Page 8 of The Hampton Beach Café
“You know, it’s funny how people do that,” she said, surprising herself.
Lowering the takeaway cup with its pretty red flower pattern without taking a sip, she made eye contact with Vincent. He looked confused, so she continued.
“Whether it’s a casual conversation like this or a business deal of huge proportions, where I’m from almost always makes an appearance––the size of it, I mean. You know, I’ve had people reject my professional advice because they found out I’m just a small-town girl––their words, not mine––and just as many billionaires skip over the formalities of an interview and treat me like a long-lost friend just because they came from a different small town.”
Vincent looked bemused but nodded. “Humans are constantly looking for connections, and ways to make themselves superior to those around them, or at least feel that they are.”
That made a certain amount of sense, but it was still annoying, Frances reasoned silently. She nodded as Vincent went on.
“The owner, here, for example? Really nice lady ninth-nine percent of the time…” he said, “…but when it comes time to pay rent––cash only because she hates Internet banking––she always makes an aside about being my boss. ‘The boss is here, time to pay’ or ‘rent time for boss lady.’ It’s remarkably grating.”
Frances found that she couldn’t control the laughter she felt bubbling up inside and blurted out, “Rent time for boss lady!?”
Vincent laughed, too. “I wish I was kidding. I won’t have to put up with it much longer. I can’t really afford this place. Getting my own spot would be grand, but…well, that’s even more money. I dropped a bit on the coffee stuff to try and get people in, but I’m not great with it.”
The coffee smelled strong, which Frances liked, but there was something off about it, too, as she took a sip from the cup. She regretted the sip almost instantly, doing her best to conceal the look on her face that she knew was twisting into disgust. The coffee was so incredibly burned.
“I’m sorry,” Vincent said. “Don’t feel you have to drink it. And no charge.”
Oh, blast, she obviously hadn’t succeeded.
“No…no, it’s fine,” she said, smiling tightly.
Vincent shook his head. “I know it’s not. I really am no good with this thing.”
He was gesturing to the espresso machine.
“You got hired as a barista, but you can’t make coffee?”
“I barely even drink it, and I’m not a barista––I’m the artist. The coffee cart was intended as a secondary draw for people walking past, but I’m afraid it just makes them regret buying things from me…”
As she realized her assumption had been so wrong about this man, Frances balked.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask.”
“It’s alright. There’s nothing wrong with being a barista,” he said. “There’s something wrong with the way I do it, but I think that’s more a lack of skill than anything else.”
Frances bit the inside of her lip, she didn’t want to overstep…was this one of those situations where she should keep her knowledge to herself? She was so bad at telling the difference. People didn’t always want to be told how to do something properly, and men often took even greater offense than women. She eyed Vincent. He didn’t seem like the sort to be rude or condescending…
“I’m a bit of a coffee person,” she said. “You obviously know how to work the machine, but would you like to know some tricks to make a, uh, smoother espresso? And I can teach you how to steam the milk without, well…”
She pointed to the milk jug that had scorched milk the color of butterscotch clinging to the sides. The breath she held in anticipation eased out as his face lit up instead of contracted.
“Oh, for real? Yeah! Definitely!”
SIX
Frances stepped behind the coffee cart and took stock of the situation.
“Well, first of all, you’re overfilling the basket…” she said, pointing at the gleaming silver want, “…that means that you’re compressing it too much to fit it in the machine. You should get a measured grounds dispenser…”
“Is that what this is?” Vincent asked, retreating to a stack of boxes and withdrawing one labeled 12-gram Dose Press.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly one of those––the amount of coffee you use is called a dose. So load your beans in there, and it will grind it, then press the next lever, and it will put the right amount of grinds in. I feel like that one will also tamp it down with the right amount of pressure.”
She had manually measured out one of her own into a clean basket and inserted it into the machine.
“Look here. You want to notice the color of the extraction rather than the time it’s taken to get there.”
