It was a few years ago that I worked as a barista. I was between jobs and, with money starting to run low, found work in a local café. I’d always wanted to try my hand at being a barista; there was something about fulfilling order after order of espressos and lattes that seemed appealing. Like a carpet weaver threading strand after strand into an immense, immeasurable carpet, I imagined the process of serving coffee as a slow, methodical act that worked towards some unknown, cosmic goal. Of course, there was nothing slow about it. It was frantic. The endless orders—especially those during commuting hours or at weekends—often felt insurmountable. But, soon enough I fell into a rhythm and embraced the repetitive task.
The local café where I worked was in an old red brick building situated at the end of a side street in a quiet part of town. There was a train station nearby, set just below ground level and fringed by greenery, the type of building that would remain long after humanity's demise, to no doubt be claimed by nature and become, in its own way, beautiful. That was how I thought of it, in any case.
Despite the quiet location, the café was always busy. This was not so much due to the station’s proximity but because the café emitted that special aura only certain buildings possess. When deciding on where to sit and drink coffee, I'm incredibly picky. There needs to be a specific quality to a café—a view, an ambience, or maybe the type of plants that populate its interior—to make me feel at ease. Like an unsolved mathematical problem, expressing the precise terms and variables that constitute this equation is, I have found, impossible. It is one of the reasons I'll never own a café myself. I would deliberate for too long over whether I had located and arranged the right components, a process that would cause me great distress. I have a similar problem with furniture, often finding I spend days moving a piece around the living room, exiting and re-entering to see whether it imparts a sense of being correct, and if it doesn’t—that is, if, for whatever unknown reason, I cannot locate that special feeling—I'll return the furniture to the store and depart disappointed and deflated.
Anyway, what I mean is, from the moment I first walked in, I couldn’t help but feel at ease within the café’s walls. Or, to put it more clearly, this was a café that had the right components. The air felt correct and it was as though some hidden and previously inaccessible part of my mind was able to be unlocked. It was little surprise, then, that I soon became a regular. I would spend hours sitting by the window, sipping coffee and reading a book. To me, reading in such an environment is the only true way to appreciate literature. The mind—surrounded by a low but pleasing hubbub of indecipherable voices and conversations—can focus without distraction. This effect is heightened by the stimulatory properties of caffeine and the outcome is that of sublime concentration. I don’t recall how many books I read in this particular café and under these conditions, nor how many cups of coffee I consumed, but it was considerable. There is no fonder period of my life that I look back upon.
So, when my finances reached a state that caused some internal concern, brought about in part through the steady stream of book purchases and coffee, it was an obvious choice to seek work within the confines of the café’s allure. I would go so far as to say that, through whatever contrivance of fate, I was supposed to end up working there. My status as regular meant I could easily approach the manager and I inquired as to a vacancy as a barista. Having no prior experience, I expected to be told this was not possible, but perhaps due precisely to my status as a regular, she agreed to take me on. On a trial basis, of course. And so, for a few days after closing, she trained me in everything I needed to know.
Needless to say, the process of using an espresso machine is both intricate and rewarding. The grind must be dosed to ensure an even bed that avoids channelling. Then, with eyes closed, the barista must engage in the ritual of tamping the grounds, feeling how the bed is compacted into an even and flat surface; anything less results in an inferior and poorly extracted brew. Once tamped, the group head is flushed to stabilise the temperature and wash out any prior grounds, then the portafilter is slotted in place. There is a certainty in this action; a confidence in the attachment. The barista must, in the precision rotation of the arm, imagine they are securing shut the vault of a bank and sealing away a precious quantity of gold. Only once these prior steps have been completed to the utmost satisfaction is the shot allowed to be brewed. And thus the alchemy begins, the liquorice wonder emerging and flowing with obsidian clarity into the awaiting cup.
*
It didn’t take many days acting in my newfound role before I started recognising the locals and regulars. Of course, some of these I knew from my own time as a regular, though a fair number I didn’t recognise—a fact I put down to my intense focus on reading once I had a coffee in hand. Some of these patrons would stay, either to work at a table, meet up with friends, or, like I had done myself, merely to sit and read; others would be in transit, stopping only to fill their body with the glorious substance that was so served into their cups.
Having always had a knack for memory, I would say hello to these regulars as they came in, using their name in greeting and recalling their prior order. Many people don’t understand the power in recalling someone’s name, but it has an immense impact on the wellbeing of the recipient. If an additional detail can be added—a compliment on their attire, for example, or an enquiry as to how their morning has been—then the feeling is enhanced, and, from a business perspective, the chance of that person returning is elevated all that bit higher. The manager soon noticed I was doing this and several times I caught her smiling as she went about her routine. In knowing this, I felt a welling satisfaction build up within and I couldn't help but think I was making progress towards that unknown, cosmic goal.
*
Near the end of my first week a man came in who I didn’t recognise and, upon placing his order, gave his name as Nick. Yet, when he came in two days later (and when, in checking its mnemonic system of memory, my brain confirmed it was indeed Nick) the name he proffered wasn’t Nick at all but Benjamin. Didn’t you— I was about to ask, but then held back. His eyes told me everything. He knew that I knew he had given me a different name, so I let it go, assuming he had done so for some cryptic personal reason. The following day, he walked in and once more used an entirely new name, offering up the moniker of Whitley. This is very strange, I thought to myself, and as he stood there waiting for his order, I engaged in a small discussion.
“Whitley today, is it?” I said, offering him a wry smile so he knew my intent.
“Yes. Whitley today.”
I was crafting a winged tulip atop his coffee—a latte design I had been trying to perfect all morning—and so had to glance down, which meant I couldn’t read his face as he spoke, but there was something in the tone of his voice that created some small enjoyment in my mind. Finishing the design—not a bad effort, I thought—I looked up and handed him his drink.
He accepted the coffee, nodding his appreciation, and then spoke, saying, “What is it you’re reading now?”
“Reading?” I said, running hot water through the empty portafilter to preheat it before I commenced the next order.
“Reading. Yes. What you used to do here.”
I was slightly taken aback by this. Had he seen me here before, back when I was a customer and engrossed daily in books?
“Oh,” I managed, pausing what I was doing. There was no takeaway queue and I only had a handful of table orders to complete, so I could afford to take a moment’s break. “The Woman in the Dunes, a book by—”
“Ah, Japanese literature,” he interrupted. “Very good. The entomologist Jumpei and his journey into the sands.”
Again I was taken aback. Had he read Kōbō Abe? I’d never met anyone before who’d read Abe.
“Yes, that’s right,” I continued, tamping in fresh grounds for a double shot espresso. I realised I’d completed the action without closing my eyes and found myself worrying as to how the extraction would proceed. “You’ve read it?”
“Of course.” And at that he raised his coffee, as though in slight salute, and then left.
Of course? I was somewhat baffled by this whole encounter. A man who each day changed his name and had of course read Abe. For the rest of that day I could think of nothing else. That evening, I finished reading The Woman in the Dunes and contemplated the tension and claustrophobia of Niki Jumpei being confined with all that sand and the strange acceptance of his predicament. It left me confused but curious and I drifted off to sleep thinking I would ask Whitley—or whatever name he would next acquire—what he, of course, thought of the story.
to be concluded…
A small postscript. I began this in a café whilst waiting to receive my own order of espresso. At a time when my well of creativity has felt parched and dry, it was a welcome moment to feel this little story seep out onto the page. Originally, I was going to keep it to a single post, but, as can happen, the words expanded and so I have sliced this in half, for it to be concluded next week. I hope you don’t mind. Thank you for being here, dear reader. May you too experiment with using different names when ordering a coffee…
(Oh, and needless to say, I have never worked as a barista, though often have I dreamed it so.)
Here’s another one! Man I love these small tales of a hyper-real world where something strange is percolating ;-) just beneath the surface. You write these so, so well, Nathan. Eager for Part 2! 🤓
An intriguing start, Nathan, so looking forward to part 2 to understand more about this name changing stranger 🤔
I still find your mastery of words and language to be second to none in being able to draw the reader into the story. Particularly one about a beverage that I do not drink 😁
However, the calmness you describe by being in a coffee shop is exactly how I feel in a book shop and you’ve given me an idea for a story that’s been percolating in my mind for a few weeks now so thanks for that 👍🏼😊