Good coffee starts with an exhaust valve.
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The recent [at the time of project development] embedding of exhaust valves into coffee tins allowed for for a unique creative direction for Earnest Pursuit.
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All over printed tin, no paper, no plastic, no waste. One of the first in North America.
The tins looked good.
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After the initial production run we ended up customizing the mold with an indent on the bottom of the tin, matching the cap on the top.
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Now they stack nice, look good, and shipping says thank you sincerely.
Better than anything studio is going to write...
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An unedited perspective on brand and design process from Dylan Marvin, the founder of Earnest Pursuit.
What lies at the heart of your packaging design?
What lies at the heart of the Earnest Pursuit packaging is the same thing that lies at the heart of the brand. We love specialty coffee. We also know it is a crowded market, and that selling excellent coffee is only part of the job. We wanted to be different in how the coffee arrives and in how we talk about it. And we wanted the whole thing to be light on its feet, because there is enough seriousness in coffee already. The packaging comes out of that.
If you like it then you gotta put a tin on it.
Specialty coffee has mostly settled on a bag with a valve and a label, or a box with a bag with a valve and a label inside it. There is beautiful and genuinely funny work being done on those bags. But it means the category is competing on one printed panel of the same object, and we wanted a container that looked like a different decision from across the room.
In American coffee, the tin belongs to Folgers and Café Bustelo. It is the thing on a grocery shelf or a grandparent’s counter. It is not what the top of specialty reaches for.
We think that is an accident of history rather than a judgment on the format. Metal blocks light, holds its shape, ships well, takes print, and lasts for years. It ended up where it did because of who got there first.
So we moved it up the shelf. Worth being clear about how, because there are two ways to use a format like this. One is ironic, where the joke is that it is cheap and everyone is in on it. We are not doing that. Irony has a shelf life and we would like these tins to be around longer than the joke would be. Metal is not a better container for coffee than a well-made bag, and we would not claim it is. It is at least as good on everything that matters, which is the whole argument: if the format is equal on the merits and lower in the hierarchy, then its position is inherited rather than earned, and there is nothing clever about moving it. We treated the tin as a straightforward choice, not a knowing one.
There is a commercial reason we wanted this rather than something heavier and more obviously expensive. Specialty coffee can be intimidating, and its packaging is part of why. A tin is a shape everybody already knows how to pick up. We are selling bright, accessible, delicious coffee, and a container with no attitude does more for that than embossing ever would.
The object.
Flat rectangular metal, silver screw cap, 300g, with a standard one-way valve inside. The valve is nothing special, but it is what makes this a working coffee container rather than a nostalgic one. The flat rectangular shape was a design call, not a shipping call. It sits closer to a book than a can, which is what pulls it away from the grocery aisle. The surface is gloss, which suits metal and keeps the colors saturated.
There are no labels anywhere. Everything, including the wordmark, the illustration, the tasting notes and all the origin data, prints straight onto the metal in one color pairing per SKU. This is the decision that does the most work. A label always looks like something added to a container later. A printed tin is one made thing, and you can feel the difference before you can explain it.
The wordmark is set in Rational TW. We went monospace because it stays legible at the size and contrast that printing on formed metal actually allows, where a lot of display faces fall apart. Every front face runs the same three zones: wordmark, illustration, tasting note badge.
The illustrations are how you tell the coffees apart. Each one is bespoke, drawn from a small recurring cast built around a Doberman with an unreasonably optimistic inner life. One line drawing per coffee, drawn by hand, kept simple enough to survive the print and to stay underneath the type instead of shouting over it. They are not about coffee. They are about ordinary New York: somebody reading with a cup, a bird, a person lying back with a drink and a bike nearby. Closer to a New Yorker cartoon than a farm photograph. Metal on its own can feel cold, and the drawings are what keep the object friendly.
The back is where we let the nerdiness out. Producer, variety, process, elevation. Broadly the same categories every good coffee lists, so the difference is not how much is in there. It is how far we go on process, which is the part most packaging reduces to a single word and which does more to explain what you are about to taste than anything else on the panel, and it is that the geography is drawn rather than stated. A hand-drawn map with a dotted line from the farm to New York, and a small elevation diagram beside it. Origin is usually a place name in small type. We made it something you actually look at, which is illustration doing information work rather than decoration. Everything sits in the same positions in the same order on every SKU, so by your third tin you know where to look without thinking about it. The cupping score is on there, last and small. Price is a poor proxy for quality in coffee and we wanted the number available, but leading with it would be like opening a conversation with your SAT results.
Getting it printed.
Two full sample runs before we would sign off, which pushed the launch back by months. We could have accepted the first round and been on shelf sooner. We did not, and we have decided to call that discipline rather than stubbornness.
The problem was color. We had specified the palette in Pantone and the manufacturer could not hit those references reliably on metal. Rather than accept a near miss, the colors were re-specified in CMYK and matched from there, which is what finally held. Type needed work over the same rounds. Fine letterforms behave differently on printed metal than they do on paper, and some settings had to be adjusted before they held their shape at the sizes we wanted.
The illustrations came back clean on the first proof, which was the result of drawing them for the process rather than fixing them afterwards. Line weights were built to survive direct printing from the start, so nothing broke up, nothing filled in, and nothing had to be redrawn.
Registration held. The press runs tight enough that the type and the illustrations sit exactly where they should against the color field, across every SKU and across the run, which is the thing most likely to go wrong when you print onto formed metal instead of applying a label.
One detail we will point out because nobody notices it, which is rather the point. The table line in each drawing is very slightly curved rather than true. Everything around it is rigid: fixed zones, repeated type, the same structure on every SKU. That one line is drawn a little loose on purpose, and it is what keeps the front face from feeling like a form.
Color.
Three coffees are live and each gets a whole field to itself: yellow, green, pink. The cheaper approach is one base color with a different accent per coffee, and most ranges use it. We went the other way so the coffees read as separate products rather than three versions of one thing, and because a set of tins that do not match is more fun to collect than a set that does. The fixed layout is what stops that from turning into chaos, and it means a fourth coffee can join without a redesign.
What happens after the coffee.
A specialty coffee bag is a multi-layer laminate. It cannot really be recycled and it reaches the bin about three weeks after purchase, which is a strange thing for an industry that thinks carefully about everything else.
Our goal is that people like these enough to keep them. We drew the illustrations for a shelf and we tell customers to hang onto the tin, and refill bags are coming, which makes the tin the durable half of the system and shrinks the disposable half to almost nothing. There is a commercial argument here too, and we will admit to it: a bag disappears in three weeks, while a tin sits on a counter with the wordmark facing out for a year. Packaging that outlives what was in it beats packaging made from a technically recyclable material that still gets thrown out on schedule.