An apology to one customer in particular

For your pain and suffering (and one horrendous latte)

Beyond the glass wall encasing the pastry case, I see a blue blob approaching. A human, assumedly. A customer, likely.

“Hi!” My voice unintentionally pitches up, hitting a tinny register that is wholly out of my usual range. I wave. The cafe entrance is a solid fifteen feet away from where I’m standing at the Square terminal, further hidden by the barrier of glass encircling the donuts. At this distance, I’m lucky if they even see the tips of my fingers twiddling above the pastry case.

Simultaneously, I’ve already committed the offense of leaving the cafe music volume far too low. A mere whisper of Beach House wafts from the speakers, only serving to emphasize the wet squeak of the approaching blob’s sneakers as they cross the abyss between us.

The blob—curtesy of frosting-smudged glass—materializes into a person (and a confirmed human). They seem a little uncertain, likely waiting for the typical how are you that customarily follows one’s approach to the register.

That’s how it usually works, right?

There’s a sense of security in the reciprocal how do you do’s that precede a coffee order.

I’m far too nervous to offer them that security though. What they don’t know is that my coworker went on lunch ten minutes earlier and I haven’t been trained on steamed milk yet. Meaning that if they order anything beyond a drip coffee or something iced, I’ll have to drag my shift lead back from their half-finished burrito.

It’s only my second week. In my mind, I haven’t earned the social capital to feel comfortable doing that yet.

“Hi.” I say again. For some reason.

“Hi,” they return, “I’ll… I’ll have a small latte.”

“Hot or iced?”

Please be iced, please be iced.

“Hot.”

In that moment, I make a split decision. I will make their drink. Protocol aside, I will be brave and add hot steam to their milk, allowing my coworker to finish their lunch undisturbed.

I mean, I’ve been allowed to make my own shift drinks, I’ve watched my fair share of YouTube milk steaming tutorials, how hard could it be?

Sidebar: It is generally more difficult to steam a small amount of milk than it is a large one. The aeration and heating process happens at a much quicker rate and you’re working within the confines of a much smaller pitcher.

I approach the machine with a small pitcher of whole milk and the blind confidence of a freshman barista. While I submerge the steam wand tip into the liquid and begin to turn the activation dial, there’s a moment where I wonder if maybe, just maybe I should go get help.

Nope, I’m too far along in the process now.

As I open the steam wand to full power, three things that happen in quick succession.

1. A terrible screeching noise sounds.

2. The milk erupts, suddenly forced out of the pitcher by improper wand placement and way too much steam.

3. A not insignificant amount of half-frothed milk splatters across the front of my apron.

My customer—perhaps I should now call them my victim—looks up from their phone.

“Sorry about that!” I manage, “The steam wand has been giving us some issues.”

It’s a hilariously ill-conceived cover. I don’t think they believe me.

Shamefully, I wipe as much milk as I can off my front and refill my pitcher. More carefully this time, I place the pitcher and open the steam wand a little bit.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my customer take a subtle step back, fully exiting the potential splash zone. Beet red and sticky with dairy, I manage to add an… amount of air to the milk and quickly dump it into the waiting espresso shot.

I know enough to be ashamed of the bubbly, lukewarm beverage I’ve made but I don’t have the customer service chops to navigate the situation I’ve created for myself.

“Here’s your small latte.” I put a lid on the drink and push it weakly across the counter.

It’s a bad latte. I know it. They know it. Should they choose to leave a well-deserved review about it online, soon my boss will know it too.

They take their drink and I never see them again.

Yet, seven years later, I still think about them. And I’d like to offer the most sincerest of apologies for making you a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad drink.

If you’re out there, dear customer-in-blue-who-ordered-a-small-hot-latte-in-Corvallis-seven-years-ago, I’m quite sorry and if I could refund you that $4 charge, I would.