I’ve seen the boy ‘- the one behind the counter ‘- before. I’ve even seen him behind a counter before. He’s a young man really, and his circumstances have improved slightly since my last sighting. The most obvious improvement is his glasses. For some reason, in 2009, glasses still carry the same suggestions they always have. This person is learned, they say. This person reads. In recent years this proclamation has again become cool. With the rise of the independent spirit, evident not just by the increased use of feathers in fashion accessories, the acceptability of having literary inspiration has reemerged. (Note: the renewed attention to cover art has made this more feasible. See Penguin editions and most things by Dave Eggers).
By the look of it, he reads what is contemporary and fresh. He must have mastered the classics. His glasses are an update on the circular spectacles of pre-war Oxford, of mid-war Joyce, of post-war le Corbusier and made of post-modern plastic. He is standing in a barely post-Obama caf’eacute;. Open since November, it is hard to believe caf’eacute; Fixe didn’t require these glasses of him. The whole establishment is a precocious update of the genre, just like his eyewear. It is kept so clean it’s incredible it’s already survived three seasons. Like the restrained grey of the barista’s glasses, the palette is muted. There is no decoration on the walls. The simplicity of the place and its blonde wood tables speak of reprisal in restraint.
I don’t remember him wearing glasses. I remember him working behind a less-elegant counter under eclectic lower light. A counter posting lower prices ‘- a feature he occasionally forgave entirely, giving away drinks and lewdly large bagel sandwiches for free. Today he gives my friend plenty of time to finish his drink before getting the necessary cash from the ATM, but it is only a moment of generosity amid the business.
All spiffed up in a plain blue Oxford he mans a retro piece of machinery named a flashy fifties ‘Mirage.’ The thing, shaped for all the world like a yank tank, is an espresso machine. Though it may look like a throwback, our man gleefully explains to me its technology. By a Dutch designer named Kees van der Westen, the machine is more an early spacecraft than a coffee shop accessory. It’s a ‘Tripplette Classic’ and in some ways, it’s classic indeed ‘- it’s more manual than your father’s Nikon. Requiring full control of temperature and water pressure and other unfathomable details, it sports a foot pedal steamer to allow the engineer freedom of his hands for other maneuvers.
His last espresso machine lacked a foot pedal and, as far as I could tell, a European pedigree. He used to man it, in his previous job, in rock t-shirts or looser flannel, the unofficial uniform of the university crowd. The explicit fashion message had always been, ‘These are a few of the things I found on my floor that smelled clean,’ with a reference point no further than the distant nineties. Today his collar ‘- buttoned to the top ‘- neatly refers to an absent bow tie, and his clientele look like they can all afford dry cleaning.
His older haunt has been recently revamped with a degree of the same grown-up restraint. It is not quite corporate ‘- not, God forbid, ‘in this economy’ ‘- but it can imagine life beyond graduate school. There are now cleaner grays and a tailored banquette. As I think about time beyond shabby student-hood, my eyes wander.’ He uses what looks like the brush of a defunct gentleman’s barber to sweep away espresso from his burnished space station. I glance at the slate-colored ceiling tiles, which are shaped like the brass of a brasserie by way of MoMA’s design store.
But as he leans over to dump his grounds, I notice something tucked into his pocket. The little black book peeping from his pants is something I have seen before: The kid is holding onto his Moleskine notebook. I am suddenly reassured. The romance of caf’eacute; poverty sits comfortably in those black jeans. If you’ve only recently hit the western world, the moleskin was ‘the notebook of Hemingway and Picasso,’ etc. It’s number 122 on the official list of Stuff White People Like, and it is perpetually abused by young people with nothing to say but an aching need to say it. I know because I have one. Even in the adult environment of this refined caf’eacute;, the book is not out of place. It’s a caf’eacute; staple no matter the incarnations. My latte tastes richer and the minimalist ceiling tiles seem more comforting. It appears I can still want to be a writer when I grow up ‘- even when I’m grown up.