Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [40]
In light of recent events the thought of being Dumb’s manager was enough to make my stomach churn, but he said it with such exaggerated servitude that I ended up smiling instead. A moment later, I was leaning against a counter and Ed was concocting something inappropriately caffeinated for eight o’clock in the evening.
I couldn’t see his face clearly as he worked the espresso machine, so I didn’t speak. I just watched him go through the motions, banging out filters and grinding coffee and steaming milk and the other fifty-three steps needed to make a simple cup of coffee. I’d seen gourmet steaks cooked in less time.
While the golden-brown espresso oozed into a glass, Ed steamed a pitcher of milk. It said “whole milk” on the handle, but I had the feeling that objecting to this would be sacrilege to a barista, so I kept my mouth shut and watched him touch the side of the metal pitcher with his fingertips, waiting for it to reach the desired temperature. With the same precise timing that characterized his playing, the espresso stopped flowing at the same moment he shut off the steam, and he placed the glass before me with all the care of someone showing off a delicate antique. I was sure I was about to crack up laughing, but then he began pouring the milk, a steady flow at first, then a gentle shake of the wrist that traced a perfect white flower across the surface of the coffee. Suddenly I didn’t feel like laughing anymore.
“It’s . . . beautiful,” I said, not even bothering to disguise my admiration.
“Try it. It’s all about the flavor. The flower is just for show.”
I took a sip, the coffee mingling with foam so rich I would have sworn it was whipped cream. I met his eyes. “That’s amazing. Seriously. That’s the most amazing cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted. What did you do differently?”
Ed smiled. “Well, first off, I used whole milk. And yes, I saw you twitch when you read the handle of the pitcher. You’re not the only one whose peripheral vision works overtime.” Okay, now I was really impressed. “I also did not use any kind of flavoring—it’s coffee, not dessert. The other thing I did was to make sure the pour-time was a steady twenty-four seconds—”
“You’re losing me.”
“Oh. Yeah, maybe that’s more information than you need,” he said, his mouth crinkling at the corners.
“What’s it called, anyway?”
“It’s a cappuccino.”
“Hmm. Well, aren’t you a man of many talents, Ed Chen.” I have to admit the words felt deliciously flirty as I said them.
Ed turned slightly red, touched his thick hair nervously. I almost wanted to prolong the silence just to see how flustered I could make him, but that seemed unnecessarily cruel.
“How long have you been working here?”
“Since junior year,” he answered, relieved at the change of topic. “I’ve always been addicted to coffee, and I wanted to learn how to make it properly, so I asked the owner if she’d teach me to use the espresso machine in return for a few hours of dishwashing.”
“Seriously? What did she say?”
“She said sure, then paid me for my time and asked if I wanted to come back the next week. Now I close the shop and cash up on Thursdays.”
“Except when your boss stops by.”
“She never does.”
“I mean me,” I said with mock seriousness.
“Oh yeah, right.” Ed blushed again, a response so endearingly earnest that I wanted to hug him.
“Thanks for this, Ed. I really needed a pick-me-up.”
Suddenly he looked concerned. “Why? What’s up?”
I took another sip, then another. I wasn’t sure I wanted to rehash everything with him, but since he’d asked . . .
“Kallie wasn’t very pleased when I told her she had to stay in the band.”
Ed waited like there was more to come, then realized there wasn’t. “That’s not surprising, though, right?”
“I guess not. I just don’t know where the band is going right now.”
“I can understand that.”
I puffed out my cheeks, blew a steady stream of air in an attempt to purge my frustration. It didn’t work. “What am I missing, Ed?”
“Honestly?”
I nodded, which was stupid