Generosity and Coffee

Personal Yummy #47

“Jenna, would you mind coming over here for a second?”

It’s Curt, calling to me from behind the bar.

“Sure,” I reply, walking toward him. “What do you need?”

It’s Saturday night around eight, Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” is mixing in with the various conversations, and there is finally a bit of a lull in business, before the late crowd arrives. And instead of wearing my usual hat, I’m hostessing, picking up a few extra hours and a few extra dollars. I’ve been busy for the past two hours, asking customers which section they’d prefer to sit in, leading them to their seats, and handing them the menus. I’ve also helped bus tables and reset them, take drink orders and deliver them if Diana or Remmy was too busy, and carry food from the kitchen to the tables.

“Do you feel like going on a coffee run?” Curt asks, excitement in his voice.

“A coffee run? What exactly would that be?” I ask, smiling, really wondering what he means, because I’m certain there are plenty of coffee packets in the bin on the bottom shelf of the waitstaff station—I checked when I came in.

“Well, if you don’t mind, please ask Diana and Remmy and everyone in the kitchen, plus the regulars—you know, like Rolanda, Marcy, and Walter—what they would like from the 61C, and use this money” (he hands me two twenties). “Okay?… And please make sure to get yourself something good—anything you want—and to give whoever makes the drinks a good tip too… So,” he concludes, his deep, black eyes glistening, “what do ya think?”

“Well, sure, Curt,” I reply. This seems very unusual—not for him, but for a work night—but it also sounds like fun. “I mean—who could say no to that? Besides, it’ll be nice to take a short walk and get outside for a while.”

I turn away from the bar, ready to do the rounds, but stop abruptly. “But wait, Curt,” I say, glancing back at him. “Don’t you want anything for yourself?”

“Oh yeah!” he replies, laughing. “Of course. I mean, the coffee here is good, but I’m in the mood for something stronger and richer, so…how about a tall iced caffè mocha?”

“Okay, Curt. You got it,” I reply, nodding.

I make my way back to the kitchen, an eagerness in my step. “Anyone want a coffee drink from the 61C?” I ask. “Curt’s treating.”

Diana is slightly hunched over, preparing a side salad on the tan baker’s table that sits to the right of the refrigerator. She turns to look at me, her eyes grow big, and she licks her lips and rubs her hands together. “Oh great!” she says, practically jumping up into the air. “What a good idea! I’ll have an iced mocha, with the caffeine and the whole milk, and an extra shot of chocolate—everything!”

“Okay, Diana. I’ll make sure of it!” I respond, giggling.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” says Mary Ellen, her back to me as she places a chicken breast on top of the grill.

“Actually, I think I’ll have an iced caramel macchiato,” Richard says. He’s standing over the sink, washing many heads of lettuce swimming in a big pool of water. “I’ve always wanted to try one of those.”

“Okay, guys…sounds good… I’ll be back soon.”

I return to the bar and take a few more coffee orders. After a bit of indecision, Remmy decides upon an iced caffè latte (she is taking a break, chatting with Walter at the bar).

“I’m satisfied with the drinks I have in front of me, but thanks anyway,” Walter chimes in, lifting up his CC on the rocks, tipping it toward me, and taking a mouth-watering gulp.

“Rolanda? Marcy? Care for anything?” I ask, going down the line.

“I’ll have an iced mocha,” Rolanda replies.

“That sounds good. Me too,” Marcy agrees.

“Okay. So let’s see,” I say to myself, using my fingers as a guide. “One iced latte, four iced mochas—oh wait!—five iced mochas…one for myself, and, oh yeah, an extra shot of chocolate for one…and a caramel macchiato… Gee, I guess I better write this down.” I take a small notepad out of my pocket and scribble the order down, making up new shorthand symbols as I go along. I’m used to taking orders, of course, but this is the first time I’ve taken an order such as this.

With my list in hand, I walk out the door into the warm summer evening, and it is just beginning to get dark. The heat feels so good on my skin, in contrast with the air conditioning of The Grill, which every now and then makes the little hairs on my arms stand up (that is, when the air is actually working). I feel a tinge of exhilaration shoot through me, at this concept of leaving right in the middle of work in search of decadent refreshment, and getting it from one of my most favorite places—the 61C—which has already given me so many great memories.

I cross the street, and on the way to the coffeehouse I allow myself to pause and peer through the immense, inviting window that makes up the entire right section of the first floor of Barnes & Noble. What’s a few more extra minutes anyway? I press my eyes to the window and examine the colorful, cushy, antique-looking chairs full of knowledge-seekers, and the bookcases displaying the classics in embossed, colorful leather (dark green, dark blue, and scarlet), with dainty, silky, bookmark ribbons peeping out at the tops, sides, or bottoms. There’s Leaves of Grass, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and The Hunchback of Notre-Dame in clear view, and looking at them and imagining what’s inside sends another unexplainable thrill through me, as does the anticipation of sitting upstairs in the bookstore’s café—with a pot of Earl Grey—and finding out.

I experience the same kind of pleasure as I walk a few doors down the street and gaze through the much-smaller window of William Penn Jewelers, the jewelry store to the left of the 61C. I love all of the jewelry that’s on display there, in the shiny, protective, glass cases, but particularly the burnt yellow and burnt orange stones, in square and rectangular shapes that glitter, making their homes in gold rings or in dangly, silver earrings. And as I look, as I’ve done so many times before, I imagine walking in and purchasing one of them and placing it on my body, making me feel richer and sensuous and more alive. But I’ve never done it. In fact, I’ve never even gone in. I guess the wiser part of me realizes that sometimes it’s more gratifying on the outside.

Just then, I hear the squealing of brakes, so I look over my right shoulder. A PAT bus, flashing “61C—McKeesport—Homestead—Pittsburgh via Oakland and Squirrel Hill” in bright, golden text above the front window, pulls up to the curb in front of the coffeehouse, and lets out a few of its passengers: two cute, stylish, Japanese girls, with open-toed, backless pumps on their feet, and compact, floral-design-covered purses over their wrists; a white-haired, somewhat-hunched-over elderly woman with a poodle and a wire-mesh carrier on wheels trailing behind her; and Bill—a friend of Teeli’s—a rather tall, hard-not-to-notice guy with a generous beard, lots of untamable hair, and a laptop case flung over his shoulder, who is a PhD student at Pitt. Except for the elderly woman, who’s on her way to the Giant Eagle, they all head for the coffeehouse. So I do the same. I follow them in through the large, glass doors and get in line.

“One iced latte, five iced mochas—one with an extra shot of chocolate—and a caramel macchiato, please,” I tell the tall, interesting-looking guy with the shock of platinum hair and black eyebrows, when it’s my turn. Atop the counter sit clear jars filled with biscotti, chocolate chip cookies, oatmeal raisin cookies, M&M cookies, and coconut and almond macaroons. The Beatles can be heard clearly through the speakers above.

He stares at me blankly for a moment. “Seriously?” he asks.

Apparently he’s used to making only a couple of drinks at a time. Plus, by now, there are about four or five people waiting behind me.

“Yes. And sorry for such a huge order, especially when you’re so busy. They’re for a bunch of us over at The Grill.”

“Oh, that’s no problem, really. I was just surprised by the largeness of the order, that’s all.”

“Sarah!” he calls across the room. I look to my left and there’s a girl with short, black, bobbed hair and glasses, wearing baggy jean overhauls and wiping off a table near the window. “Would you mind helping me out over here please?”

She appears behind the counter in no time at all, and with a concerted effort, they get to work. One prepares the drinks, pouring combinations of whole milk and chocolate syrup into large, pint-sized metal containers, while the other one steams the coffee and the milk.

While they work, I look around the place, always liking what I see. There are the luscious desserts waiting on the shelves below the counter, protected behind freshly cleaned glass: triple chocolate mousse cake, Bailey’s Irish crème cheesecake, key lime pie, and Oreo cheesecake. On the wall behind the counter, fancy, golden-framed chalkboards of various sizes list what the coffeehouse offers, in eye-catching, intensely bright colors of chalk—pink, blue, green, yellow, and orange. One board lists the freshly squeezed juices: orange, grapefruit, carrot, apple, pear, pineapple, kiwi, and ginger. A second board lists the teas—beside a cute sketch of a teapot—such as Earl Grey, rose, Darjeeling, and Chinese oolong; the espresso drinks, such as americano and macchiato; and the brewed coffee, such as café au lait and shot in the dark. A third board lists the soy-milk drinks, including latte and caffè mocha. And the fourth board lists the specialty coffees and their prices, with such fancy names as Costa Rica, Guatemala, Sumatra, and Ethiopia, and such simple ones as House Blend.

“You want some cocoa powder sprinkled on top of these?” Sarah eventually asks me, a metal container—dotted with powdery holes—waiting in her hand. Knowing my friends at The Grill, I nod yes and look at her as if there could be no other answer.

While she’s adding this final touch, I gaze around more, noticing the colorful earthenware teapots and teacups on the shelves above (in such colors as burnt orange, burnt yellow, and burnt green, a chip here and there, adding to their value); the paper, cone-shaped lights swaying in the breeze created by the fan; the local, eclectic artwork on the walls; the cute, colorful, miniature lamps on this and that table; and through the side window onto the concrete deck, where people of different aims and ethnicities drink, study, talk, and relax under patio umbrellas.

In about seven minutes total, which passes by very quickly for me (slowly, for them, I’m sure), the drinks are placed on the counter in front of me, in two cardboard containers, one stacked upon the other.

“That comes to twenty-fifty,” Nathan says, after having punched a bunch of buttons on the cash register, the perspiration apparent on his brow. (I heard a customer call him by his name earlier.) “And oh yeah…the one in the bottom container with the little bubble pushed in is the one with the extra chocolate,” he adds, pointing to it.

I reach in my pocket and hand him the money. “Here you go. And please keep five for yourself and Sarah.”

He looks down at the money and then up at me with even bigger eyes than I had seen when I first gave him the order. “Thanks!” he says, the gratitude apparent in his voice, as he proceeds to get me my change.

“Thank you,” I reply, giving them a farewell grin, “and thank Curt over at The Grill if you get a chance.”

I pick up the trays carefully, and, to say the least, it’s quite a feat trying to carry seven tall iced coffees by myself, even though it is a short distance back. I hold on to the trays tightly, balancing them as best I can, and walk carefully and slowly. Luckily, on the way out of the coffeehouse, someone opens the door for me. I’m not so lucky when I get to The Grill. Believe it or not, no one is walking past at the moment I arrive there (Murphy’s Law and all that). So I decide the best thing to do is to gently place the trays on the sidewalk, open up the big, gray door with my right hand, hold the door open with my left foot, and then reach down and pick up the drinks, like a strange game of Twister.

Just as I’m attempting this balancing act, however, Diana comes running toward me. “Jenna, let me help you with that,” she says, and then—unable to resist singing along with Curt’s choice of music for the evening—“Pleased to meet you; hope you guess my name… Woo! Woo!… Woo! Woo!” She takes the top tray and sets it down on the small bar near the wall. “Which one’s mine?” she asks next, like a child eyeing her mother when she gets home from the grocery store, the bags still in her arms.

“Here you go!” I say, giggling once again, handing her the specified one, which is in the tray I’m carrying. She runs to the kitchen with it, apparently on her way to show the others her prize.

As soon as I get situated, I pass the rest of the drinks out, and I watch. Watch Marcy laugh, uninhibited, when she finishes her joke, her head falling in her hands. Watch Rolanda slip a five—without worry—into the slot machine, assuring everyone she’ll win this time. Watch the calm spread over Curt’s face as he raises his iced mocha to his lips. Watch as Diana bounces around the place with even more energy than before. Watch Richard stroll to the bar to join in the fun.

Watch the smiles and the bright eyes, and the nods and the glances of recognition, and the familiarity. And the “oohs” and the “aahs” that don’t even need to be heard. And the way that the sharing of the rich, flavorful, smooth, cold, chocolaty coffee opens everyone up even more.

I haven’t even tasted my own coffee yet, but I can’t help thinking This is so much fun!, feeling warm, content, and happy; and realizing—once again—how far a bit of generosity flies, and the effect it can have like nothing else.

And yes!—how I relish this sweet, unorthodox, Curt-inspired night—the first of many—with delicious flavors, friends, music, laughs, and conversation.

It’s a sprinkle of chocolate from heaven.

******

The above excerpt is from my coming-of-age novel—The Grill on Murray Avenue—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, a young waitress who dreams of becoming a professional dancer.