppers spending nearly nine million pounds on it over twelve months. Walk through any UK town center and you'll see people carrying cups of that distinctive bright green. But the drink has become something its traditional practitioners barely recognize. Baristas load it with syrups and sweeteners. Customers complain when cafes serve it plain. A 23-year-old barista at a Japanese cafe in London has watched people change their minds about ordering when they learn there's no vanilla pump, no honey, no way to mask the taste. "Some people truly do like matcha," she says, "but for a lot of people it's trendy and they can hide the taste with syrups so they can still have a pretty drink."
That gap between trend and taste is widening. One woman, 31, describes matcha as tasting like "a muddy puddle." Ana herself drinks matcha twice a week but feels UK cafes have "warped" it, burying the actual flavor under layers of marketing. What's emerging instead is a market that's fragmenting in interesting ways. Chai sales grew 38 percent in a year. Kombucha is creeping into supermarket meal deals. Karak chai—the sweet, spiced Indian street tea—moves half a million cups monthly through Chaiiwala's late-night locations, which have started fielding inquiries from universities wanting to open campus branches for students seeking alternatives to alcohol.
The sober-curious movement is reshaping what gets served and why. Two friends in their late twenties say they prefer matcha and chai cafes to pubs precisely because they don't drink alcohol. Ube, the purple yam drink, has landed on Costa and Starbucks menus, marketed heavily on its lilac color. And when a reporter asked people in a London park what tea trend they're watching, mate kept coming up—the bitter, high-caffeine South American tea traditionally sipped through a metal straw.
Mike Turner, who founded Bird & Blend, a specialty tea shop, expects matcha sales to sustain but suspects the hype will eventually fade as novelty wears thin. No one in the industry is predicting hojicha will explode the way matcha did. But something larger is happening: the tea market is diversifying, driven by consumers who want flavor without alcohol, function without compromise, and maybe—just maybe—a drink that tastes good rather than looks good. As Turner puts it: "It's an exciting time for tea."
Citas Notables
Hojicha feels like where matcha was two or three years ago. It's moving from niche to mainstream quite quickly.— Rashique Siddique, director of How Matcha
Some people truly do like matcha, but for a lot of people it's trendy and they can hide the taste with syrups so they can still have a pretty drink.— Isabel MacNeaney, barista at a Japanese cafe in London
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did hojicha suddenly appear everywhere at once? Did someone decide to market it, or did it just happen?
It seems to have emerged from the same place matcha came from—Japanese food and drink trends spreading to UK cafes—but hojicha arrived with a built-in advantage. It tastes better to more people. Less bitter, lower caffeine, that nutty warmth. Matcha became a trend first and a flavor second. Hojicha is reversing that.
But if matcha is still selling nine million pounds worth of powder a year, hasn't it already won?
It has, but maybe not in the way people think. Matcha won as a visual trend, as a status symbol. The actual taste became almost irrelevant—people were hiding it under syrups. Hojicha is winning on taste, which is a different kind of victory. Quieter, maybe more sustainable.
So the sober-curious movement matters here? People are looking for cafe culture without alcohol?
Absolutely. Universities are calling Chaiiwala asking to open stores on campus. Chai sales jumped 38 percent in a year. These aren't just tea drinkers—they're people building social rituals around something other than drinking. That's a real shift.
What happens to matcha now?
It stays. It doesn't disappear. But the hype cools. The novelty wears off. People who genuinely like it keep drinking it. Everyone else moves on to the next thing—maybe mate, maybe something we haven't seen yet. That's how trends work.
Is hojicha the next matcha, or is it something different?
That's the question no one can answer. The industry experts I spoke to don't think anything will explode quite like matcha did. But hojicha's trajectory right now—moving from niche to mainstream—is exactly where matcha was three years ago. So maybe.