called, so I took our morning bakery delivery, ground the coffee beans fresh, brewed up our morning selections, and filled the airpots. Finally, I calibrated the espresso machine, pulling the first oh-so-satisfying shots of the day.
As the caffeine kick-started my heart, I heard the banging of pots and peeked through the swinging kitchen doors. Chef Tad Hopkins had entered the building, through the door to the back alley—like our unwanted visitor last night.
Next on my to-do list: have that thing permanently bricked shut!
It was highly unusual for Tad to come in this early, but I didn’t have a chance to quiz him. A gentle knock on the front door heralded the simultaneous arrival of two of my part-time baristas—Kimberly and Freddie, fresh-faced undergrads from nearby Georgetown University. As I unlocked the door for them, our first morning customers came in on their heels. Then the morning crush was on.
The volume was much heavier than normal for a Friday, including a seemingly endless stream of police officers.
“What’s with all the cops?” Freddie wondered after the two-hour tsunami of blue uniforms.
“I don’t know,” Kim said. “Ms. Cosi, do you have any idea?”
Unfortunately, I did.
The memory of Officer Tom Landry’s reaction to my coffee came back to me ( “Liked it? I’m in love . . .” ), along with his promise to spread theword—and his midnight pass, prompted by the misguided assumption that I was hot to jump his bones.
“Uh, no idea,” I lied.
“Well, they seem to like it an awful lot,” Kim said.
Her tone wasn’t altogether happy. Though I’d trained her and Freddie personally, they were still fledgling baristas, and they had a difficult time keeping up with the morning’s demand.
The constant crowd of cops attracted attention, and before we knew it, commuters and tourists were curious to try the coffee, too.
If business increased any more, I would be forced to add staff to the morning shift— experienced staff, which was nearly impossible to come by.
But, hey, increased business was good news. And by the time the AM crowd was ensconced in their government offices and university classrooms, I was feeling optimistic about the future.
The feeling didn’t last.
During the lull before lunch rush, I heard a tap-tap-tapping behind me—no, not tiny footsteps, but the tink of Chef Hopkins’s thumb rings rattling against his smartphone.
Exhibiting impressive dexterity, he filled a personalized World’s Greatest Chef mug while simultaneously typing a text message. I noticed he’d chosen our most expensive offering in the process—the creamy-textured Sulawesi, which Matt (our coffee hunter) had sourced from the very old coffee trees of Indonesia’s Toraja region.
I should have ignored the tinking and tapping. But since we worked together, I thought a civil greeting was common courtesy.
Friendly. Casual. Respectful. That’s my motto.
“Good morning, Tad.”
He snorted. “It kills you to address me as Chef , doesn’t it?”
Oh, brother.
“Don’t be defensive,” I countered. “You don’t hear me address Kimberly as barista , or our evening bartender, Tito, as sommelier , even though he’s worked as one. And I’m certainly not Master Roaster Clare . We’re all equals here.”
Still thumbing his smartphone, the chef shook his blond head. “You must be exhausted.”
“Excuse me?”
“Managing all this egalitarianism has to be really wearisome. And you do look tired . . . Clare .”
“Your insult is duly noted. But I’m not put off—and I remain determined to see some of Luther’s dishes on tomorrow night’s menu.”
The chef sighed and shook his head. “Up to now, Clare, you’ve coasted along on the reputation of a century-old brand name. But truly, you’re no more than hired help. You had nothing to do with starting the Village Blend, because you know nothing about starting a business from the ground up. Now you want me to cook to the tune
As the caffeine kick-started my heart, I heard the banging of pots and peeked through the swinging kitchen doors. Chef Tad Hopkins had entered the building, through the door to the back alley—like our unwanted visitor last night.
Next on my to-do list: have that thing permanently bricked shut!
It was highly unusual for Tad to come in this early, but I didn’t have a chance to quiz him. A gentle knock on the front door heralded the simultaneous arrival of two of my part-time baristas—Kimberly and Freddie, fresh-faced undergrads from nearby Georgetown University. As I unlocked the door for them, our first morning customers came in on their heels. Then the morning crush was on.
The volume was much heavier than normal for a Friday, including a seemingly endless stream of police officers.
“What’s with all the cops?” Freddie wondered after the two-hour tsunami of blue uniforms.
“I don’t know,” Kim said. “Ms. Cosi, do you have any idea?”
Unfortunately, I did.
The memory of Officer Tom Landry’s reaction to my coffee came back to me ( “Liked it? I’m in love . . .” ), along with his promise to spread theword—and his midnight pass, prompted by the misguided assumption that I was hot to jump his bones.
“Uh, no idea,” I lied.
“Well, they seem to like it an awful lot,” Kim said.
Her tone wasn’t altogether happy. Though I’d trained her and Freddie personally, they were still fledgling baristas, and they had a difficult time keeping up with the morning’s demand.
The constant crowd of cops attracted attention, and before we knew it, commuters and tourists were curious to try the coffee, too.
If business increased any more, I would be forced to add staff to the morning shift— experienced staff, which was nearly impossible to come by.
But, hey, increased business was good news. And by the time the AM crowd was ensconced in their government offices and university classrooms, I was feeling optimistic about the future.
The feeling didn’t last.
During the lull before lunch rush, I heard a tap-tap-tapping behind me—no, not tiny footsteps, but the tink of Chef Hopkins’s thumb rings rattling against his smartphone.
Exhibiting impressive dexterity, he filled a personalized World’s Greatest Chef mug while simultaneously typing a text message. I noticed he’d chosen our most expensive offering in the process—the creamy-textured Sulawesi, which Matt (our coffee hunter) had sourced from the very old coffee trees of Indonesia’s Toraja region.
I should have ignored the tinking and tapping. But since we worked together, I thought a civil greeting was common courtesy.
Friendly. Casual. Respectful. That’s my motto.
“Good morning, Tad.”
He snorted. “It kills you to address me as Chef , doesn’t it?”
Oh, brother.
“Don’t be defensive,” I countered. “You don’t hear me address Kimberly as barista , or our evening bartender, Tito, as sommelier , even though he’s worked as one. And I’m certainly not Master Roaster Clare . We’re all equals here.”
Still thumbing his smartphone, the chef shook his blond head. “You must be exhausted.”
“Excuse me?”
“Managing all this egalitarianism has to be really wearisome. And you do look tired . . . Clare .”
“Your insult is duly noted. But I’m not put off—and I remain determined to see some of Luther’s dishes on tomorrow night’s menu.”
The chef sighed and shook his head. “Up to now, Clare, you’ve coasted along on the reputation of a century-old brand name. But truly, you’re no more than hired help. You had nothing to do with starting the Village Blend, because you know nothing about starting a business from the ground up. Now you want me to cook to the tune
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