Grinding the Bean: The Adventurous Life of a Barista  

 

 by Bruce Saunders, copyright © 2002

 

Dedicated to the professionals of Starbucks # 7744, and inspired by glimpses into their work day.

 

It was high noon when he walked in through the doors like some primeval hero out of a Louis L’Amour western.  The buzzing of many quiet and philosophically rich discussions hushed as the yuppies, all members of that secretive and selective society of coffee aficionados, turned as one body and watched him enter.  These were people who lived on the edge of normal society.  Each had a story to tell, and a reason to have dropped out of the hustle and bustle of normal suburban life, and sought refuge in this oasis of caffeine-rich nourishment.   All looked at him, but not one dared look him in the eye. He was dressed in the characteristic clothing of a barista – a corduroy shepherd’s jacket, khaki pants and a soft, velvety black sateen shirt. Honest, but not fancy clothing that spoke of his deeply-rooted work ethic, and his hard-earned and well-defended status as a working class hero. Without saying a word, he strode to the bar, shrugged off the jacket and donned his Sherwood green apron.  It flapped around his legs, whipping in the breeze from the drive-in window.  His hands shook a bit, the sure sign of too many hours spent without caffeine. 

 

Miss Jen, head honcho of the place, was already at the bar and greeted him with a friendly open smile.  He merely grunted.  His colleagues watched and waited.  What an assemblage of people!  Was it mere random coincidence that they were all brought together for this time, or was there some eternal purpose at work?  There was Anna, fresh from the open countryside, a strong woman. And Becca, back east from the harrowing adventures of life in the frontier Alaskan coffee bars.  Quiet Elly was there too, her eyes open and taking in every movement in the store.  “Doc” Wendell, one of the most steadfast baristas in the territory, polished the machinery with an air of competence.   Could there be a more accomplished team of cool professionals?

 

Our man looked around, studying, watching, and sensing that something was going to be different today.  Like a wolf senses prey at a distance, his nostrils trembled, then widened, seeking the scent of hot java.  Slowly, with eyes narrowed, he turned to the source of the aromatic esters of the coffee beans, and spied the French Press.  Purposefully, he crossed the open space in two strides of his skinny legs, and poured himself a quick shot of Ethiopia Sidamo.  Throwing his head back, he swallowed the strong mix in one gulp, and then slammed the paper sampling cup down on the counter, crushing it like a grape in the steely press of his strongly muscled hand. As the caffeine hit his veins like a jolt of wild lightning hitting a lone mesquite tree on the darkening range, the trembling ceased – he regained that steadfast purposefulness of one who was re-entering that familiar groove of high performance, economy of action and quiet confidence of the professional barista.  Like riding a bicycle, or the practiced movements of the professional gunfighter, the almost instinctive training brought about by hours of dedicated practice began to take over.  It’s something that once in you, cannot be forgotten.

 

Almost as if responding to some unknown signal, the pace of the store quickened.  The clamoring of shattered nerves for the soothing influence, even the forgetfulness brought on by massive doses of caffeine and carbohydrates rose in fevered pitch.  The restless crowds surged around in the lobby, like the raging tides of the Bay of Fundy breaking upon craggy shores.  The movement of the masses generated its own momentum, and some would even say it brought forth winds that explored every nook and cranny of this high-ceilinged temple of discretionary spending.  Over by the drive-in window, the pressure increased.  Robert focused intently as the orders came through the headset in a staccato cacophony of sound reflecting the ethnic, social and taste bud diversity of the population outside.  Beads of sweat began to form on Robert’s furrowed brow, even in that windswept place of frigid arctic blasts.   Like the controllers working the airspace around O'Hare on a busy day, the ability to track the different orders shouted and relayed around the busy workspace required intense concentration and almost super-human feats of lightning fast decisions.  So much of civilization hinges upon the ability to connect consumers and caffeine in a correct and efficient manner in the midst of chaos and confusion.  

 

Suddenly, a cry rose out as one of the barista’s blacked out and lost track of the situation.  It was the moment each barista secretly dreads, the terrifying nightmare that lurked below the consciousness, like a viper ready to strike - did the customer want decaf or high test?  One or two shots?  Venti or Tall?  Was there even a request for just plain water?  What is real, and what is imagination?  What is truth and what is fiction? Why did all the sounds blend together in one wordless crescendo of sound, where words became indistinguishable and all sense of order disappeared?  Plenty of seasoned veterans of the caffeine scene have succumbed to the pressure, and some remain institutionalized even now.  It was a moment of crisis, a turning point for many – how would they respond?  The wounded barista slumped to the floor, eyes blinking like he was gut shot, moaning like the cries of those lost in the winter storms of the Great Lakes – an eerie, keening cry rising from deep within. 

 

Miss Jen, the graceful and stately yet hard-as-steel veteran, responded quickly.  Her face took on that sharp purposefulness that is seldom seen outside of mortal combat.  Total concentration was on her face as she zoned in on the emergency.  Things seemed to move in slow motion.  She looked intently at the wounded one, and shouted out to Becca to boil water.  She sent Elly after ten pounds of the boldest beans in stock.  Elspeth held the surging crowds back, waving a French bread baguette like a truncheon as the ghoulish masses closed in to get a glimpse of the human tragedy unfolding in their midst.  Anna joined her on the line, and together, they heaved several of the most aggressive of the oglers back onto the churning crowd of highly-caffeinated onlookers.  The situation was ugly – this could become a mob scene, something that would end up on NBC at eleven, perhaps even making the national news. 

 

 

Time seemed to move like molasses.  The water, so closely watched, seemed to take forever to boil.  Half of the inventory had to be moved in order to get to the boldest of beans stashed carefully away like the crown jewels, reserved for emergency use.  At the drive in window, a petite young soccer mom was framed by the windows of her huge black SUV like some character in a surrealist painting, her face a twisted mask of horror at the sight unfolding before her.  She mouthed a soundless scream.  Sirens wailed in the distance like banshees advancing on an embattled fortress.  In the distance lightning flashed as a huge storm began to build, ready to unleash it’s fury from the now lead-colored sky.  All things seemed to wait, poised in anticipation……

 

With great deliberation, and calm courage, our hero strode towards the grinder.  Taking a five-pound bag of beans in each hand, the sinewy 115-pounder stepped up to the yawning maw of the gleaming, turbo-charged industrial-strength metallic behemoth of a grinder.  With a mighty, explosive grunt he brought both hands together just as a mighty thunderclap rent the storm-tossed air.  The bags, meeting in the middle, with force reminiscent of the initial implosion of small tactical nuclear device, split and a cascade of beans swished down into the opening.  With a quick, but confident flip of one finger, the barista brought the machine to life.  Amidst the hellish clashing and grinding of the metallic teeth, ten pounds of the bold beans were reduced to a fine powder.  The many distinct beans were melded together into one uniform, yet intensified and transformed remnant of the former volume.  This was extreme mechanical distillation at its finest. 

 

Measuring carefully, and with many experienced eyes watching every subtle and purposeful movement, the lonely but heroic barista poured the powerful powder into a freshly prepared French Press.  For four minutes, all waited with bated breath as the brewing proceeded.  Soon, a strong black stream of liquid courage was coming forth.  The barista poured the mixture into a cup, and passed it to gentle Elly, who cradled the wounded barista’s head.  Jen took a coffee experience pamphlet, and expertly folded it into a fan.  She passed it to Elspeth, who gently wafted the thickly aromatic steam towards the whimpering partner.  It began to have its effect.  His eyes fluttered, and color returned to his ashen cheeks.  Gently, slowly, they tilted his head back and began to pour the dark elixir into him.  He trembled, he jerked, he snorted and shook.  He flexed his shoulders and wagged his head, coming forth from the stupor that had seemed to securely hold him in its deadly grasp.  When the fiery mixture hit his belly, he arose with a roar, like some dragon from the depths, like a gladiator rising from near defeat, like a prizefighter nearly down for the count, and shook off the clinging bonds of despair.  He stepped back to the drive in window, and with strength, confidence and concentration restored, quickly but firmly passed the grateful customer her Toffee Nut Latte with double shots and wintergreen flavor.  She drove off into the west as a rainbow blossomed over Frederick, and the evening shadows began to fall.

 

Then, from somewhere in the back, a single, tentative clap sounded.  Like the first drops of rain, the sound continued, and then swelled into a roar of shouting and cheering as the crowd fell back, in awe of this mighty legion of baristas, shift supervisors, and managers of various levels, a mighty team forged together like fine iron in the fires of adversity, and quenched to supreme strength in torrents of strong caffeine brewed in cool fresh mountain spring water.  The flint-eyed professionals quietly acknowledged the adoration of the masses with calm nods and an occasional slow-motion high-five.  There was a swagger to their steps, well-deserved and born of the self-confident awareness of their superb conditioning and precision teamwork. Our hero, wearied, yet grateful for the chance to perform wonders again this day, put aside his apron, shrugged into his shepherds jacket and headed for the door.  Another day is done, and life goes on, holding who knows what kind of adventures for the days ahead. Such is the life of the barista, a gladiator engaged at close range in the study of human drama in the midst of the arena of the great cosmic struggle to survive.