Barista

My first real crush was on my tennis coach John. I was eleven and even then I knew I liked older men. He drove a beat up Porsche, wore basketball shorts, and nicknamed me pornstar on the court. He made more money per hour than most of my dad's finance friends and he never graduated from highschool. He was my preteen rebellion love.
I practiced everyday and join the junior varsity tennis team to impress him. I wore matching socks and sweatbands to impress him. I served 76 miles per hour balls to impress him. I wanted him badly.
One day his girlfriend walked on the court wearing a full length mink coat. She was gorgeous with juicy red lips and big overdone hair. What did he see in this piece of trash? I aimed balls at her head as she would walk off the court. The more I hated her, the harder I played. Then one day I saw her kiss him and ran home to cry. Shortly after I dropped tennis altogether. He was my everything-- until New Kids on the Block came along.
I haven’t thought about him since until one day I was getting my first lesson as a barista at Fuel Coffee. Gabe, the grand master of ceremony was giving me a free lesson on the art of coffee. He was teaching me how to hold a grip of the XXX. “Curl your fingers around the bar and place your thumb here for control. The weight comes from the shoulder with a slightly bent, but not locked arms. Use your shoulder to give you leverage.” I give it a squeeze then slam. I think it was the way he stood behind me to teach me how to grip.
He was teaching me the mechanic to making the perfect cup, when I had a realization: I have no idea what a perfect would look or taste like. I wondered: at what point do I tell these guys I’m a tea person?
My first lesson was to learn the elements of a great espresso: Heat, pressure, and XXX. Fuel, like all aficionados, are a bit Nazi-ish about quality control. They let me go through 55 tries before getting the perfect cup. I used up a few cartons of milk to get the fluff just right.
Now I can understand this Nazi behaviour. I share the same degree of obessiveness when it comes to tea, and at the moment that is Taiwanese golden oolong.
He walks me through the lamborginis of espresso makers, the XXXX. Other than human skills, everything happens inside this machine to spit out a perfect cup of dark, aromatic espresso with a not-too-thin, not-too-thick crema on top. A quick and loud slurp with the teaspoon reveals flavours of caramon and peppercorns. The coffee beans they use is grown in XXXX, on a XXX year old estate near spice plants. And like a sauvignon grape, it takes on the flavours of its surrounding.
As I was practicing my new craft, I could imagine myself doing this. It’s a training trick. Picture yourself doing it, and then you can kick a ball 100 meters. I fantasized myself quitting my day job to work behind the coffee bar, where I greeted my customers with a hot brew before they even order it, where I would smell the intoxic aroma of roasted beans everyday, where I could play with the machines I’m now getting comfortable with.
It’s all in the speed of the pour (26 second in this case), the thickness and colour of the drip (a dark stream to a lite thick density), and the patting of the grounds (perfectly flat or else the water will take the path of least resistance and fuck up the whole cup.)

Here’s another thing I learnt—freshly roasted coffee is not a good thing. Coffee, according to these guys, should use used 5-12 days after roasting so the flavours have time to settle
To be a journalist is to bear witness, and I am watching a master at work, two taps, a pull, a wash, a dry, an adjustment, a grind, a stamp, a lock, a button, then magic. All done in the most stylish manner and sex appeal available with coffee grinds and a XXX stick. You can understand why someone would want to be him.

It’s all in the style. The style of the bang, the button, the pour makes the process look effortless. Even when Roger Federer is tripping over himself on a clay court, he looks like he is having sex doing it. Gabe says: it’s all a confidence game.

Milky drinks are most popular in Hong Kong, but it will be another three weeks before I can even touch milk as the training is intense. “But I can give you a short introduction,” he said. And as I was frothing my first jug of cold milk, angling it with my forearm rather than my wrist, the first of a series of exes comes for a visit.
Now this was by invitation. I had invited every guy I’ve ever gotten with in Hong Kong to come by for a cup on me. This is brought on by guilt for never having never offered them a cup of Joe, mostly because I didn’t know how. So one by one, I was finally able to make them a cup.