Due to recent circumstances at my local coffee-chain-that-shall-remain-nameless, I have stepped up to the plate to become the barista that can. The master barista that glides around the espresso station in an effortless flow of arms, milk, espresso and plastic lids. If you slow down the security tapes to half-speed, you can almost see my arms pump four squirts of mocha into the medium cup while simultaneously marking the cup with a script only decipherable to the most-trained super-barista.
Our manager has up and moved to NYC where people apparently are more willing to pay bigger bucks for his artwork. Another senior barista (who preceded me by only a few weeks) who would have taken the spot had to move back to Oregon for surgery on a cist near his spine. The 50-some-year-old employee who is a 7-year veteran of the company, was forever banned from the barista station for slapping the hand of a customer who reached into the station to get something.
So who is left? The guy hired nearly two months ago that is to be the center of the all that is the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain in our River North neighborhood. After a few days on stepping into the fray of employees at registers calling out drinks and customers gathering around like zombies waiting for another taste of blood, I am the sole Barista.
It is I who must use his innate attention to detail to magically make an iced, decaf, triple tall, sugar-free vanilla, two percent, extra hot latte appear out of thin air from behind the mechanized monster call the espresso machine. It is I who must battle the monster with my keen hearing and mutli-tasking ability to catch the scalding hot shots in labeled cups with syrup and other extras (even a freakin' packet of Sweet and Low) while finishing them off with the correct lid and cardboard sleeve (correctly labeled with the dreaded company logo). All the while never running out of steamed non-fat (not skim because skim could be confused with soy) or whole milk and never having the machine stop to have you empty out the spend espresso pucks, refill the espresso bean hoppers and never missing the next three drinks being called out by the company "partners" (as all employees are called in this communistic company).
And if by chance, I shall one day defeat this mighty monster, I can one day be called a shift supervisor (or if I can learn to swallow enough corporate BS) even Coffee Master (which is the communist term for asst. manager).
Friday, June 24, 2005
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Top __ Reasons you shouldn't have signed the lease on your apartment
10. A bald musician named Frank lives in your basement with a ten-piece drum set.
9. You have to go to that a neighborhood fruit stand to drop off your rent money.
8. Your landlord tells you that if he didn't like you, he'd have charged you three hundred dollars more for the place.
7. You realize your garden apartment actually was used as an interrogation room for the mob but the landlord added another window and a bathroom since those days.
6. The two squad cars and police sergeant who greeted you at your first viewing of the place now know you by name.
And I'm out of funny reasons so five is all you'll get.
9. You have to go to that a neighborhood fruit stand to drop off your rent money.
8. Your landlord tells you that if he didn't like you, he'd have charged you three hundred dollars more for the place.
7. You realize your garden apartment actually was used as an interrogation room for the mob but the landlord added another window and a bathroom since those days.
6. The two squad cars and police sergeant who greeted you at your first viewing of the place now know you by name.
And I'm out of funny reasons so five is all you'll get.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Moody Over Margaritas
"How many people have to kill themselves before Moody does something?"
A friend of mine posed this question not too long ago while she and another friend of mine joined me at an outdoor patio of a restaurant.
It was the first sunny day that dried up the April showers and began to usher in the May flowers. The breeze bustled through the patio and made me wonder how heavy the margarita glasses on our table were. They were holding their own so they must be heavy enough.
Each of us were halfway through our tequila and lime drinks when my friend (whom I hadn't talked with in over a year) asked, "Did you know Clark Stacy?" (See $%&*& $*#!)
It seemed that she had traveled to Europe one summer with a school trip. She got to know Clark well and took the above photograph while traveling over there.
All three of us knew Clark and all three of us knew depression. We vented about all our frustrations and then came the million dollar question I began with.
Is that too harsh? Too over-dramatic? Some could not even conceive of an institute that trains the next generation of Christian leaders as being responsible for the suicide of one of it's trainees. Yet some would cast the blame no where else.
We dialogued about frustrations over the loss of Clark, the culture of evangelicalism and our alma mater. It was an odd sort of therapy session that lasted for almost two hours. Even as the sun disappeared behind some buildings and the breeze brought back the all too familiar chill, we kept talking and chomping down on the guacamole and chips we ordered. All the other customers had retreated into the restaurant to warm up.
The chill outside reminded us that it was not yet the longed-for summer. We were inbetween seasons, having lived through the sunless winter and rainy spring but still waiting for the deliverance of summer. We were in an inbetween period where we had to persevere for the better that was to come.
My friend only lived about a block from the restaurant and invited us over to see her place. She mentioned earlier that a friend had given her an expensive bottle of tequila as a gift and that she didn't want to just open it to drink it alone. This seemed like a worthy occasion so she opened it.
"So what are we going to drink to?" she asked. "You're supposed to drink to something."
"How 'bout surviving?" I said.
"That sounds good," said my other friend.
"To surviving evangelicalism," she said.
We raised our shot glasses with a clink and let the warmth of the liquor remind of the coming summer.
A friend of mine posed this question not too long ago while she and another friend of mine joined me at an outdoor patio of a restaurant.
It was the first sunny day that dried up the April showers and began to usher in the May flowers. The breeze bustled through the patio and made me wonder how heavy the margarita glasses on our table were. They were holding their own so they must be heavy enough.
Each of us were halfway through our tequila and lime drinks when my friend (whom I hadn't talked with in over a year) asked, "Did you know Clark Stacy?" (See $%&*& $*#!)
It seemed that she had traveled to Europe one summer with a school trip. She got to know Clark well and took the above photograph while traveling over there.
All three of us knew Clark and all three of us knew depression. We vented about all our frustrations and then came the million dollar question I began with.
Is that too harsh? Too over-dramatic? Some could not even conceive of an institute that trains the next generation of Christian leaders as being responsible for the suicide of one of it's trainees. Yet some would cast the blame no where else.
We dialogued about frustrations over the loss of Clark, the culture of evangelicalism and our alma mater. It was an odd sort of therapy session that lasted for almost two hours. Even as the sun disappeared behind some buildings and the breeze brought back the all too familiar chill, we kept talking and chomping down on the guacamole and chips we ordered. All the other customers had retreated into the restaurant to warm up.
The chill outside reminded us that it was not yet the longed-for summer. We were inbetween seasons, having lived through the sunless winter and rainy spring but still waiting for the deliverance of summer. We were in an inbetween period where we had to persevere for the better that was to come.
My friend only lived about a block from the restaurant and invited us over to see her place. She mentioned earlier that a friend had given her an expensive bottle of tequila as a gift and that she didn't want to just open it to drink it alone. This seemed like a worthy occasion so she opened it.
"So what are we going to drink to?" she asked. "You're supposed to drink to something."
"How 'bout surviving?" I said.
"That sounds good," said my other friend.
"To surviving evangelicalism," she said.
We raised our shot glasses with a clink and let the warmth of the liquor remind of the coming summer.
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