The Coffee Shop

She leans over the coffee bean cabinet, 15 silvery chrome knobs, fastened to the plexiglass trap doors of each bin.  Lifting one for inspection, her eyes dip down into the chocolate brown beans, breathing aroma of the roasted mix.  Behind her back, fingertips pinch a white muffin bag and a black cell phone.  She’s ready to dip into the bag for a bite or push of the buttons to answer a call. 

In the corner the image of the roaster sits, no other piece of machinery has this indentity, a combination cement mixer, oven, turn table, all in one.  Out of the burlap bag marked Brazil, green beans are scooped into the coned top, sliding into the heating chamber for roasting.  Like a front end loaded washing machine, each bean tumbles to a deep roasted dark brown. Seconds before they're burnt the attendant lifts a large silver ball knob, then allows the baked beans to cascade onto a spinning round cooling table.   The fine edge where their  not done, to one too burnt, can be reached by the roaster handling the machine.  If he doesn’t use all of his senses and experience to get it right the finished product will be unacceptable.  Everything depends on his proficiency.

The flavor of the bean, the two rooms, the tables, the glass windows out the front, the individuals that sit, the girls who push the buttons on the cash register, the coffee pouring in the black and white ceramic cup sitting on the table next to me make it all different.  You don't find as many orders for drinks with five parts to describe what you get.  For me just Sumatra, Kenya, Brazil or other exotic locations are just fine for the cup next to me.

Everyone in this place has a reason to be here, they keep coming back, all the parts are good, attracting each individual to want to spend moments here, rather than any place else.