For two years, I worked as a barista at my local cafe. Coffee meant nothing special to me when I first applied for the job. I pursued the position mostly because I liked the smell of espresso and pastries in the morning and the cozy, wooden interior of the cafe seemed like a lovely place to spend my weekends.
A cup of coffee is usually seen as a mundanity of life — a simple and routine beverage — but nothing special. To me, coffee was just a drink. It was warm, comforting and provided an energy rush when needed. I drank it often and enjoyed both the taste and effects of it, but until I began working at the cafe, I never realized the significance it held in the lives and routines of those around me.
I was one of the only baristas at the cafe when I first started, so I had to learn how to make coffee drinks quickly. On the slow evenings after school, I would practice steaming milk and making mediocre latte art until my fingers were red from the heat that emanated from the mugs.
My skills began to progress and the blobs of foam in the mugs eventually vaguely resembled hearts or swans. I started working in January when people almost exclusively ordered hot drinks and soup. It was the middle of winter, and the tiny, wooden counter I stood behind was always cold to the touch.
I started noticing the regulars that would come in every day. As I began to observe their daily rituals, I realized that coffee meant more to people than just warmth, taste or energy. It was a vital part of their everyday life.
Three older ladies ordered cortados and always asked for the newspaper. A rosy-cheeked old couple always ordered two medium cappuccinos, one with two percent and one with whole milk. Two old friends, Charlie and Alicia, sat on the porch every morning regardless of cold or rainy weather, one with a chai tea and the other with an almond milk latte.
People are seldom constant, which is what makes routine so significant. Though I couldn’t count on much in life, I knew every Saturday I would see Charlie and Alicia waving through the window as I unlocked the door, waiting for the warm beverage they knew was coming.
The longer I worked at the cafe, the more coffee began to lose its subtle mundanity in my own life, too. Instead of a job, my work became an art form and even a form of communication. When the three older ladies came in with sad eyes and a drag in their steps, I made their three cortados extra warm and sweet.
I saw relationships form and fall apart. I watched as older regulars slowly stopped coming as often. I watched a little boy stop requesting the crust to be cut off his sandwiches and begin ordering by himself at the register instead of having his father do it for him.
Working at the cafe was like walking into a tiny window of people’s lives and bringing them a little bit of joy in a mug.
It wasn’t just the customers that were worth watching. I formed some of the most tender, lifelong relationships through my love for coffee by meeting others who shared that passion. Three of the women I worked with became my best friends, and my boyfriend worked in the kitchen while I ran the espresso machine.
He’d make me a breakfast sandwich in the mornings, and we’d split it after the morning rush. Throughout the day, I would leave little coffee drinks by his workstation. These little gestures were not just to satisfy a need for caffeine or hunger. They were wordless exchanges of love and ways to say “I am thinking of you,” even in the busiest of environments.
Coffee is very customizable, which is what makes it so appealing to so many. The same beverage can taste differently when it belongs to two different people. This is why there is a certain intimacy in knowing someone’s coffee order; it’s almost like the exchange of a secret.
Coffee is a wordless language and an exchange of love and appreciation in our own little ways. It is a language in which, “I’ll get you a cup with two sugars and a splash of cream” really means “I know you.”
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