The Cafe

OMG I just finished my first day working as a barista. In Italy.  There’s a new café – well ,new since I was here last summer – and it’s run by a super cool lady from Turin. For one thing, it’s chic and feels very “Parisian,” which is so different from everything else here, which feels outdated by 50 years. Seriously, half of the stores and cafes are stuck in a time warp. It’s like being in the movie, “Back in Time” and stepping into my parent’s era.  The other half is cool, hip and modern. Is quiet a dichotomy.  So, in our tiny town, where, previously there was one café (outdated by half a century but which sells excellent homemade chocolate, gelato and cafes), there are now two more “hip” cafes. 

I’ve wandered into The Cafe several times a week and began chatting with Christina, the manager. Actually, I wasn’t quite sure who she was – manager, barista, owner.  In my limited Italian I was able to piece together bits – she had moved here from Turin but still has a house there. She is living in a room in the B and B nearby (why move here from the city to live in a B and B?) She used to work in the fashion industry.  Apparently her husband is in Turin.  The other day I asked her who is the owner of the café and she explained that she owns it with the guy who owns the B and B (an intimidatingly confident, chic guy).  She went on to explain that she works from 7:30am till past midnight and needs some help but can’t get anyone to do a morning shift.  Somehow, between my bad Italian, and desire to cultivate a friendship, by the end of our chat I had agreed to open up the café for her Tuesday morning. 

I love The Cafe.  It’s done up like an old time general store in shades of sage and lavender.  She’s always got jazz music playing. It’s a soothing place to be and I’m desperate for some soothing after the mayhem of the mornings with kiddos.  This year is the first time Petite is off to school with no problem. For some reason, here, she happily gets up, dressed and hops on the school bus. No anxiety!  Meanwhile, Bambina is fretful when she goes to sleep and wakes up in anxious anticipation of school.  Her stomach is upset, getting dressed is a chore.  Then I have to get her into the car, distract her with chatter, get her out of the car at school.  She vomits in the parking lot.  Is almost hysterical with anxiety by the time we get to school. I drop her off and then want to vomit myself because I feel like an awful mom for sending her somewhere that upsets her so.

On the other hand, last week she did say that she had made three friends and she was singing songs.  I know it’s a safe place, with circle time and songs, and tiny toilets and experienced teachers. I also know that she is shy and anxious in new places and acutely aware that she doesn’t speak the language. 

So, after chatting with Christina in my bad Italian, I left the café, realizing that I had just agreed to open up for her at 7:30 am, work a convection oven that I had no idea how to turn on and serve up coffees for local Italians when I didn’t even know how to make a cappuchino at home.  Clay is a coffee snob and has owned a series of espresso makers, none of which I can work.  The most recent is a fancy $1500 gadget that we drove four hours last summer to pick up from the vendor, in order to use it at the Villa.  For some reason, it is now in our kitchen in Bossolasco.  Clay has showed me countless times how to use it. Even Petite knows how to make an espresso, but my technical block seems to extend to espresso machines (I swear it is attached to the math gene – I can’t do numbers to save my life) and I still can’t make the simplest espresso.  Much less steam milk.  I realized, after I left The Cafe, that I should probably explain to Christina that the reason I come for a cappuchino every morning is because I can’t figure out how to make one at home and so I am probably not the best candidate to serve up morning coffees to her local clientele.  I hoped that I would at least be able to heat up the croissants.  I mean, they’re frozen, how hard can it be? They just need warming up.

When I told Clay what I had agreed to he said, “She knows you can’t cook right? Or make coffees?”

I didn’t sleep at all the night before my barista foray.  I tossed and turned and sweated with anxiety.  What if she hadn’t left me the key in the flowerpot? What if I can’t manage to turn the oven on? What if I can’t steam the milk?  I secretly prayed that no one would show up.  Maybe I could put off opening the shop and deter customers from coming in.  But the whole point was I wanted to help Christina.  So she wouldn’t have to race back from Turin at 7am. 

I woke before dawn and tiptoed around our house, showering and dressing, praying the girls wouldn’t wake. Mostly because Bambina would then cling to me crying.  I took my bundle of nerves and drove them to The Cafe.  Christina had left the key, as promised.  I let myself in but didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t want anyone to think I was actually open.  I went down to the kitchen and turned on the lights. Now for the oven.  Christina had explained it the other day but the knob kept catching and I never had successfully turned it on. I hoped it would work today.  I stared at the buttons and tried to remember, was I supposed to turn the knob and then push the button or push and turn the knob at the same time?  Well, I would just try both ways and see what happened.  I turned and pushed, then pushed and turned. Then I tried turning all the knobs and pushing the button.  Try as I might, I couldn’t for the life of me get the damn flame to light.  Good lord, this shouldn’t be so hard.  I looked at the time.  It was now 7:30 and I was supposed to open at 8.  I could stand here and hope that I manage to get the oven lit or I could run the frozen goods home and bake them up there.  We only live a few minutes away so I tossed the bag into the car and raced home.  Clay and the girls were still asleep.  I prodded Clay’s shoulder. “Clay! Don’t mean to bother you but I can’t get the oven working. Can I leave these for you to heat up and drop them off at the café on your way to school?”

He woke with a start, “Huh? What time is it? What are you doing here?” He nodded at the bright blue bag of frozen brioche I was waving over his head,  “OK, turn the oven on and I’ll take care of it.”

I gave him a thankful peck on the cheek and tiptoed out of the house, raced back to the café, half fearful that Stefanie’s partner might pop over to the café to check up on me.  Damn, I was so afraid of getting this wrong. 

There are lots of things I can do: climb a mountain, pull anchor on a sailboat, slalom water ski, make a DSM diagnosis, replace a toilet and speak French. But making coffee is not one of them.  I know that in Clay’s world of chic boutique coffee, the skill of making a coffee is an art.  Clay’s siblings and their significant others have all trained as baristas. They go through a serious training of milk steaming, creating foam, getting the exact temperature right and even making designs on the coffees, “café art”.  Meanwhile I don’t even know how to turn the machine on.  I hope she left the machine on?  With beans and water in it? And there must be milk in the fridge right?  Honestly, what made me agree to make coffees for the morning? 

One of the main components of café life in Italy is the conversation factor.  Far from Starbucks, people come in as much for a chat and a catch up as they do for the coffee.  Baristas are very much like bartenders or hairdressers used to be – a person and place for people to catch up with local gossip, share their woes, have a chat and connections without going to a therapist.

I did enjoy being in the place by myself. It was kind of like playing “café”.  Maybe no one would come in and I could just pretend to run the place until Christina showed up.  Or maybe everyone would only want espresso.  That mostly involved pressing a button to grind the coffee, stamping it and letting it drip into the cup.  However, I was still never sure how much to fill the cup.  But as long as I could avoid foaming or steaming milk, I would be ok.  Who was I kidding? It’s morning and Italians drink milky coffees ONLY in the morning.  The best I could hope for was limited business.  Maybe no one would come by this early.  It’s not exactly like we are in a Metropolitan area. 

OK, brioche is with Clay; I will just cross my fingers that the coffees come out right, tables set with napkins and sugars.  Now for the music.  The music is one of the most endearing qualities of The Cafe.  The soft jazz music gives it a hip quality that no one else has.  For some reason, cafes in Italy tend to blast loud, rock music with lots of radio commentary.   Hanging out in this space with the music playing is one of the things I like best and I couldn’t wait to turn the music on.  OK, she had told me to open up the computer and just click on one of the little icons that look like music.   She would leave me the Wi-Fi code in case the computer was locked.  I opened up the computer and looked for the code.  I looked next to the cash register, under the computer. I even searched the drawer.  No code.  Damn.  I did not want to call Christina at 7:30 am. I wanted to show that I could do this and give her a hand. Not need to be held by the hand.  But I knew that we needed music. I contemplated calling the B and B to ask for the Wi-Fi code but wasn’t confident that I would be able to explain who I am and what I am doing here and why I need a code.  Plus, I sure didn’t want anyone coming to check up on me.  I was still hoping that no one would come in.  In the end I texted her and when she called to give me the Wi-Fi code, inadvertently mentioned that I couldn’t work the oven but not to worry because the brioche were safely heating up at home with Clay.  I assured her all was under control (without letting on that I was secretly hoping we had no customers) and not to rush here.

I punched in the code and clicked on the Jazz radio icon, pleased that I was able to manage this on my own, and waited for the music to come on.  The icon showed that it was playing on the computer but there was no sound.  I pressed and clicked on every button that might possibly have to do with audio.  I checked the speakers. I went upstairs and double-checked the speaker connections.  How the hell to get the sound on?  Argh. First the oven and now the damn audio.  How hard can this be? I thought making coffees would be the tough part!

At 8am I had all the lights on, opened the door and was secretly praying no one would come in.  A young man walked in, and ordered an espresso, clearly expecting to see Christina.  Phew, I can handle espresso. Espresso is easy.  I explained that she is coming later and I am filling in and….since he is obviously a regular or a friend of hers, does he have any idea how to turn on the music? He pointed to volume knob on the stereo system under the bar. Ah ha, I smiled my thanks, feeling like an absolute idiot.

As he was leaving, two ladies (who looked vaguely familiar but that’s what happens in a small town.  I’m never sure whether I recognize someone as a school mum or from the pharmacy or the mini store).  They were chatting together so at least I was saved from making conversation.

“Una marochino e una latte caldo con cacoa.”

What?  I can manage espressos and keep my fingers crossed for cappuchinos but Marochino – a layered concoction of chocolate, milk, espresso and foam (one chef friend explained that the beverage must actually show the layers or dark and white)- is the biggest challenge. And for my first order?

I struggled with the steamer, managing to come up with a pitcher of warm milk but no foam.  I tried to neatly line the cup with the liquid chocolate, but it dripped and slopped, looking like it had been dumped in the cup.  Too late I realized that I was supposed to pour the milk in before the espresso, so that instead of a layered black and white artistic beverage, I ended up creating a slop of mocha colored liquid, which I hesitantly placed on the counter. 

I turned to the second lady, “Latte caldo?”  I wanted to make sure that I heard right.  Did she really just want a glass of hot milk? I forget that while we like large coffees in America, the Italians take their coffees in small doses and only drink milk with breakfast.  I’m used to only seeing children drink glasses of milk in the USA but here, adults often have a large glass of milk for breakfast. 

I was just trying to work out which of the many different bar glasses was appropriate for warm milk when she pulled a glass out of her bag and handed it to me.  Was I supposed to use this?   Relieved that this drink didn’t call for foam or worse, foam art, I filled the glass with warm milk, sprinkled cocoa on it and returned it to her on a tiny plate.  She handed me back the plate, asked for a spoon (which I had forgotten because why would I give a spoon with milk?), paid and took her glass to go.  Ah ha. I guess that’s the “take away” option here. 

Lady number one was finishing her marochino (while I tried not to wince at the awful concoction I had clearly created).  I made an attempt at conversation, asking her about the Zumba class I had overheard them talking about.  Five minutes later, I had information on evening aerobics classes (which I desperately need although frankly by 9pm, after I’ve finally got the kids to sleep, I just want to crawl into bed), had successfully completed my first two sales and one conversation.  Phew! 

I was just washing up the glasses when I saw a tractor pull over on the side of the road and thought “no way that person is headed in here?”  Having lived in Boston, NYC, Paris and San Francisco, I’m still getting used to living in a place where tractors and three wheelers are common transport.  I busied myself behind the counter and the farmer from the tractor sidled up to the café and ordered a cappuchino.  Oh no, more steamed milk. 

I smiled and explained that this is my first day and then turned my attention towards the steamer.  Again, I managed to make what resembled a milky coffee, no foam, and placed it in front of him apologetically.  I recognized him as the farmer we see drive up and down the villa road on his tractor, often with his wife and two children.  For years, we have been waving back and forth but I have never officially met him.  “Where do you live?” I asked hesitantly.  “Bonvicino” he replied.  I managed to explain that I also live there.  Now he recognized me as the lady who drives the black Saab.  We had never officially met but according to this man (we never actually officially introduced ourselves) Clay resembles a well-known Italian singer. 

After he had paid and left I had a moment to myself.  I attempted another cappuchino (still unable to create foam) and loaded the dishwasher.  I was feeling quite proud of myself and enjoyed being in the café.  I glanced at the clock. It was almost 9am.  Where were Clay and the croissants? Several people had asked for brioche and I was getting anxious that Stefanie would arrive before the baked goods.  Just then, Clay ran in with a bowl of warm croissants, “I could only get half of them baked. The others are still in our oven, undercook1ed.” 

Croissants are one of the delicacies I miss from Paris, along with cheese and bread.  For some reason the bread here is generally awful.  They don’t use salt and for some reason unknown to me no one makes good bread or seems to care.  The breakfast croissants are all frozen.  They must all be purchased from some singular vendor since they are exactly the same in every café: plain, chocolate or marmalade croissants that come frozen and are heated in the café.  Truly awful but people still devour them.  Clay arrived with the plate of hot croissants.

Just as I was putting them on a plate, Christina rushed in, “Come va Tamar?”  She asked anxiously.  I was a bit disappointed to see her, as I had been enjoying running the café on my own (despite my inability to get along with the milk steamer or the oven).  I guess I had hoped to prove myself to her. What for? To prove that I can be a barista? And also to give her a break because I truly like her.  Perhaps what I wanted was to be recognized for doing something other than catering to children, satisfying their needs and fielding their complaints.  Lately I have felt beaten down by what feels like endless cooking for kids who don’t want to eat and then complain that they are hungry, picking up toys, clothes, doing laundry and other thankless tasks.  Maybe I just wanted to do something that, at least if it wasn’t appreciated, would not be complained about. Or have someone hanging on me whining and miserable.  I mean, if I’m going to be cleaning a kitchen anyway, I would rather do it in a cool place with jazz music than at home. 

“Tutto bene,” I replied, as I place the steaming croissants on the counter, “No problem,” I smiled.  I could get used to this place.