The sky was gray, the streets crowded, and the wind biting. She shifted her briefcase from one shoulder to the other in an effort to distribute the weight perpetrated by her math books and student folders; two white boards and dry-erase markers; a Square by Square Creative Pattern Game; and a pencil case neatly-filled with an eraser, pencil sharpener, yellow highlighter, and four No. 2 pencils. She had 45 minutes before her next tutoring session and scouted the block looking for a suitable place to set down her bag and rest. She scanned the storefronts and after dodging people who didn’t know enough to look where they were going, she chose to duck into a cafe for a warm drink and perhaps, if she were lucky, a creamy cheese danish.
She wrestled with the heavy wooden door, pushing instead of pulling, and finally entered what appeared to be a conglomeration of airport waiting lounge and modern furniture store showroom. The noticeably warmer temperature fogged her glasses causing her to put down her briefcase to search her pocketbook for an optical lens cleaning cloth—a harsh napkin wouldn’t do. Once she’d wiped her glasses enough to view her surroundings, she surveyed the room looking for where she could place her order.
She attempted to locate a cashier but saw nothing resembling a register behind which to find one. There was what appeared to be a wooden bar which made her wonder if she’d walked into a tavern. Nevertheless, she observed patrons sipping out of white ceramic cups and knew she must be in the right place.
The noise belied the mood the music attempted to portray. Lightly-plucked guitar strings and James Taylor-sounding lyrics were overcome by whistling machines, clanking cups, and banging silver baskets with long black handles. Hoards of young adults occupied long tables, little white buttons in their ears, staring at computers and cellular phones. Some spoke with loud voices in order to be heard. Others, quiet in their thoughts, leaned into comfortable couches, legs crossed, heads tilted. She suddenly felt old and conspicuous, tucking strands of unruly salt and pepper hair behind her ears.
“What can I get started for you?”
She didn’t hear the woman calling to her from behind the large silver machine across which letters spelled out “La Marzocco”. She had, instead, been staring at a mural occupying the back wall, reminiscent of graffiti she’d seen painted on train cars in other parts of the city, though here, matched with the wood and steel decor, created a particularly soothing ambiance. Struck by the dichotomy of attempted mood and boisterous reality, she sensed a clash of generations similar to “Game of Thrones” meets “I Dream of Jeannie”.
“M’am?”
She realized someone was addressing her; standing on tiptoes, she leaned across the stainless steel counter in order to see a young lady staring back. Her dark hair fell just below her ears, and her bangs, cut straight across her forehead, left lots of room for eyebrows. She was wearing a read knit top with sleeves rolled up just below her elbows. Her black pants were tight-fitting, cuffed enough to show a thick sock above black ankle-high boots. Her red lipstick set off a mouthful of very white teeth.
“Hello. I’m so sorry, I was distracted. May I have a cup of coffee, please?”
Wiping the wand of her machine with one hand, the young woman handed her a menu with the other. Ringed with brown stains, it had apparently been glued to a thin cutting board.
Espresso.
Pour Over.
Gesha Village, Surma Plot, Lot 68, Ethiopia.
Finca Porvenir, Colombia.
Jeronimo Chambe Taype, Peru.
Single origins.
Blends.
Farms.
Farmers.
Delicate acidity.
Where was the coffee?
The menu read like a movie poster for a foreign film. She pointed to one name in an effort to appear knowledgeable.
“Oh, good choice. That’s literally my favorite. It’s a single origin from Peru with pecan, cherry, and hibiscus notes.”
Notes?
“Do you like bright notes, or do you prefer something more nutty or chocolately?”
She listened to the young woman, her eyes enlarging behind her heavy-framed glasses.
Chocolate!
“Yes, that.”
A line had begun to grow behind and around her. Young men in dark jeans and flannel shirts. Work boots. Beards everywhere. A bike helmet. Backpacks.
“May I have that with cream, no sugar.”
“Sure, we have half & half, whole milk, and a number of alternative options.”
“Alternative options?”
“Non-dairy: almond, soy, cashew, goat, oat…”
“Uh, half & half will be fine.”
“Will you be enjoying that here or taking it to go?”
Definitely to go.
“To go, please.”
The young lady ground the beans and poured them into a white filter placed inside a glass carafe set atop a thin black scale, and ever-so-slowly added water from the narrow spout of a kettle. She stopped, then started, methodically and meticulously preparing the drink until the golden brown liquid began to funnel into the bottom.
She was taken with the care the young woman took in preparing the coffee. After removing the funnel which now contained wet grounds, she held the carafe at eye-level and gently agitated it like the barrel of a washing machine. She poured the liquid into a white paper cup, leaving room for cream.
Looking at her watch, she realized she needed to leave in order to get to her next student on time. She quickly pulled a five-dollar-bill from her wallet and prepared to hand it to the young lady.
The server slid the cup across the counter and announced, “Here you are, ma’am. That’ll be $8.50.”
Yikes. And, please don’t call me ma’am!