On What Grounds

“Hi, Tuck,” I called over the crowd. “Need a hand?”

“Clare! Thank the lord you’re back!”

Tucker Burton was my afternoon barista. A gay thirtysomething actor and playwright, he’d been born in Louisiana to Elma Tucker, a single mother with a few Hollywood screen credits who had returned to her home state claiming her only son was the illegitimate offspring of Richard Burton. Thus, upon turning twenty-one, Tucker moved to New York City and legally changed his name from Elmer Tucker to Tucker Burton.

Maybe it was his Southern roots, but when especially agitated, Tucker seemed to take on the inflections of a revival tent preacher. He was also tall enough for me to see his mop of light brown hair and angular face over the bevy of bodies lined up three deep at the blue marble counter.

“Clare is here and we are saved! Hal-le-lujah!”

This was the lunchtime crowd from the offices located a few blocks away on Hudson: Assets Bank workers, Satay & Satay Ad execs, and Berk and Lee Publishing people. The neighborhood regulars were here, too, and I exhaled with relief.

Who knew what sort of rumor hit the streets at the sight of an ambulance in front of the Blend—botulism could not be ruled out. Bacteria-laden half-and-half or salmonella in the cream cheese strudel.

Now that the police had allowed us to reopen, I was overjoyed our customers had not flocked elsewhere. It was a satisfying affirmation that the Blend served the best damn cup in town.

“Can I get my latte this decade!”

“Clare Cosi!” Tucker shouted. “Will you get your blessed booty back here and help me!”

“Coming, Tuck! Excuse me, excuse me!” I snaked through the bodies, slipped around the counter, and tied on a white chef’s apron.

“Take over the register,” I told him. The register position took the order, collected the money, and poured the regularly brewed coffees into our paper cups with the Blend signature stamp.

I took over the barista position. This division of labor made perfect sense. While Tuck was competent enough at making the Italian coffee drinks, I was better at pulling shots and less flustered under pressure. Besides, as a stage actor, Tuck was a pro at working a crowd.

“All right, people! Line it up! Work with me, work with me! Make a queue, for lord’s sake! C.C.’s back and she’s gonna make magic!”

Espressos are the basis of most Italian coffee drinks. The dealer who’d sold Madame this gleaming, low-slung machine claimed a good barista could pull 240 shots every sixty minutes, but speed wasn’t the objective because an espresso made in under thirty seconds was merde (excuse my French). So no matter how many customers screamed to be served faster, I wasn’t about to sacrifice quality.

“Clare, got that cappuccino?”

“Working!”

Freshly drawn shot of espresso, fill rest of cup with one part steamed milk, one part frothed milk.

“Latte!”

Freshly drawn espresso, fill rest of cup with steamed milk, top with a thin crown of frothed milk.

“Mochaccino!”

Pour two ounces chocolate syrup into the bottom of the cup, add one ounce shot of espresso, fill with steamed milk, stir once around lifting from the bottom to bring the syrup up, top with whipped cream, lightly sprinkle with sweetened ground cocoa and curls of shaved chocolate.

Sure, it looked easy from the other side of the counter. But how many of those demanding gourmet coffee palettes knew there were over forty variables that affected the quality of their espresso alone? Forty ways to mess up the perfect cup, including machine cleanliness, ground coffee portion, particle size distribution, porosity of caked grounds, cake shape, cake moisture, water quality, water pressure, water temperature, extraction time, and, oh, about thirty others.

Just last year the industry issued a report saying only approximately five percent of coffee bars in America operated their machines properly. Only five percent gave their customers a true espresso experience.

I was appalled, but not entirely surprised. Take “Perk Up!,” the rival coffeehouse that went into business across the street from the Blend a few years back then swiftly went out again the very same year, and for a very good reason—they bragged about making their espressos in record time, seven seconds.

Now most people in the food and beverage service business would agree that speed in making your product and getting it into the customer’s hands is usually a lucrative idea, but here’s the problem: To produce a quality espresso, you’ve got to have nearly boiling water at pressures of eight to ten bars. Creating hot water at these pressures is the basic function of an espresso machine. Unfortunately, at these high pressures, water can be forced through the ground coffee too quickly if the barista does not make sure that the coffee is ground fine enough or the grounds are packed tightly enough into the filter-holder cup.

If the grounds are too coarsely milled or too loosely packed, coffee practically gushes out of the portafilter spouts. This rapid process extracts only the soluble components of ground coffee, making it brewed coffee, not espresso.

Thus are standards lowered, and as Madame says, when we lower our standards, we lose our soul—not to mention our returning customer base.

When I make an espresso, I slow down the extraction process by using a finer grind and a very packed filter-holder cup. That way the espresso oozes out of the portafilter like warm honey (as it should) instead of gushing out like water. When it oozes out, you know that oils have been extracted from ground coffee and not just the soluble components as in brewed coffee.

A quality espresso should consist entirely of rich, reddish-brown crema as it flows easily out of the portafilter spout. Crema, or coffee foam, is the single most important thing to look for in a well-made espresso. It tells you the oils in ground coffee have been extracted and suspended in the liquid—the thing that makes espresso, espresso.

“Got that mocha?”

“Got it!”

“XXX!”

Triple espresso.

“Skinny hazelnut cap with wings!”

Cappuccino with skim milk, hazelnut syrup, and extra foam.

“Caffé Caramella!”

Latte with caramel syrup, topped with sweetened whipped cream and a drizzle of warm caramel topping.

“Caffé Kiss-Kiss!”

Otherwise known on our menu as Raspberry-Mocha Bocci. One of my favorite dessert drinks. “Got it!”

“Americano!”

Also known as a Caffé Americano. An espresso diluted with hot water.

“Grande skinny!”

Twenty-ounce latte with skim milk.

“Double tall cap, get the lead out!”

Sixteen-ounce cappuccino with decaf.

Decaf.

A shudder ran through me as I glanced up and saw the wane, pale, overanxious face of the man ordering the decaf.

Okay, I’m sorry, but decaf drinkers annoy me.

Expectant mothers I can understand, but lifelong decaf drinkers give me the creeps. They’re usually the sort who have a half-dozen imagined allergies, eat macrobiotic patties, and pop Rolaids like M&Ms when their acid reflux kicks in from anxiety over the Chinese restaurant’s delivering white instead of brown rice.

Look, I’m not saying anyone should overdo ingesting caffeine, but let’s face it, researchers have already declared too much water is a bad thing. So overdoing anything isn’t a particularly good idea. All I’m saying is that I find it difficult to believe the bedtime story that true “health” completely hinges on the number of milligrams of salt not consumed, always and forever ordering bernnaise on the side, and—god forbid—ever letting yourself enjoy a warm, satisfying beverage in the natural state it’s been