Lin Song took out his phone and found his instructor, Mr. Zhou, on WeChat. The map showed the location of the coffee shop he had recommended. It was over 700 meters from the bus stop, an eight-minute walk. His interview with the coffee shop owner was scheduled for 10:30 AM; he should be on time.
This past Tuesday, he had finished his barista course at the training school. After the exam next Friday, he would receive his graduation certificate. Learning to make bread and coffee, he thought, was far more interesting than preparing for the Gaokao. The funny thing was, even the instructors sometimes messed up, and you could actually laugh in class—something that was never allowed back in his high school.
He had been in Wuhan for over four months now. Without waiting for his Gaokao results, Lin Song had left his hometown of Tianmen. Staying at home was just mind-numbingly boring. The forty-kilometer journey from his village to the county town still had no bus service; it took two and a half hours by electric scooter. His father said that in years past, if you needed to go to the county seat, you had to set off before dawn and walk without stopping to make it there by noon.
The river curved at the southeast corner of the village, and directly opposite the bend stood an old stone bridge. Across that bridge was the village’s only elementary school, Linqiao Primary.
Ever since starting middle school, Lin Song had boarded at school, an hour’s journey from his village, only returning home on weekends.
The Gaokao was an incredibly difficult affair. His Chinese teacher, Mr. Gu, had once said bluntly that the university he attended was a liberal arts college that the city kids hadn’t wanted. Mr. Gu’s meaning was clear: few students from the village could ever amount to much academically.
Liu Chang was Lin Song’s good friend. His father grew pomelos at the east end of the village. Liu Chang didn’t attend high school and idled at home for two years, always stirring up trouble in the village. Later, his father pulled some strings and arranged for him to handle express deliveries in the county town. Now, Liu Chang was expanding the business with his cousin at the Wuhan headquarters.
The area along the Third Ring Road was lined with car dealerships. The low-rise buildings here must have been the city’s rural-urban fringe long ago. Outsiders often chose places like this to settle down first.
The coffee shop was in a start-up park, right next to the Beijing-Guangzhou railway line. It was a five-story building that looked like a converted factory, or perhaps a former warehouse. Every so often, a train would pass by the perimeter wall. The railway tracks were elevated high above the ground. He could see that most of the passing cars were boxy freight carriages, linked one after another, clanking along slowly from right to left.
The trains here didn’t speed by like high-speed rails; their leisurely pace was almost enviable.
The start-up park was neat and tidy. The glass doors opened automatically, and even in broad daylight, the diamond-shaped lights on the lobby ceiling were all on.
Behind the counter stood a gaunt middle-aged man. He was tall, with a slightly hunched back shrouded in a thin suit. He had his back to the door, fiddling with a glass jar in his hands. He scooped out a handful of coffee beans, rolled them around in his palm, brought them to his nose, and inhaled sharply, sucking in their aroma. His brow relaxed for a moment before he tossed the beans back into the jar and sealed it.
“Excuse me, are you Mr. Wei?”
He turned around and sized up the young man who had addressed him. His expression suggested he wasn’t particularly pleased with the slightly chubby, apple-cheeked face.
“You’re the barista Mr. Zhou recommended?”
“Yes.”
“Have you graduated from Mr. Zhou’s class?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how to make coffee with an espresso machine?”
“I do.”
“Can you do latte art?”
“I can.”
“Alright then. Make me a latte.”
Lin Song could indeed do latte art, but not every attempt came out looking decent. At school, they had to line up to use the machine. With seven or eight students taking turns, by the time his second try came around, the feel of the first attempt was long gone.
Whenever a student managed to create a presentable heart shape, Mr. Zhou would have them take a picture. Lin Song thought it was to help them remember, but the teacher had explained, “In the future, when you’re looking for a job and the boss asks about your latte art skills, you can show them the photos first.”
Mr. Zhou really had some foresight.
Making coffee outside of the school for the first time, Lin Song was still a bit nervous. He didn’t know if he could pull a good-looking heart.
Mr. Wei’s machine extracted espresso differently from the one at school. The liquid flowing from the portafilter spouts was like a leaky faucet, hissing and dripping. After nearly a minute, Lin Song had no idea how much espresso was in the cup.
Mr. Wei stood beside him, nagging incessantly. “Too much coffee grounds, way too much! Maybe it’s ground too fine. Did you tamp it too hard…?”
The 58.5mm tamper barely fit into the 58mm filter basket. How could Lin Song dare to press too hard? If he broke it, wouldn’t he have to pay for it?
After finally collecting a small cup of espresso, Mr. Wei handed him a carton of milk from the fridge, emphasizing, “This is whole milk, purely imported from Europe. For coffee, you can rely on European milk.”
Lin Song chose a small milk pitcher from the shelf and poured it a little more than half full. He twisted the steam wand knob to test the pressure. The steam was powerful, just like the machine at school, hissing out in a white, dispersing cloud.
Lin Song inserted the steam wand into the milk at an angle and turned the valve to full blast. The milk swirled crazily in the pitcher as the steam forced air into it, creating a silky, dense foam on the surface. His right hand, sensing the temperature, felt the ice-cold milk rapidly turn scalding. He had to control it, not let the microfoam fall apart. Whether he got this job depended entirely on the foam in the pitcher he held.
The milk continued to expand. Just as it was about to overflow, Lin Song quickly used his free right hand to shut the steam valve. A full pitcher of milk and foam settled into silence.
The key moment had arrived. He had to pull a perfect heart.
The coffee cups at Mr. Wei’s shop were extra-large disposable paper cups, completely different from the 9-ounce ceramic cups at school. Only now did Lin Song realize the milk in his pitcher might not be enough to fill this massive cup.
He started to panic a little.
Holding the huge paper cup of espresso, his hand trembled slightly. It was a faint tremor, not like the frantic swaying of willow leaves in a spring breeze, but more like the gentle ripples on a river skimmed by a light wind.
A hint of distrust crept into the corner of Mr. Wei’s mouth. “You don’t have to make a perfect design. Just make sure the milk and espresso are well-integrated.”
Lin Song didn’t have time to answer. What he needed to express was that he could make a good heart, it’s just that…
“Your shop’s cups are too big…”
“They’re the same size as Luckin Coffee’s. Customers don’t like small cups.”
Under Mr. Wei’s watchful eye, Lin Song tremulously poured the milk into the huge paper cup. It shouldn’t take much effort to meet his “well-integrated” requirement; his hand was still shaking slightly.
Fortunately, the thick foam concealed his mistake of choosing a small pitcher. As he poured the last dash of foam, the liquid just reached the brim of the cup. The result wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t terrible either.
As he went to finish, Lin Song had intended to draw a heart, but the thin layer of foam remaining in the pitcher told him clearly that the milk was now “willing, but the foam was weak.”
He still made the final motion to draw the heart, even though it was futile for the design in the cup. He just wanted to show Mr. Wei that he could have done it well, if only the shop’s equipment had been a proper match.
Mr. Wei took the latte from Lin Song and took a sip from the edge of the cup.
“Hmm, the coffee tastes alright. Did Mr. Zhou tell you about the salary?”
“Yes, 3,500 a month.”
“One day off a week, 8:30 AM to 6:00 PM.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“Then you can start tomorrow, right?”
“I have an exam tomorrow. Can I start on Monday?”
“Sure. Payday is on the 5th of every month.”
“Could it be the 30th? I have to pay my rent at the end of the month.”
“Let’s make it the 28th then.”
“Okay, thank you, boss.”
After leaving the training school’s dormitory, Lin Song had rented a single room outside the Third Ring Road for 1,500 yuan a month. Now that he had a job, he could stay in Wuhan. His mother had said that knowing how to make coffee was a skill, one that could support him.