Chai Latte

Is tea all they had, here? Heaving a sigh, Jules stifled her longing for a nice cup of joe as she sifted through the boxes of assorted teas.

Her cousin Samantha had invited her to England for the winter holidays, to a cozy cabin nestled in a lovely town surrounded by snow-capped mountains and pine trees. What she’d forgotten to mention (more likely Jules had been too occupied studying for her organic chemistry final to pay attention) was that there would be a congregation of Samantha’s friends, classmates, acquaintances, work-buddies, and friends-of-friends, all sharing the rather considerable house. 

Most of the housemates were from various places in Europe. Being from the American East Coast, Jules felt like only one out of the loop. At least, that was her excuse. Truthfully, titrating hydrochloric acid came more naturally to her than conversation. And although it was winter break, thoughts of her microbiology research proposal floated around in her mind, alongside the need to apply to internships for her final semester. Hence, she’d woken up early, knowing she would find little time to herself between sledding, pub-hopping, snowball fighting, and watching ridiculous movies while drowning in hot chocolate. 

Yes, there was plenty of cocoa. And there was no coffee. 

Lamenting the scant diversity of tropical beans in the kitchen cupboards, Jules studied the tea boxes. Lavender, chamomile, peppermint, ginger, hibiscus, lemongrass. No, herbal tea would not do. Butterfly pea flower… what on Earth was butterfly pea flower?

Jules grumbled at the presence of such an inconspicuous flavor, yet no coffee beans. Even instant coffee would have sufficed.

She wondered when Samantha began collecting teas for a living.

Earl gray—not bad. Green tea—not enough caffeine to match Jules’ raging dependence. The taste did not strike her fancy either, although she refused mostly out of principle. People who drank green tea liked to shove their natural energy in the face of coffee-addicted weaklings. She refused to be a part of it. Oolong? No. Black tea? She wasn't opposed. The milk tea at the Thai café she frequented back home was a guilty pleasure of hers. But it would not cure the pain of early morning brain fog as well as her favorite ebony tincture. 

Jules succumbed, grabbing the box that claimed to provide long-time energy and clarity. The copywriters neglected to mention the darkening of molars, but Jules was being petty because coffee shared the same attribute. She considered using the kettle, but time was ticking, and a microwave was available. Filling a mug with tap water, she placed it in the turntable and pressed the button.

As the loud hum filled the kitchen, a tall form ducked into the kitchen.

Oh no, anyone but him. It could have been chatterbox economics major Martha. Or coding freelancer Darius, whose thumb was married to his phone screen till death did them part. Or even Samantha's acquaintance, Nadine, (from that one art history class) who had colorful braids and a tattooed neck that Jules secretly admired but would never have the nerve to attempt. Alas, it had to be him: the friend-of-a-friend who'd flown in from his parents’ second mansion in France, a fact he couldn't stop talking about. Or rather, his friend couldn't stop talking about it. He didn't speak too much, but when he did, he sounded pretentious, and his nose was always in the air. Perhaps, he'd once had ill-fitting glasses that forced him to always lift his nose up to avoid them slipping and forgot to rid the habit. That happened to Jules once. She now had a perfect pair of fitted glasses that unfortunately (or fortunately) had a thick frame on either side, preventing her from completely seeing him in her periphery.

"Morning," he croaked with his early morning voice.

"Oh, er, you too," Jules returned with an equal rasp. She hadn't expected him to say anything.

The microwave beeped. An internal battle immobilized Jules. She hesitated between jumping to shut off the incessant sound before it drilled into her ears or readying herself to squeeze past the young man. Luckily, he seemed to calculate her next steps. He glided out of the way, closer to the counter upon which the jumble of tea boxes lay.

Jules opened the microwave, lifting the mug. Rather, she attempted to so until the hot handle seared her fingers. She hissed, hoping he didn't hear her. Pulling her sleeve down over her hand and grabbing the mug, she zoomed over to the counter, where, to her great displeasure, he still hovered. He was surveying the boxes of tea. Beneath fine brows, he squinted at the butterfly one in his hand, before placing it back in the cupboard.

Swallowing, Jules slid two sachets of black tea from their box, ripping the first open.

After debating with herself, she couldn't help but squeak, "Sorry about the mess."

He froze, surprised by her words. He might not have wanted any disturbance this morning. Well, Jules didn't want to talk to him anyway. Further regret bubbled within her when his gaze slid over to her ministrations. She dipped the first tea bag into the hot water, the rust color seeping throughout the liquid. Why she didn't rip and dip both bags of dried leaves was a mystery to her. She required caffeine. Or the winter break was atrophying her brain. 

"Not at all," he finally muttered, the words cut like a fine cheese or the delicate carvings of a luxury chair. He eyed her darkening hot water. "Jules, I presume?" 

He could remember her name? A miracle. You presume correct, sir. Even his diction was high-class. The realization soon turned to shame, because his name completely slipped her mind. Jules reached over to the jar of sugar against the wall while she replied, "Yep! And you are...?" 

"Adrian." His eyes drifted to her hands as she procured a teaspoon and dumped in one, two, three spoonfuls of sugar into her mug. Jules fought a grimace. Was her tea-taking practice too barbaric for a man whose family had a second mansion in France? 

Well, if they were to share the kitchen, he would have to deal.

Finally snapping his eyes away, he—Adrian—began foraging through the cupboard. What with his height and all, he had the privilege of being able to see its contents. Meanwhile, Jules had only felt around the cluttered space on tiptoes, knocking all the tea boxes down in the process, before giving up. His hand emerged with a glass jar of dried black leaves. Setting it on the counter, he opened a few drawers and rummaged.

Jules stared at him while opening the fridge to get the almond milk. The aftertaste would be far too bitter for her to handle without it. It was nothing like the pleasure of acidic black coffee searing down her esophagus. Good thing Samantha remembered that Jules was lactose-intolerant. In retrospect, though, there may have been at least one vegan in the house. 

What she didn't understand was why Adrian seemed to be rearranging the spice drawers. He had taken out about seven different jars, of myriad shades of brown and tan and cream. He set them around the large jar of loose-leaf tea. The formation looked like a cult ceremony amongst the inanimate objects. Jules shut the fridge very slowly. Taking her time shuffling to the counter, she stole glances at Adrian as she loosened the carton's cap. Upon acquiring a saucepan, he was tossing in teaspoons of each jar's substance. Returning her gaze to her mug, Jules bit back a curse. She tipped the carton back, ceasing all pouring. She was an ounce away from lukewarm tea. Such an error would have dropped the drinking experience from tolerable to less-than-mediocre. Relieved to have avoided near brush with death (or rather, mediocrity), she put the almond milk back in the fridge. 

Adrian walked to the other side of the kitchen, near the dishes, to grab a large white purifier. He poured it into a measuring cup twice, then in the saucepan. Was filtered water that much better than tap water? Jules eyed him with a growing disrespect, one that eclipsed the admiration for such careful measuring. She, of course, left her passion for precision in the chemistry laboratories. 

Shutting the fridge, Jules finally decided her loitering had reached its limit. She seized her mug, but not before she caught a whiff of a delightful scent. Adrian stood stirring the saucepan over low heat, from which exuded the fragrant aroma of cinnamon and... was that clove? There was a hint of cardamom, too. It was only familiar because of her favorite mango cardamom lassi from mom-daughter dates to the Indian place by their apartment.

Gritting her teeth, Jules made her way to the island opposite him, sliding on a stool that faced his back. She didn't mean to have him in her direct vision. It just so happened to be where she'd place her ancient laptop and agenda before scouring the kitchen for coffee. She was not at all curious about the presumably better-made concoction he was producing. Unfortunately, the aroma was getting stronger. The smooth, robust smell seemed to sharpen her mind even before she could take a sip of her tea. She booted up her laptop, trying to focus on her to-do list and not the pleasant scent. 

Soon enough, above the edge of her laptop screen, her eyes caught Adrian moving back to the counter. In the gap under his raised elbows, she could see him pouring the contents of the saucepan into a large glass cup topped with a strainer. Jules rolled her eyes. All this for a morning tea? How inefficient. Not to mention he'd disregarded the variety of boxed tea flavors to instead create such an indulgent mixture. And would he drink all that tea? Ridiculous, if you asked her. It must have been a trait of the privileged elite. Jules could imagine such an upbringing creating a thirst for opulence in all areas. A sense of pride about her humble beginnings sparked in her chest. Jules was sensible. And currently wasting a lot of time. Returning to her work, she wondered if it was too early to begin her research proposal for Dr. Fullbright.

She took a sip of her tea. Grimacing at the wan flavor, she downed more. It could be an... acquired taste.

The sound of the fridge popping open caught her attention. Adrian emerged with the carton of almond milk. Was he lactose-intolerant, too? Vegan? Couldn't stand common cow's milk? Was he on a diet? He did look like he modeled in his free time, for some agency in France. 

Back at the stove, he poured the milk into the measuring cup first, then the saucepan. Taking two steps to the right, he fumbled through another drawer, before pulling out a long metal utensil. He returned to the saucepan, stirred. The device was electric, making a muted whirring sound. After about a minute, he turned on the burner. The sound continued for another thirty, dreadful seconds. Jules suspected he was making a show of his unparalleled culinary capabilities. How long can one suffer using the stove over the microwave for such a small task if not for external validation?

Jules took another great gulp from her mug. She hoped it kicked in soon to relieve her growing headache. There were still a couple more hours before the rest of the housemates awoke to further divide her precious attention. Adrian was almost done anyway, busy putting together the final product. With her limited view, she saw part of a mug before him under the crook of his arm. He poured the deep amber liquid from the pitcher into it. Next, steamed almond milk cascaded down. Dollops of foam followed, trickling behind the liquid, and he delivered a generous amount atop the mug. It all looked like a commercial for a high-end tea franchise. Not finished yet, he picked up a plastic bottle of store-bought cinnamon. (Was it not beneath his station? Jules was sure he would only ever buy cinnamon sticks, grinding them up himself). For a final touch, he shook a balanced spattering of it across the white foam. 

Jules had wasted enough time on paltry bitterness. Making academic decisions was a much better use of her judgment. Not analyzing the morning habits of a young, rich friend-of-a-friend-of-her-cousin, no matter how ostentatious they were. Back to her email, she caught up on the few departmental announcements. She scratched a note into her agenda about an upcoming medical research summit. 

Footsteps creeping closer shattered her newfound focus. A shadow fell over her. A mug landed with a light tap beside her laptop. Eyes wide with horror, Jules peeked up as Adrian sat right across from her, an identical mug before him. The angular planes of his warm-toned skin were in full view. Only one mug had been in her line of vision moments ago. Did he really make another for her? She searched his olive-green eyes, wondering if she was mistaken.

"Is this...for me?" She gestured to the steaming mug. 

Except for a slight reddening of his ears, Adrian's expression seemed devoid of emotion. He nodded, curving his lips into something between a flat line and a smile. He was, Jules realized, painfully awkward. "Chai latte. I figured it might taste a bit more enjoyable and loose-leaf black tea carries much more flavor than teabags."

Jules blinked. "And...much more caffeine, I hope?" she said in a small voice.

Adrian smiled, revealing a dimple. "Yes." He grasped his mug, eyes flickering her own as if he was anxious for her to try it.

Sliding the offending thing closer, she lifted it up to her lips, taking a sip. Earthy sweetness and pungent spices flooded her tastebuds, dancing together in a heady festival. The decadent cacophony of flavors made her poor rendition of a tea pale in comparison. It reminded her of August warmth at dusk and felt like a hug that embraced her very core. Her lashes fluttered as she savored it, forgetting her black tea at once. Even the almond milk tasted more full-bodied and nutty, the creamy foam that felt like velvet on her tongue.

"What’s in this?”

"Cinnamon, cardamom, clove, black peppercorn, a hint of vanilla extract, a bit of anise, nutmeg..." He ticked off the ingredients on his fingers. "For some reason, the cupboard has everything but chai. Otherwise, it wouldn't have taken me so long."

"Everything but chai and coffee," Jules shook her head. "And the light sweetness?" 

"Brown sugar."

Jules shook her head, and the next words that tumbled out made her want to pinch herself. “Do rich families often demand a study of the intricate methodologies of tea-making?"

“No. I worked at a coffee shop for some time.”

Silence pressed around her. Jules finally responded with an, "Oh." 

Horrid guilt burned her insides. 

He continued, brushing off her rude remark. "It was hard at first. I was better at iced teas and cold brews, but after many tries, I finally mastered the chai latte, from scratch. Of course, it helped that I visited my grandparents in India one summer. I mean, I know a chai latte is not the same as traditional chai—and did you know saying chai tea is quite redundant...?" He rambled.

Jules couldn't help a chuckle. 

"Sorry. There's a reason I don't speak much. See, I...I'm studying law, specializing in medical ethics. So when Samantha told me you were studying medicine in America, I wanted to introduce myself but… I'm not very good at it. Jerome often takes it upon himself to do that for me."

Jules could see that. His friend—Jerome—did most of the speaking for him. Whenever Adrian did have the chance to say anything, it seemed to lack essential context. Once he did realize his social faux-pas, he appeared to be bursting to explain but never had time. She was beginning to understand how one could misunderstand him. Good thing she wasn't quick to judge.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Adrian. I...have to admit, I didn't really…” 

Think much of you? A lie. 

Think well of you? Not the best way to start off on the right foot. 

“...Expect you to do something so kind. Thank you…for the chai tea latte. It’s delightful.”

"Chai latte.” He was teasing her, this she knew.

Jules swallowed a wince of embarrassment and slight annoyance along with her next sip. With a wry smile, she said, "Right. How redundant of me."