There were a few days when I was sure I would be fired (reason: problematic fucking mice). I started to consider my earliest customers – the ones I find myself talking to most, the ones that offer closeness at a rate that seems to diminish from others as the day progresses – and I wondered what I’d say to them if I knew for certain this was it. What would they think/what would they care. Would there be anything to miss? The routine, likely; the familiarity of every Tuesday for four years and it being me somewhere behind window glare and steam wand sigh. Reliable disposition, reliable back-and-forth. Yes, I’ve tracked the development of your chest piece; I’ve beseeched you for advice on sourcing marble tile; I’ve asked you how your trip to Japan was, how your weekend in Whistler was, how your run along the seawall at last night’s sunset was. Pleasantries abound, probably a platitude thrown in for every shot I lost track of or pitcher I aerated into the warm. The many slip-ups I cast on you, whether you caught them or not, if you were benevolent enough to trust they were accidental or at the least not careless; to some degree every mistake acquaints itself with my awareness and I find it less laborious to do the judgemental work of deciding just how bad the error, just how long that growing queue, than to re-pull or re-steam or re-pour. I think this comes of a safety between us. You can yawn instead of chat; I can forget that you like room in your Americano, because tomorrow there’s nowhere else I’ll be but here, and history hints you’ll be in for your usual. That is truly good. That’s a rare interactional kindness, I think.
But so what if no tomorrow? For the hands loosening the portafilter, the feet scampering up from BOH when the chit printer rattles. Coffee will be provided, doubtless; a face will appear at the far end of the counter, certain as there will be dawn. The nature of my job predicts high turnover but that doesn’t stop me from hoping you’d wonder after me, on future mornings, when you look down into your cup as if the answer to what you woke up fretting is sunken deep beneath crema and microfoam (the way every human does with their coffee). I get that that sentiment is mine and borne of nostalgia and existential dithering. I wouldn’t expect you to be so pointlessly contemplative. The things is I can’t taste what you’ve purchased; I can only pass it over to you, retract my offering hand, hope it’s been good for you in return. And really it has been nice to know you.
I also understand that coffee is coffee. Routine is routine. Even when I’m on the opposite side of the bar, I don’t necessarily project my thoughts, intentions, blessings, good vibes, spiritual tidings, sweet wishes, or agnostic prayers on the barista pouring my drink. In neighbourhoods of caffeine scarcity, I choose the best possible option. It doesn’t escape me that I can be a real judgy asshole about a cafe’s cleanliness/service/drink quality, and still I will return if it’s what’s available; the anticipation of mild disappointment is almost part of the draw. Especially in Vancouver, where coffee shops basically bump into each other, there’s a futility in curating the perfect morning cup, in sifting out that nucleus of comfort that waits singularly among the many other particulate grounds. It’s not to say that I never act on my preferences, but I know that sometimes I simply won’t muster the energy to walk the extra few blocks to the better cafe, or to get on the bus that will take me into Gastown so I can be seen reading an obnoxious book by cool people. I will instead trudge to the closest cafe and indulge myself in a deluded sense of professional superiority while I drink a coffee for which I chose to pay. Sometimes you just go with easy. And that this truth – while I rise at 4:15 and carshare to work and scurry around setting out the patio, sweeping mice droppings, prepping drip batches, and I eventually dial in – might pertain also to my customers correlates with a spike in my self-pity, for sure. I don’t know, do I just want to be seen? Appreciated on some deeper level for being there? I admit to making mistakes, handing over cappuccinos too hot and espresso overextraced; I admit also to being probably pretty unpleasant, some mornings, after nights that saw me mope and cry bad tears about my own lack of worth. And I admit how preposterous it is to ask of decent early morning people to at once engage with me, think about who I might “really” be, and to value my work as more than a transactional service ending in a product. Paid for in full.