3rd Installment
Solo espresso Jeremiad
Baristas belong to a class apart. They're made of a tougher metal than the common man. You can tell from the coffee stains on their aprons and the mocha smears on their faces. They've got gumption like you wouldn't believe. Good thing too. Sometimes it's a f..king war behind the espresso bar. Christ. One minute you're pulling shots for a decaf grande latte, and next thing you know the register's calling out a round of caramel machiatoes. And let me tell you something, Jack. Slinging coffee ain't like blowing smoke up somebody's ass. The nerves have got to be steady, the eyes alert. Because manning the bar is not only one constant gut check after another, it's an art as well. That's why a barista's hands are like a surgeon's--always rock steady. And that's important when you're busting your hump over some clod's drink with a dozen more lined up behind it. And God help you if you get behind. I mean, you should see how antsy some customers get waiting for their order. They stare at you with this kind of freaked-out expression, like you just held up their shuttle flight to A..hole Central.
Truth be told, any number of things could go wrong during the process of making a drink. The creation of a cappuccino can be a beautiful thing, but the birthing gets a little tricky. Complications arise: the milk gets steamed too hot, the shot doesn't pull long enough, the froth is flat. That's when you're left pouring the aborted order down the drain. God, I hate that. But I try not to dwell on these things when I'm working. Can't afford to. Not when somebody's perfect orange mocha chip frappuccino is on the line.
Sometimes, the pressure in the trenches is so brutal you think you're going to crack. I always know when I've reached this point when I start having fantasies about handing people dangerously hot cups of coffee without their protective sleeves. Thank God I have my other gig to keep my mind off the pressure.
Yeah, that's right. I do something else on the side. What can I say? I needed something that would take the edge off and help pay the note on my new sports utility vehicle. So, I finished taking classes at the university and graduated--barely. I got a degree in education, which certified me to use the latest and greatest pedagogical techniques...or something like that. I applied for a local position at a local all-boys Catholic school teaching religion. Apparently, my baptismal certificate and half-ironed suit were qualification enough.
During the forgone conclusion of the interview, I thought I hit a snag when the principal asked me what I thought about Jesus. Honestly, I hadn't given the subject a single thought since my first communion. So, I really had to reach for something. Luckily, I remembered a program I had seen on T.V. the night before about the virtues of moderate thinking. It was called "Unlearning Your Masculinity: How to Break the Cycle of Sexual Harassment." I had my inspiration.
"Let me just say that Jesus was understanding. He never pressed his views on others, and he believed in freedom and equality for everyone."
The comment went over beautifully. Everyone was impressed and, more than likely, relieved at my response. There was clearly no need to talk about these kinds of uncomfortable topics ever again. The administration had inferred from my answer that I was neither insane, racist, or Republican. What else needed to be discussed? All the principal asked me upon leaving was to brush up on the school's proud advocacy of social justice issues. He said that it was the cornerstone of the school's special mission. It's been a part of my teaching philosophy ever since.
Coffee means a lot to me. I've been drinking it since...well, since before I can remember. When I was in school, I would sometimes down six or seven cups a night. Looking back, I know the stuff I was drinking was just swill--Maxwell House or some other garbage. But in those days, it was just about making it through, staying awake long enough to get the job done.
Things have changed since then. Now, I know how to differentiate between the four essential components of coffee tasting and, with confidence, can steer unsophisticated customers away from an unexpected sip of highly acidic brew. I know all the ins and outs. The Yin and the Yang. You might say I'm the f..king Java Zen Master. For example, just the other day, I helped someone pick out the French Press brewer that was most appropriate to their needs. Talk about a close call. Before I caught his eye, the poor shmuck was ogling some cheap drip model.
But I'm not just a retail troubleshooter. I've also been known to give out some pretty useful information to the people who know how to ask right. Need some help selecting a roast that is full-bodied and smooth, one with a rich, yet intriguing flavor? No sweat. Will that piece of chocolate pound cake taste good with a cup of Sumatra? You betcha. I've got all the bases covered. Still, people come in sometimes and try to ask me trick questions. They want to see me slip because they're tired of being intimidated. They want to return to their safe, happy-go-lucky world of Folgers Crystals and non-dairy creamers, where there aren't any more tough decisions. They want me to admit that all this gourmet coffee stuff is bullshit. Wimps. Getting to the inner circle ain't no joy ride. You've got to become a connoiseur. But they come early in the morning on weekends anyway, because they figure that their only chance is to catch me when I'm groggy. Fat chance. These bozos can try all they want. It won't change a thing. Come hell or high water, I know the score and, even on my worst day, I can tell the difference between the Ethiopian Harrar and the Panamanian La Florentine.
But I'm the last of a dying breed, a bright morning star fallen from heaven. There aren't many of us real aficionados left in the world. These days, people will eat or drink just about anything without thinking twice. People get hungry. They scarf down some Chicken McNuggets. Their throat gets a little parched, they reach for that six pack of Zimas. I won't even bring up cigarettes. Since all the bad tobacco press, its like people are smoking Camel Lights just to earn sympathy points from the trial lawyers. I think it's pretty ironic. We live in the richest country in the world, and all we can get around here is Styrofoam packaged crap. It all makes me want to puke. There's nothing to believe in anymore. No standards. One day in the faculty room at school, I shared this feeling with some crazy fundamentalist I work with. I knew I had made a mistake as soon as the words left my mouth. She told me that she was surprised to hear that kind of statement coming from a religion teacher.
"Jesus is the answer," she told me. "He is the foundation we rest on, if only we let him into our hearts."
I nodded politely in response and gave her a smarmy half grin, but I think she was waiting for me to go into holy convulsions or something. So, I quickly thanked her for her advice and got the hell out of there. Jesus the answer? Maybe a long time ago, sweetheart. But I heard God's supposed to be dead now. And I haven't seen anything in the world to convince me otherwise. Besides, when's the last time belief's gotten anybody anywhere. Never. No, I don't think I've ever believed in anything...except maybe a good fillet mignon cooked medium rare and a double shot of espresso.
There. You made me say it--my barista creed. I'm not ashamed though. It's gotten me through some pretty rough times. Besides, I've never met anyone who believed in anything else quite as much. Yeah, they're always people like my Pentecostal friend in the faculty room who are constantly slinging the name of Jesus around. But they're kidding themselves really. They don't believe in the Son of God, or the incarnation, or the resurrection of the dead, or any of that other weird crap that people stopped trying to understand a hundred years ago. They believe in the feelings they get when some preacher tells them that they're saved and that the rest of us poor slobs are getting the axe. I guess that's okay if that floats their boat.
Me, though...I've never given much credence to feelings. You can't trust them. Plus, I've found that people can and will get worked up about just anything. I once saw this nut job I used to room with in college get all teary eyed at a Michelin tire commercial because they used this cute little baby in it. He said it reminded him of his kid brother when he was younger. I kicked him out shortly afterwards. I haven't talked to the guy since. Somebody told me recently that he moved out of state somewhere. I bet he made the journey on a set of four brand new Michelin tires.
Now coffee is something different altogether. Something real. It doesn't change with your mood or the weather. It's there when you wake up in the morning and when you're shaking off sleep at night. It burns your tongue when you're careless. It's a holy relic. Manna from heaven. This is the gospel I've come to proclaim to you. These are the tenants of the new religion. Forget all that other garbage you were fed in church. I am the foul-mouthed prophet and the sh.t kicking priest. I am the voice in the desert, saying woe unto you who use burnt coffee grounds and unclean filters. You will not escape the bitter mouthful to come--the f..king gall and the goddamned wormwood.