Finally got round to wachin the vidya of the Barista World Championship. Like anything else in this buisness, it has a high BS to useful content ratio. Still, it might be worth it to sift through the crap :
http://zacharyzachary.wordpress.com/2007/08/02/finalist-presentations/
Competing as a barista intrigues me, but mainly repulses me: lots of posturing, lots of BS; little to do with the real world and a lot to do with how well you perform on a stage. Still, interesting to watch...
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
ENOUGH ALREADY
Yes, this is my last day of work at the Roastery (sort of). I'm moving on--going to work as a state bureaucrat. You know, the sort of shiftless sponge, or perhaps leach, you curse when you're paying your taxes.
So...
Here's my final rant...
(maybe)
(probably not)
The sad truth is, most of you all are idiots. Especially Mick. And Andrew. Let's not forget the whole wine crew next door, especially Jenna and Joe. And my Starbucks readers--Sierra and Jeremiah. And my good friends, Matt and Herman, who continue to read this blog even though it is so obviously devoid of anything useful. Well, the list goes on, but I grow weary of sifting through it...
Ok, you've been great readers and customers. You put up with my wrants, you listen to my advice, you drink the drinks I force on you.
Thanks for everything.
-Larry
Yes, this is my last day of work at the Roastery (sort of). I'm moving on--going to work as a state bureaucrat. You know, the sort of shiftless sponge, or perhaps leach, you curse when you're paying your taxes.
So...
Here's my final rant...
(maybe)
(probably not)
The sad truth is, most of you all are idiots. Especially Mick. And Andrew. Let's not forget the whole wine crew next door, especially Jenna and Joe. And my Starbucks readers--Sierra and Jeremiah. And my good friends, Matt and Herman, who continue to read this blog even though it is so obviously devoid of anything useful. Well, the list goes on, but I grow weary of sifting through it...
Ok, you've been great readers and customers. You put up with my wrants, you listen to my advice, you drink the drinks I force on you.
Thanks for everything.
-Larry
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Who are these people and why are they in my coffee shop?
(A bit about different customer types.)
I've been thinking about some of the different types of customers, wondering, just what is it that drives them to them to such a sad state of deranged madness? Why do they get mad at me for charging $2 for ice tea? Why do they talk so much about being coffee connoisseurs, yet spend so much time adding sweet-n-low to their coffee? I will attempt to analyze these types, disecting them, exploring them, and yes, of course, mocking them.
The 50 year old male, obviously well off, who loudly complains about coffee prices and about how it's criminal to tip a barista: Well, there's not much to say after that title. This type is very common, and definitely my least favorite type to serve (not counting beligerently drunk and angry 47 year old women, but they're less common). Dude, you are obviously doing well in life--no shortage of money. Your Infiniti tells me that. Your clothes tell me that. So why are you so cheap? And why are you so mad and loud? Just be quiet and cheap. That's much less likely to get you beaten in some alley. Not by me. I'm just saying someone might...
The 40-something (pre-menopausal to menopausal) buisness woman: You are successful. You are pretty. And you are mean. You are pretty mean. And you only drink grande nonfat lattes. They are always called "grande," even when you are at a store that deliberately doesn't call them "grande." They should always be called "grande," just like they do at your favorite Starbucks. You will quench all attempts at humor with an icy stare. When you leave, my only thought is, "Your poor, poor husband."
The fake nice (male or female): Who knows what you really think? Clearly you are insincere in your compliments, which you lay on by the dozen. Your facade crumbles though, if things don't go your way. What, the store is out of your favorite cookie?! You get a pissy look in your eyes and your mouth wrinkles up before you regain your composure, and put that fake smile back on. You are an enigma. And I can't quite shake the lingering fear that you are going to walk into the shop with a loaded gun someday--Psycho Killer psuedo nice guy.
The awed customer: You have a look of awe in your face whenever I'm working on the espresso machine. When I hand you a drink with a rosetta on top, you can barely speak. Stop it. You are scaring me. I know me: I'm not impressed; You shouldn't be either. Or maybe you're really just the psuedo-nice guy described above, only you're pulling it off much, much better. Either way, you are freaking me out.
...
(A bit about different customer types.)
I've been thinking about some of the different types of customers, wondering, just what is it that drives them to them to such a sad state of deranged madness? Why do they get mad at me for charging $2 for ice tea? Why do they talk so much about being coffee connoisseurs, yet spend so much time adding sweet-n-low to their coffee? I will attempt to analyze these types, disecting them, exploring them, and yes, of course, mocking them.
The 50 year old male, obviously well off, who loudly complains about coffee prices and about how it's criminal to tip a barista: Well, there's not much to say after that title. This type is very common, and definitely my least favorite type to serve (not counting beligerently drunk and angry 47 year old women, but they're less common). Dude, you are obviously doing well in life--no shortage of money. Your Infiniti tells me that. Your clothes tell me that. So why are you so cheap? And why are you so mad and loud? Just be quiet and cheap. That's much less likely to get you beaten in some alley. Not by me. I'm just saying someone might...
The 40-something (pre-menopausal to menopausal) buisness woman: You are successful. You are pretty. And you are mean. You are pretty mean. And you only drink grande nonfat lattes. They are always called "grande," even when you are at a store that deliberately doesn't call them "grande." They should always be called "grande," just like they do at your favorite Starbucks. You will quench all attempts at humor with an icy stare. When you leave, my only thought is, "Your poor, poor husband."
The fake nice (male or female): Who knows what you really think? Clearly you are insincere in your compliments, which you lay on by the dozen. Your facade crumbles though, if things don't go your way. What, the store is out of your favorite cookie?! You get a pissy look in your eyes and your mouth wrinkles up before you regain your composure, and put that fake smile back on. You are an enigma. And I can't quite shake the lingering fear that you are going to walk into the shop with a loaded gun someday--Psycho Killer psuedo nice guy.
The awed customer: You have a look of awe in your face whenever I'm working on the espresso machine. When I hand you a drink with a rosetta on top, you can barely speak. Stop it. You are scaring me. I know me: I'm not impressed; You shouldn't be either. Or maybe you're really just the psuedo-nice guy described above, only you're pulling it off much, much better. Either way, you are freaking me out.
...
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
I don't mind ignorant people.
I don't mind people who are sure they're right.
But ignorant people who are sure they're right despite all evidence to the contrary get my angst burning something awful...
So a Californian couple came in and ordered two doppios. I proceeded to pull them some very nice doppio ristrettos. We always pull ristretto shots--there's no good reason to do otherwise. If a customer asks me specifically for a 2 oz doppio, or even a lungo, I'll pull it for him, but only after a significant conversation where I make sure that he understands that he's ordering an inferior product.
The Californian couple received their doppios (in paper cups!) and each said, "this is only a single."
I said, "No, they are doppio ristrettos."
They said, "No, they are singles."
I then explained what a ristretto is.
They said they knew what a ristretto is, and that this was only a single shot.
I got pissed, invited them behind the counter and pulled two more sets of shots; one a ristretto, the second an over-extracted but full 2 oz doppio. The still didn't believe me.
We argued for several more minutes. Then I pulled the Italian trump card: "In Italy they always pull ristrettos." (Not completely true true, but I wanted to end the conversation.)
The guy replied, "Well I've been to Italy..."
I said, "It's not up for debate--this is how to pull espresso. I'm not arguing with you, I'm telling you."
He said, "Spoken like a true Italian."
That softened me just a bit, though I haven't an ounce of Italian blood. They left amicably, though I'm fairly certain that they still didn't believe me.
I'm still offended. I'm still pulling ristretto shots. No matter how much customers want me to make them bad coffee (and they do), I hold the line.
I don't mind people who are sure they're right.
But ignorant people who are sure they're right despite all evidence to the contrary get my angst burning something awful...
So a Californian couple came in and ordered two doppios. I proceeded to pull them some very nice doppio ristrettos. We always pull ristretto shots--there's no good reason to do otherwise. If a customer asks me specifically for a 2 oz doppio, or even a lungo, I'll pull it for him, but only after a significant conversation where I make sure that he understands that he's ordering an inferior product.
The Californian couple received their doppios (in paper cups!) and each said, "this is only a single."
I said, "No, they are doppio ristrettos."
They said, "No, they are singles."
I then explained what a ristretto is.
They said they knew what a ristretto is, and that this was only a single shot.
I got pissed, invited them behind the counter and pulled two more sets of shots; one a ristretto, the second an over-extracted but full 2 oz doppio. The still didn't believe me.
We argued for several more minutes. Then I pulled the Italian trump card: "In Italy they always pull ristrettos." (Not completely true true, but I wanted to end the conversation.)
The guy replied, "Well I've been to Italy..."
I said, "It's not up for debate--this is how to pull espresso. I'm not arguing with you, I'm telling you."
He said, "Spoken like a true Italian."
That softened me just a bit, though I haven't an ounce of Italian blood. They left amicably, though I'm fairly certain that they still didn't believe me.
I'm still offended. I'm still pulling ristretto shots. No matter how much customers want me to make them bad coffee (and they do), I hold the line.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Just for the record...
Yesterday I recieved an order for a "mint ice tea with sugar-free vanilla and a cup of coffee thrown in." I was pretty sure that the customer was messing with me. However, after a 10 minute conversation I became convinced that she was serious. Eventually I managed to talk her out of the coffee and sugar-free vanilla. She seemed to like the plain mint ice tea. Go figure.
Yesterday I recieved an order for a "mint ice tea with sugar-free vanilla and a cup of coffee thrown in." I was pretty sure that the customer was messing with me. However, after a 10 minute conversation I became convinced that she was serious. Eventually I managed to talk her out of the coffee and sugar-free vanilla. She seemed to like the plain mint ice tea. Go figure.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Well, Dirty Mick has dained to pass on another Guest Post. Apparently he's "very busy" doing "important stuff" so he doesn't have time to regularly post on this "sorry excuse for a blog." Enjoy this one.
In honor of recent additions to the Larry clan I would like to offer a brief comparison between Macchiatos and kids, which I happily admit, is really more of a comparison between baristas and parents. This will all be from a cynical outsider’s perspective, and I, like all good critics, do not claim to be smarter, better, or more capable than the poor, filter tossing, sod that I am about to indirectly lambaste.
I have had moments–and I do not think that I am alone–when a little child has come waltzing up behind me and proceeded to whine or cry or, if they have managed to learn a few words, beg for something. Sometimes they run around and knock things over, and other times they simply make obscene, distracting noises and interrupt my daydreaming. Regardless of the disturbance though, the rambunctious child is almost always followed by an adult making excuses.
“The babysitter lets her do anything she wants, how am I supposed to compete with that?”
“School lunches are too sugary, little Jimmy always gets so hyper.”
“He has such a potty mouth sometimes, why doesn’t that FCC just take South Park off the air?”’
On the other hand if a child does something good, like picking up an old lady’s jar of apple sauce, receiving high marks in penmanship, or sleeping quietly through the entirety of a cross country airplane ride, this same adult takes all of the credit.
“Sometimes I just hold her and make airplane noises to practice. Yeah, really, yeah.”
“I know I made him do them every night, I even posted his best ones on my blog.”
“That’s because I read to her all the time. No, of course we don’t own a tv. What kind of slacker parent do you think I am?!!”
This fluid relationship between action and result–and I’m sure some of you are already onto my little comparison–is often reflected in the arrogant ramblings of your friendly, neighborhood barista.
Say you are caffeine deprived and anxious and the only thing that you want in life, the one simple thing, is a smooth, sweet macchiato, delicious and prim and aesthetically pleasing. But when your drink comes out a thimble of acrid tar water, topped with an almost offensive dribble of over-foamed milk. The first thing you will hear out of the barista’s mouth is an excuse, some form of blame aimed at any number of uncontrollable forces.
“This non-organic milk is just molecularly opposed to being foamed correctly, really… smell it”
“The temperature of the room is always off this time of day, it has something to do with the albedo of our new La Marzocco…yeah, I know…what’s a dual boiler system anyway?”
“The moon was full last night, tides are all crazy… Schomer couldn’t have even pulled that shot.”
And of course this same barista will always insist that the perfect ones, the macchiatos worth his or her weight in solid gold peaberries, were entirely their doing.
“Look! Did you see those trickles at the bottom, just like a root system, amazing, I know.”
“Sometimes I don’t believe it either, chocolaty and fruity at the same time, like one of those Cadbury bars. But $%&#, I could make stale Starbuck’s taste like that.”
“Look a five leaf rosetta…what?..Cappuccinos are just big macchiatos, you know that’s what you really wanted.”
It’s nice to know though that there are baristas in the world like Larry who are humble and stylish and never disappoint, even if it is only because they are just lucky, every single time.
In honor of recent additions to the Larry clan I would like to offer a brief comparison between Macchiatos and kids, which I happily admit, is really more of a comparison between baristas and parents. This will all be from a cynical outsider’s perspective, and I, like all good critics, do not claim to be smarter, better, or more capable than the poor, filter tossing, sod that I am about to indirectly lambaste.
I have had moments–and I do not think that I am alone–when a little child has come waltzing up behind me and proceeded to whine or cry or, if they have managed to learn a few words, beg for something. Sometimes they run around and knock things over, and other times they simply make obscene, distracting noises and interrupt my daydreaming. Regardless of the disturbance though, the rambunctious child is almost always followed by an adult making excuses.
“The babysitter lets her do anything she wants, how am I supposed to compete with that?”
“School lunches are too sugary, little Jimmy always gets so hyper.”
“He has such a potty mouth sometimes, why doesn’t that FCC just take South Park off the air?”’
On the other hand if a child does something good, like picking up an old lady’s jar of apple sauce, receiving high marks in penmanship, or sleeping quietly through the entirety of a cross country airplane ride, this same adult takes all of the credit.
“Sometimes I just hold her and make airplane noises to practice. Yeah, really, yeah.”
“I know I made him do them every night, I even posted his best ones on my blog.”
“That’s because I read to her all the time. No, of course we don’t own a tv. What kind of slacker parent do you think I am?!!”
This fluid relationship between action and result–and I’m sure some of you are already onto my little comparison–is often reflected in the arrogant ramblings of your friendly, neighborhood barista.
Say you are caffeine deprived and anxious and the only thing that you want in life, the one simple thing, is a smooth, sweet macchiato, delicious and prim and aesthetically pleasing. But when your drink comes out a thimble of acrid tar water, topped with an almost offensive dribble of over-foamed milk. The first thing you will hear out of the barista’s mouth is an excuse, some form of blame aimed at any number of uncontrollable forces.
“This non-organic milk is just molecularly opposed to being foamed correctly, really… smell it”
“The temperature of the room is always off this time of day, it has something to do with the albedo of our new La Marzocco…yeah, I know…what’s a dual boiler system anyway?”
“The moon was full last night, tides are all crazy… Schomer couldn’t have even pulled that shot.”
And of course this same barista will always insist that the perfect ones, the macchiatos worth his or her weight in solid gold peaberries, were entirely their doing.
“Look! Did you see those trickles at the bottom, just like a root system, amazing, I know.”
“Sometimes I don’t believe it either, chocolaty and fruity at the same time, like one of those Cadbury bars. But $%&#, I could make stale Starbuck’s taste like that.”
“Look a five leaf rosetta…what?..Cappuccinos are just big macchiatos, you know that’s what you really wanted.”
It’s nice to know though that there are baristas in the world like Larry who are humble and stylish and never disappoint, even if it is only because they are just lucky, every single time.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Just in case you were wondering...
Coffee doesn't really catch on fire when you have a roaster "fire" ; it just smokes a lot and turns into a giant glowing coal.
Yeah, we had one, and it was freaking sweet. We poured the smoking mass of coffee-charcoal out on the drive-way. It was so burnt that it crumbled to the touch. I tested this by riding my long-board at speed into the smoking pile. Yes, it just plowed through, leaving two smoking wheel tracks and some "wheel-ground" coffee in its wake.
And to think that some people have suggested to me that I should get a "real" job. How many of you get to do this at work?
Coffee doesn't really catch on fire when you have a roaster "fire" ; it just smokes a lot and turns into a giant glowing coal.
Yeah, we had one, and it was freaking sweet. We poured the smoking mass of coffee-charcoal out on the drive-way. It was so burnt that it crumbled to the touch. I tested this by riding my long-board at speed into the smoking pile. Yes, it just plowed through, leaving two smoking wheel tracks and some "wheel-ground" coffee in its wake.
And to think that some people have suggested to me that I should get a "real" job. How many of you get to do this at work?
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