I just pulled my first
shot of espresso at the new cafe at 15th between Chestnut and Market
Streets. We'll be doing a slow un-grand opening Saturday morning at 8
am. Until then, last minute tweaks are being made. The health inspector
came by today and made her rounds. I watched as Andrew the Handrewman
sanded down a rough edge, made measurements for extra metal linings, and
installed shelves in the kitchen/office (strangely, the same space).
Half of Andrew was Serbian, I learned. Coincidentally, I'd just read
that morning of Mladic's arrest, and so upon mentioning this breaking bit of news, I got to hear a personal account
of murder, nationlessness, religious schisms and the like in the south
Slavic region.
"Serbians are rednecks," said Andrew. I could thoroughly believe that. I thought of my Serbian co-worker's untamed nature, and rapt accounts of his hunting expeditions like the time he got *this* close to a litter of baby foxes. The other half of Andrew was Mexican, which showed up in his dark wavy hair and tanned skin. In fact, the only hint in his features of his European ancestry was the color of his eyes-- a clear sea green like the color of the ceramics that will be served at the soon-to-open Chicago location. I thought it would be marvelous if the walls of the Chicago shop-- with the ostensible reason of matching the ceramics-- were painted the color of his eyes, and I told him so.
"The only problem with the green," he returned, "is that the wood floors pick up on the color of the walls." That was when I first noticed the slight orange glow of the blonde wood floor of our new cafe. Wow...I wondered how many times our future customers would cross these floors and never pick up on this subtle detail. I certainly would not have. Details...I needed to get better at noticing them.
I watched Doug from New York make some masterful cappuccinos on the new Marzocco espresso machine. It was time to get my ass to New York to get some training from him. I've gotten too complacent about making drinks I think. There is a difference between good and excellent in drink-making. When people talk about you in the following fashion: "I've had great cappuccinos from other baristas, but there's something about the way you make it..."; when people can't quite put their finger on why yours is so amazing, but they just know it when they drink it; when the quality of your drink is so good that it is elusive, that's when you've reached excellence as a barista. Until then, one is still in training.
"I can't wait to pick out the Table where we're going to sit every morning drinking our coffee." That was Gus.
"'The table'?" I asked. "Ohhhh, the Table!"
It hadn't even occurred to me that the Table at the Rittenhouse cafe had been chosen. I'd never questioned how we had come to sit there every morning before opening, in the dark with only the kitchen light on, enjoying our cups of coffee and the last 15 minutes of peace before the onslaught. From my first morning shift, I'd always felt that those 15 minutes were the best part of the entire day. No matter how the day went, you were never going to reclaim the experience-- the same quiet, the same intimacy, and the same freshness felt from 6:45 to 7 am. By the time your shift ends, 6 hours later, you will feel like a completely different person-- ragged, spent, perhaps out of sync or angry at something or another, shirt stained with coffee, hair reeking of its aroma-- and that golden quarter hour will be as if it had never happened, as if it had been a lifetime away, even though it was only 6 hours ago.
"Yeah, don't choose the Table without me!" I reminded him as we parted ways, "I want to be there and help you choose!"
"Serbians are rednecks," said Andrew. I could thoroughly believe that. I thought of my Serbian co-worker's untamed nature, and rapt accounts of his hunting expeditions like the time he got *this* close to a litter of baby foxes. The other half of Andrew was Mexican, which showed up in his dark wavy hair and tanned skin. In fact, the only hint in his features of his European ancestry was the color of his eyes-- a clear sea green like the color of the ceramics that will be served at the soon-to-open Chicago location. I thought it would be marvelous if the walls of the Chicago shop-- with the ostensible reason of matching the ceramics-- were painted the color of his eyes, and I told him so.
"The only problem with the green," he returned, "is that the wood floors pick up on the color of the walls." That was when I first noticed the slight orange glow of the blonde wood floor of our new cafe. Wow...I wondered how many times our future customers would cross these floors and never pick up on this subtle detail. I certainly would not have. Details...I needed to get better at noticing them.
I watched Doug from New York make some masterful cappuccinos on the new Marzocco espresso machine. It was time to get my ass to New York to get some training from him. I've gotten too complacent about making drinks I think. There is a difference between good and excellent in drink-making. When people talk about you in the following fashion: "I've had great cappuccinos from other baristas, but there's something about the way you make it..."; when people can't quite put their finger on why yours is so amazing, but they just know it when they drink it; when the quality of your drink is so good that it is elusive, that's when you've reached excellence as a barista. Until then, one is still in training.
"I can't wait to pick out the Table where we're going to sit every morning drinking our coffee." That was Gus.
"'The table'?" I asked. "Ohhhh, the Table!"
It hadn't even occurred to me that the Table at the Rittenhouse cafe had been chosen. I'd never questioned how we had come to sit there every morning before opening, in the dark with only the kitchen light on, enjoying our cups of coffee and the last 15 minutes of peace before the onslaught. From my first morning shift, I'd always felt that those 15 minutes were the best part of the entire day. No matter how the day went, you were never going to reclaim the experience-- the same quiet, the same intimacy, and the same freshness felt from 6:45 to 7 am. By the time your shift ends, 6 hours later, you will feel like a completely different person-- ragged, spent, perhaps out of sync or angry at something or another, shirt stained with coffee, hair reeking of its aroma-- and that golden quarter hour will be as if it had never happened, as if it had been a lifetime away, even though it was only 6 hours ago.
"Yeah, don't choose the Table without me!" I reminded him as we parted ways, "I want to be there and help you choose!"
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