Coffee Shop Couture – A Review
Rachel, eat your heart out.
I find myself drawn to coffee shops. I’m not a coffee snob. So long as the coffee isn’t burnt or old, then I’ll generally enjoy it. My brother likes the “experimental” drinks, it started with cold brew and then nitro. He’s been my café partner for my entire life. We’ve discovered most of our favorite places together. Sometimes we disagree about which place is better, but that never matters for too long, because we tend to end up finding a new place that beats out the other two handedly.
In college, there were two coffee shops in town. One was a small family owned shop, the other was on the college campus. Both had their faults, but there was some buzz to walking to either of them, knowing the person behind the counter, and ordering your overpriced (and usually mediocre) coffee or tea.
Originally, three college students manned the shop on campus. My brother knew each of them personally, and I knew them by proxy. Our rapport was friendly, and they knew me by name and generally would charge me for a cheaper drink, so long as I tried whatever crazy flavor they concocted. The school, however, switched their dining service provider from Aramark to Sodexo. With it, two of the college students were let go from the “Eco Grounds” coffee shop, its name was changed to “Jazzman’s” and locals began managing that red counter.
While there is no chance they’ll read this blog, I’m changing their names for fairness’s sake. Sally was possibly the nicest woman I’ve ever met in my entire life. She knew my brother and I separately, and when she found out we were related she screamed at the top of her lungs. At first, Sally could not make a cup of coffee to save her life. Any drink that involved multiple steps was either drowned in milk or had too much syrup. So, I started drinking a Macha Latte at her request (it was syrup, not actual Macha, and she just had to pour the foamy milk to the little line on the outside of the cup).
One day I went behind the counter and actually helped her figure out her espresso machine, but I kept my order the same, partly because she would always have it ready for me before my 9am class, and partly because the flavor was starting to grow on me. Sally and I would talk about literature, her kid, and her plans to open her own business, which she thought, could maybe be a coffee shop. She was working on her masters in business, but she’d tell anyone “bet you didn’t expect that,” when she told you. From all accounts, she only presented herself as smart when she let her guard down, but she really was intelligent.
Out of all of the people working at Newberry, I miss a lot them. Mainly the professors and some people working in Residence Life. But my near daily interactions with Sally were consistently the highlight of my day. I miss you, Sally. And I truly hope you’re doing well, wherever you are.
The other local who managed the coffee shop (whose name is also changed) was Danielle. Danielle was what I would call fierce. She had massive acrylic nails, a deep hearty laugh, and a wit that could cut through the binding of a full collection of Shakespeare. Where my experience with Sally was one of motherly love and intellectual affection, my time with Danielle was a war of wits and harsh jokes.
She was always concerned with Jessica’s wellbeing and would frequently remind me to watch my smart mouth with her. It was all in good fun. Danielle broke the rules frequently. And she almost always gave me my drink for free. Her coffee skills were better than Sally’s at first, but Sally quickly surpassed her when she figured out the espresso machine. Sally eventually left Jazzman’s, we had a heartfelt goodbye. Leaving Danielle alone, meaning frequently the coffee shop would be closed if she had her own things to deal with.
Danielle also managed the school’s “Chik-Fil-A Express,” which was about 10 feet from the coffee shop. If anyone got in line for coffee she’d run from behind the Chik-Fil-A counter and boot up the register to take their order. After Sally left, service went downhill. Sometimes it’d take 2 minutes, sometimes it’d take 20. You never knew with Danielle. She’d frequently be talking to someone on speaker phone while making your drink and because of that she’d get the order wrong.
Danielle was plucky, but overwhelmed. It wasn’t her fault, she had a lot to manage and not a lot of time to do it. So, I did my best to be a good customer and a moment of respite whenever I braved ordering something from her. I always did my best to leave with a joke, just so she’d have a smile on her face.
It's what Sally was to me. Her leaving left me to take up that mantle and be it for Danielle.
Unfortunately, the foundations of me being positive were met with a turn of bad luck. As it was at this point that Jazzman’s hours changed. The coffee shop was now to open at 2pm. And it’d close at 5.
I started making coffee in my room after that.
I guess the reason I love coffee shops, is that to me, they feel alive. Each different café I frequent feels like an ecosystem onto itself. One that is impossibly reliant on outside forces bringing both business and energy. My local favorites have regulars that I recognize, a cast of baristas that slowly remember my face, and aesthetics that represent the ecology they curate. Every time I order an iced latte, or a macchiato, or just a cup of green tea. I do my best to take a second to take it all in. The sights, the smells, the ambient pop music from 8 years ago. I always find myself breathing a sigh of relief. This is a safe space. To work, to relax, to chat, and to just enjoy a nice warm beverage. Everyone in there has their own lives, their own stories, and their own deadlines, but for their time in the café, none of that seems to matter. It’s just peaceful and relatively quiet. Thank you, coffee shops.
