For some people, coffee begins with a choice. For others, it’s already there, long before they understand what it means. For Andrés Paparoni, coffee was never something he discovered later in life. It was part of his world from the very beginning.
Growing up in Venezuela, coffee wasn’t just a drink — it was family, memory, and something passed down through generations. His father, Gustavo Paparoni, was already deeply involved in coffee as a Q-grader and educator, building a life around it. His grandfather had worked as a Gaggia reseller, and even further back, parts of the family had been connected to coffee production after migrating from Italy to Venezuela. Not every branch of the family stayed in coffee, but enough of that history remained to shape the environment he grew up in.
“I’ve been drinking coffee since I was six… everyone in my family is just crazy about coffee.”
Being surrounded by coffee didn’t immediately turn into passion. At first, it was simply normal — something that existed in the background. But when he was fourteen, he started working alongside his father, helping in coffee shops and training spaces. It was practical, something to do, a way to be involved. The shift came a year later, through a moment that felt small on the surface but stayed with him long after.
“I saw the Sasa Sestic’s presentation… tasted Gardelli Panama… and I was just so amazed.”
That cup changed the way he saw coffee. Not because it was better, but because it showed him that coffee could be something more — something complex, something worth understanding. From that moment, the direction became clearer. He didn’t just want to be around coffee anymore. He wanted to dedicate himself to it. “I wanted to be a barista. I wanted to train. I wanted to compete.”
That dream stayed with him for more than ten years. While others might move between different paths, Andrés held onto that idea, even as doubts grew alongside it. Competition, especially barista competition, felt distant, almost unreachable. It wasn’t just about skill — it felt like something reserved for a different kind of person.
“I thought it was too hard… that it was just for the chosen ones.”
For a long time, he stayed close to competition without stepping fully into it. He coached others, helped prepare routines, studied presentations, and learned everything he could from the outside. He understood the system, the expectations, and the pressure — but not as someone standing on the stage.
Life took him further from home. At eighteen, he moved to Spain alone, without a network, without a clear path, carrying only what he already knew. Coffee became the way he rebuilt everything.
“Without coffee, I wouldn’t know anyone in Spain.”
He went to coffee shops, talked to baristas, introduced himself, learned, listened, and slowly built connections. One conversation led to another, one opportunity to the next. Over time, that effort became something stable — a place in the coffee community, and eventually, a role at Nomad Coffee in Barcelona.
Working at Nomad changed the scale of his experience. Coffee was no longer just personal — it became something he shared every day. As a trainer, he worked with hundreds of students, from home brewers to professionals, helping them understand coffee in their own way. In one year alone, he trained nearly 800 people, repeating the same process again and again, refining not just their skills, but his own understanding of coffee.
Even then, competition still felt distant.
What changed wasn’t a sudden realization, but the people around him. At Nomad, he found a team that believed in him before he fully believed in himself. Fran Gonzalez, along with his coaches Rebeca Silva and Nuria Ruiz, encouraged him to take the step he had been avoiding for years. That belief became the turning point. “I gave everything for a year and a half.”
Preparation wasn’t just about perfecting a routine. It was about preparing for everything that could go wrong. He trained for broken machines, unstable scales, delays, mistakes — every possible scenario that could disrupt the moment. The goal wasn’t perfection. It was resilience. When he finally stood on stage, it didn’t feel like success. “I thought I was doing it super bad.”
While others saw a strong performance, he saw flaws. Small details that didn’t match the version he had practiced so many times. But the people around him saw something else — something he couldn’t see in that moment.
“They told me, you did amazing.”
That trust carried him through the competition, step by step, until the moment arrived that had lived in his mind for over a decade. When his name was called as the Spanish Barista Champion, it didn’t feel real. “I still don’t believe it sometimes.”
Winning didn’t change how he sees coffee. It didn’t turn the journey into something complete. If anything, it made the path feel clearer. When people recognize him as a champion, it doesn’t seem to matter much.
“I don’t really mind. I just want to talk and make people enjoy our coffee.”
Because the most important part of coffee was never the stage. It’s the people he meets, the conversations he has, the cups he shares. It’s the feeling of walking into a coffee shop in a new city and finding connection where there was none before. It’s the community that gave him a place when he arrived alone, and the same community he now contributes to every day.
Coffee, for Andrés, became a way to belong.
Not something to prove.
Not something to win.
But something to share.
Editor’s note:
Not every coffee story begins with a decision. Some begin in family, in memory, in something that feels like it was always there. And sometimes, the journey isn’t about becoming something new. It’s about growing into something that was always part of you.
