A Nice Cuppa

Tuesday. 8:37 am.

Patron: Biggest, strongest cuppa you have. Black as night.

Barista: You’re either a student or you have a meeting.

The smile doesn’t confirm either, but from this side of the counter, their day has boardroom written all over it. They come here for the jolt. For some aroma therapy. I provide it. The fix that is. I’m the fence. The dealer. I’m….The Barista. It’s all tongue in cheek, trust me. You aren’t witnessing another coffee agent sniffing too much of their own product, breaking down into dark roasted fits of psychedelia. Although, a bit of Jefferson Airplane on this in-house musak satellite feed and I’m convinced I could steam milk with my mind.

When it’s busy here in the shop it’s busy, with as much hustle as any job I’ve had in the past. There’s something about a customer waiting to eat, drink, slurp, inhale, ravish, knaw, chew, pick, peck, sip, chomp, or mouth mangle a product that encourages speedy service more than say, buying a toaster. Coffee is comfort food. There’s a sense that the sooner they get their mitts on that steaming cup, things will look up. Glad to help. But how many truly appear to enjoy it, at least making the attempt to find that food for thought zone, as opposed to tossing in some cream and a packet with an eye on the look out for the streetcar? Not many, unless it’s well hidden. But it’s a complicated world, I know, and taking your pleasures on the road is nothing new. I’ve been watching the patrons lately, professionally of course, trying to get a sense of them. What do they look like? What are they ordering? Do they appear rushed or frazzled, of even or sour temperament? All empty conjecture obviously, but a valuable social exercise just the same. Because the only thing more introspective than a window watching caffeine connoisseur is a barista who’s been jacked up since they punched in.

Barista: How are you today?
Patron 1: Good morning.
Barista: What can I get for you?

She knows the coffee canisters well, even their order, and only takes as much time as she needs to check the day’s darks. A regular during the morning rush, this raven haired 40 something has a thin and fragile frame, but an assuredness that reeks of steel. The kind of woman whose kind and tired smile convinces you she’s a mom, or should be.

Patron: A medium Fazenda.
Barista: Sure.

Hmmm. Fazenda Vista Alegre. Heralds from northern Brazilian plantations. High elevation and a dry climate to accentuate the ripeness of the cherry. Picked only after the fruit has shriveled into pods of rich burgundy. Dried and stored. Peeled and sorted four to six months later before shipping. Spicy. Fruity. Smooth. An excellent choice. I admire your taste, but more so the pleasantry of your gait, and passive demure. You know who you are, and like the vanilla pedals of a wistful orchid yet to be discovered, you wait, but with no expectations. Just contented…to be. And you listen to George Michael.

Barista: Hi there.
Patron 2: How ya doin?
Barista: I’m good, yourself?
Patron 2: Not bad thanks.

This trio has recently made the jump from sparsely occasional to semi-often. Three men, late 30s to early 40s, dark hair, Mediterranean tones. Physically described by such words as stocky, plump, and new belt hole required. Upside casual attire: open collared dress shirts and pants, though never a tie in sight.

Barista: Two singles and a double?
Patron 2: Twooo….(he looks to his two companions for taste confirmation).
Yeah. Two singles, one double. Thanks.

Welcome back. It’s a pleasure to see friendly faces in groups, customers or no. You give an inclination of iron professionalism, an ethic handed down in blood with no explanation required. Family men. Are the espressos a treat for a solid day’s work, or a precursor to yet another night of chicken wings and Texas Hold’em? Either way, let me introduce you to the red eye, a wound healer of a pick-me-up consisting of an espresso shot of our famous Espresso Forte bean and a coffee of your choosing. The red eye is also a popular hangover cure made from beer, vodka, tomato juice and egg, though both serve similar purposes: enabling your system for increased attention span. I look at you men and I feel a sense of brotherhood, and although I don’t feel I’d belong in your clique for financial reasons, I wish you well.

Patron 3: (blunt as a teaspoon) Large non-fat latte.
Barista: (the patron has struck first, which is to say, I was not able to greet them) Large non-fat latte. No problem.

I begin, filling the portafilter with espresso, tamping it down. The Patron is well to do, a smattering of jewelry across her fingers and wrists, the kind I would assume is valuable based on the rest of her appearance. Lipstick rims a tight mouth. While I reach for the skim I consider small talk to ease the mood. Perhaps something about La Minita, an unforgettable estate coffee from the Tarrazu region of Costa Rica. This high quality bean is grown and harvested with meticulous care, pesticide free, and the skilled farm workers who work there are paid 30% above national coffee picker wages, with medical benefits. But again she beats me to the punch.

Patron 3: (pointing to a half and half cookie, chocolate and coconut) How much is this?
(I finish up the latte and take a peak.)
Barista: The half and half? I’m not sure….
(I head to the register to punch it up. Finding it takes more than a nanosecond…)
Patron 3: I’d like some service here.
Barista: Ma’am, I’m looking for the price on the register for you.

I apologize for my sudden departure from the cookie rack and lack of explanation as to my dealings with the register. I suppose the assumption of my helping you regardless of my vicinity to your pearls was one of arrogance which I will surely take forward with me from this day. And now, I will do no more than provide friendly service and highly consumable product for your person. Give my regards to the poodle.

But like coffee, customers should be valued for their uniqueness, deep, rich, or acidic. No?