On the last morning of my recent trip to Amsterdam, I had time to check out one more coffee shop before leaving for the airport. Google Maps is a blessing and a curse, because you can always find something good, but by the time you get there, you often know so much about the place that the sense of discovery is all gone.

There was a coffee shop called Kafenion right next door to my Airbnb, which I’d poked my head into on my first day. It was absolutely packed, a good sign, but looked kind of old school and had a strange vibe. So I found another place that seemed more modern.

This last morning, as I looked through Google Maps, there were a bunch of options I hadn’t tried, all within a short walk.

… natural wood, airy, brass, granite, stainless steel, minimalist. Don’t get me wrong, I love hanging out in places like this, and loved each of these individual places when I visited them.

But it’s a bit of a bummer when you’re traveling, looking for new experiences, and you’re hanging in a bunch of places that from the inside could be in New York, Chicago, London, Amsterdam, Buenos Aires, or Tokyo. Lots of people have written about the loss of local character and increasing “sameness” of many great cities, and that morning, I was feeling it. Of course, if there’s a problem here, I’m part of it: I always do my research on Google Maps, always look at the pictures, and had already visited five different modern espresso cafes with Scandinavian minimalist design and single origin beans.

So, I decided to try Kafenion, the place right next store that had been packed, but seemed a bit weird. I figured, best case it’s great and different, and interesting. Worst case I don’t love it but it’s still coffee.

I walked in, and it’s a big space, but nearly every seat was taken. It seemed to be 50% hip young Amsterdammers, and 50% old Greek guys. There was no latte art, no bronze fixtures, no blonde wood, and no neon. It was dark, with dark wood, black and white photos, stacks of books in Greek, and a bunch of chess boards (another very good sign). The seemed to be high-quality Italian, but not exotically grown and locally roasted. The only thing artisanal was the olive oil (I’ll get to that).

The barista/manager/owner(?) took my order. I later got his name, Omar. He asked me a question I don’t usually get asked at coffee shop, “Is strong okay?”

I thought he meant a dark roast, and I said whatever he recommends is fine. He looked at me kind of funny, so I asked, did you mean the roast? No, he said, the caffeine content. I told him yes! Strong is great. I was low on sleep and had a long travel dat ahead. Then he gave me that look that tells you someone is sizing you up a little. He apparently decided I was open enough to suggestion, and he ask, “Do you want something kind of weird? If you don’t like it, I’ll make you something else.” Now we’re talking. Yes! This is what I came for.

Omar started doing his thing, making the espresso, steaming the milk. Then he measured and poured in two spoonfuls of something thick. I assumed it was some kind of homemade syrup, and I really don’t like sugar in my coffee, so I was prepared to not like it but pretend to, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. When I tried it, it was unexpected—great coffee, something strange about it, but definitely no sugar. I asked what was in it.

“It’s olive oil, a very special olive oil from my family. You can’t taste it much, but it makes everything very smooth and nice.” I told Omar I loved it, he fist bumped me, and then I stayed and enjoyed the atmosphere and the drink, and ordered another for the road.

It was a perfect cap to a great trip, an experience I wouldn’t get anywhere else, and a reminder to take more chances and do less research.