Coffee Memoir

I am not a coffee drinker.  I never have been.  Though I must say I do love the smell of coffee.  It is exhilarating.  They say that smell and taste are connected.  Without smell, you have no taste.  I’ve tested this.  It is one of the things I have tested and proven.  I’ve held my breath to take liquid medicine, tinctures, and Brussels sprouts.  It’s worked.  Every time. Not a taste.  I’ve used my sense of smell to taste the food that I am cooking.  I can tell what it will taste like, what it needs more of, and the exact moment a dish is ready (this I have down to an exact science, especially pertaining to a food that is warm—for some reason warmth heightens the sense of smell). 

I was, at one time, briefly, six months perhaps, a barista.  I made all sorts of coffees and espressos at a Starbucks.  I had wanted to be a bookseller, but they needed someone to man the machines at the adjoining café.  That’s where I came in.  I took the job.  Part-time. Minimum wage.  They promised me that I would get the chance to sell books as well.  I did, once or twice, no once (I imagined the other). I did so in my barista uniform.  Black, most everything black, that is apart from my shirt, which was white, and my apron, which was green.  Starbucks green.  During a slow lull at the café, I was called upon to help a customer.  Chubby, cheerful, blonde (the customer, not me).  She was looking for something in the travel section.  Where was she going?  What did she need it for?  How detailed did she want it?  Did she need a map or would a guide do?  Did she also need to brush up on the language?  An umbrella, perhaps?  I was glad I could help.

I was a quick learner.  And an excellent barista.  I was a favorite.  I was requested.  I was praised, by customers, not my supervisor, unless put on the spot of course.  No one wanted to be outdone by a subordinate let alone a non-coffee drinker.  Such is life.  I didn’t mind.  I had learned a new art and enjoyed the smell.  So much so that I attempted on more than one futile occasion to have another try.  It was always back to cold chocolate milk.  I never really liked the milk from there, though.  It was pulled out so often and was never quite cold enough.  I liked shockingly cold milk, personally.  So I’d add ice in it to keep it from going bad in case we had a rush of dependents, coffee junkies in suits and ties, workout uniforms, casual, or casual dress; all of them needing a taste of the good life our specialty drinks had to offer.  The tip jar filled.  I never saw a cent of it.  I did get used to watered down chocolate milk.

We served hot teas and iced tea as well.  I never did enjoy an iced tea.  As for hot tea, I’m a major fan of hot tea.  The darker the better.  Four teaspoons of sugar.  But NOT in a class mug, and that’s how we served them.  I could never stand the taste from a class.  Besides which, they were always made entirely too hot and by the time they became any sort of sip able, well, forget it.  Not for me.  I even tried some tea in the paper to go cups.  I’m just going to advise you right now to ix-nay that thought right out of your mind unless you like the taste of paper.  There’s something about tea that tends to take in the flavors of everything it meets.  Very finicky, tea is.

It was a day after a spicy lunch that I found myself parched and sleepy.  Oh so sleepy.  There was no soda.  That never really worked anyway (at the time I was into Sprite, but mostly water).  What to do?  I was about to fall asleep in the coffee grinds and wet spill towels.  Denise suggested at least trying some coffee again.  I told her that would just make me thirstier than I already was.  “Well it would wake you up.” “I can’t be thirsty while I work, I’ll go nuts!  And I’m totally parched.”  John said, “You like chocolate milk, don’t you?”  I said, “Yeah.”  “Have some chocolate milk and add some coffee to it to mask the flavor.”  I supposed it was worth a shot.  “Are you sure?” I asked.  “Yeah.”  I thought for a while.  I helped a few customers.  John presented me with a chocolate milk and coffee mix.  “Not too bad.”  “I added ice like you like it.”  “Thanks.” 

And so I became a semi-coffee drinker.  Most days I’d come in and make one.  By the time I got the mixture perfect, it was time to get married and so I had to quit.  My supervisor was mad.  I can’t say I missed it too much, I always had nightmares about varicose veins.  You know, how waitresses get them because they’re on their feet all day.  Apparently they’re ugly, the varicose, not the waitresses.  So I was saved from all that.  I was also saved from becoming an addicted semi-coffee drinker, which very well may have happened had I stayed on much longer.

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