My father and I stepped into the excited clamor of the small cafe.
About 7 middle aged men crowded the bar, speaking quickly and shouting over one another in Italian, sipping their espresso and cappuccino. I immediately felt overwhelmed. Behind the counter was a single barista, a woman in her twenties, furiously twisting knobs and pressing buttons on the coffee machines as if she were playing a photoplayer.
“Should we try someplace else?” I leaned over and said to my dad. It seemed like it would take awhile before we had a chance to order.
“Sure,” he agreed.
We walked out of the cafe and down the street about a block. There didn’t seem to be any other options close by. I pulled out my phone and started to search for another cafe, but as I looked up, I noticed that several people had cleared out of the cafe.
“It looks like a lot of people just left, do you want to try that place again?” my Dad asked me.
“Yeah, let’s do it,” I obliged.
As we walked back, I was confused. Only a minute had passed since we left. Did those customers leave without ordering? That seemed unlikely. Or was the barista able to take all of their orders that quickly?
We entered the cafe again. A mother and her child were sitting at one of the tables, a man stood at the bar and spoke to the barista.
“Buongiorno, ragazzi. Arrivo,” the barista said to my dad and I.
We gave her our order: two croissants, a doughnut, and a cappuccino. It took her all of twenty seconds to complete it. In Italian, she told us that we could sit at one of the tables to eat.
As more customers entered the cafe, I paid close attention to her process. She worked with swiftness and precision, every movement calculated, effortlessly taking orders, making coffees, grabbing croissants, and doing it all despite the chaos of the people waiting. She was not only great at her job, but it was evident that she cared about providing exceptional service.
After about 10 minutes, my dad and I finished our breakfast and returned to the counter to pay. The barista smiled and said to us in Italian, “Ok guys, two croissants, a doughnut, and a cappuccino, right? It’ll be 6.50 euros.”
I was stunned. She had helped at least a dozen other customers in the ten minutes since she had helped us. I looked around the counter to see if there was some sort of receipt or note system to tell her what we had ordered. There wasn’t.
I wanted to ask her how it was possible for her to remember our order, but I felt too shy to ask her in broken Italian. The only explanation I could think of was that she had a photographic memory, which made it understandable why she was so efficient at her job. For her, being a barista was like playing a game—entertaining and effortless.
We paid for our breakfast and left the cafe.
I wondered if she would remember me the way I remembered her.
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My father and I stepped into the excited clamor of the small cafe.
About 7 middle aged men crowded the bar, speaking quickly and shouting over one another in Italian, sipping their espresso and cappuccino. I immediately felt overwhelmed. Behind the counter was a single barista, a woman in her twenties, furiously twisting knobs and pressing buttons on the coffee machines as if she were playing a photoplayer.
“Should we try someplace else?” I leaned over and said to my dad. It seemed like it would take awhile before we had a chance to order.
“Sure,” he agreed.
We walked out of the cafe and down the street about a block. There didn’t seem to be any other options close by. I pulled out my phone and started to search for another cafe, but as I looked up, I noticed that several people had cleared out of the cafe.
“It looks like a lot of people just left, do you want to try that place again?” my Dad asked me.
“Yeah, let’s do it,” I obliged.
As we walked back, I was confused. Only a minute had passed since we left. Did those customers leave without ordering? That seemed unlikely. Or was the barista able to take all of their orders that quickly?
We entered the cafe again. A mother and her child were sitting at one of the tables, a man stood at the bar and spoke to the barista.
“Buongiorno, ragazzi. Arrivo,” the barista said to my dad and I.
We gave her our order: two croissants, a doughnut, and a cappuccino. It took her all of twenty seconds to complete it. In Italian, she told us that we could sit at one of the tables to eat.
As more customers entered the cafe, I paid close attention to her process. She worked with swiftness and precision, every movement calculated, effortlessly taking orders, making coffees, grabbing croissants, and doing it all despite the chaos of the people waiting. She was not only great at her job, but it was evident that she cared about providing exceptional service.
After about 10 minutes, my dad and I finished our breakfast and returned to the counter to pay. The barista smiled and said to us in Italian, “Ok guys, two croissants, a doughnut, and a cappuccino, right? It’ll be 6.50 euros.”
I was stunned. She had helped at least a dozen other customers in the ten minutes since she had helped us. I looked around the counter to see if there was some sort of receipt or note system to tell her what we had ordered. There wasn’t.
I wanted to ask her how it was possible for her to remember our order, but I felt too shy to ask her in broken Italian. The only explanation I could think of was that she had a photographic memory, which made it understandable why she was so efficient at her job. For her, being a barista was like playing a game—entertaining and effortless.
We paid for our breakfast and left the cafe.
I wondered if she would remember me the way I remembered her.
