Barista in Training

My emerald apron is fastened around my waist.  My hands are freshly washed with soap one hundred degree water.  The gallon of whole milk in front of me remains unopened as the espresso machine hums, sending a vibration through my fingertips and up to my neck.  I shiver away the sensation and come to the task in front of me.  

The hot breath of my supervisor is just close enough to fluster the fly-aways that escape from beneath my regulation head-ware.  “Are you ready?” She breaths.

I echo her breath.  “Yes,” I reply, feigning condfidence.

”Make me a grande cappuccino with an extra shot.”  I can feel her staring at my shaking hands. I clench them shut and the blood starts flowing again.

Okay, grande cappuccino.  Grande has two shots but she wants and extra so that’s three.  I punch the button to dispense the espresso. Once I hear the beans begin to grind I come back to my process.  Foam the milk for three to five seconds. No—that’s for a latte. Is it, six to eight seconds? Yes.

My shots have finished and I have yet to pour my milk.  I haphazardly splash milk into the pitcher, in my haste, clearing past both the grande and venti-indicated lines.  I place the steaming wand deep in the pitcher, pull the lever. A screeching noise pierces my ears.

I look to my supervisor but she gives no indication of how to cease the noise.  I tried to recall what the peppy barista in the video had said. Pull shots, measure milk, don't let the wand touch the bottom, aerate for six to eights seconds.  Right, pull down till you hear a paper tearing sound.

I pull down my pitcher, a little too far, apparently; lukewarm sprinkles splashed onto my hand, my once-pristine apron, even a bit on my shoes.  I yelped a little in surprise and lifted the pitcher to stop the splashing. Ah, there’s that paper tearing sound. I’m doing it!

I didn’t do it.  Within seconds, frothy, foamy milk was spilling over onto my hands and onto the counter, well before it reached its proper temperature.  Still no suggestion of what to do from my supervisor.  

I poured the long-expires shots into a medium-sized cup, topped it with a layer of separating milk and foam and hesitantly capped it before handing it over to my supervisor who now stood with a smug look on her face.  

“Alright, now tell me what you did wrong?”  She took the cup in her hand, seeming to test its weight.



”I think it would be better for my self esteem if I told you what I did right.”  She wasn’t amused.

”Try it again,” she said over her shoulder as she dumped my failure down the drain.