I pulled out my phone and found Mr. Wang’s WeChat. The map showed the location of the café he had recommended. It was over 700 meters from the bus stop, an 8-minute walk. The interview with the café owner was scheduled for 10:30 AM, so I shouldn’t be late.
Looking Back and Moving Forward
This past Tuesday, I finished my barista course at the training school. After the exam next Friday, I’ll get my certificate. Learning to bake bread and make coffee is much more interesting than studying for the Gaokao. Funnily enough, even the teachers would mess up sometimes. We could actually laugh in class; my old middle school teachers never allowed any joking around.
It’s been over four months since I came to Wuhan. I left Xiantao before the Gaokao scores were even released; staying at home was mind-numbingly boring. The road from my village to the county town is over 40 kilometers long, and there’s no bus service. It takes two and a half hours by electric scooter. Dad said that in the old days, if you had business in town, you had to set off before dawn and walk without stopping to get there by noon.
The river makes a bend at the southeast corner of the village, and directly facing the bend is an old stone bridge. Crossing that bridge takes you to Zuoqiao Primary, the only school in the village.
Ever since I started middle school, I’ve lived at the school, which is an hour’s journey from the village. I only returned on weekends.
The Gaokao was a truly difficult affair. Mr. Gu, my Chinese teacher, said the college he attended was a liberal arts school that the city kids didn’t want. Mr. Gu put it plainly: very few students from the village could ever make a name for themselves.
Liu Chang’s father grows pomelos at the east end of the village. Liu Chang didn’t go to high school and idled at home for two years, always causing trouble. Later, his father pulled some strings to get him a job sending and receiving packages in the county town. Now, Liu Chang and his cousin are running their own business at the headquarters in Wuhan.
The Café in the Startup Park
The area along the Third Ring Road is full of car dealerships. This patch of low-rise buildings must have been a peri-urban area a long time ago. Outsiders always choose places like this to settle down.
The AEON mall is right next to the elevated highway. It’s a huge shopping center, but these days, there don’t seem to be many shoppers on a weekday. You don’t see cars lining up at the parking lot entrance.
The café is in a startup park, right next to the Beijing-Guangzhou railway line. It’s in a five-story building that looks like a renovated factory, or perhaps a former warehouse. Every so often, a train passes by the wall. The railway foundation is elevated high above the ground. Most of the trains are boxy freight cars, one after another, clanking along slowly from right to left—ten, fifteen, twenty…
The trains here don’t rush by like high-speed rail. The trains outside the wall are slow and leisurely, making one feel a bit envious.
It wasn’t the weekend, and the weather was clear with a slight southwestern breeze. Although it was officially winter, it didn’t feel cold at all. The startup park was neat and tidy. The automatic glass doors slid open, and even though it was 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 but slightly hunched under a thin suit. With his back to the door, he was fiddling with a glass jar. He grabbed a handful of coffee beans, rolled them in his palm, brought them to his nose, and took a deep, sharp inhale, savoring their aroma. His brow relaxed slightly, and he tossed the beans back into the jar and sealed the lid.
An Imperfect Latte
“Excuse me, are you Boss Wei?”
He turned around and sized up the young person who had greeted him. His expression showed he wasn’t particularly pleased with my chubby, apple-like cheeks, and the winter coat I wore seemed a bit bulky.
“You’re the barista Mr. Wang recommended?” “Yes.” “Have you graduated from Mr. Wang’s course?” “Yes.” “Do you know how to use an espresso machine?” “I do.” “Can you do latte art?” “I can.” “Alright then, make me a latte.”
I did know how to make latte art, but not every attempt turned out perfectly. At school, we had to take turns using the machine. With seven or eight students in line, by the time it was my second turn, I had completely forgotten the feel of the first time.
Whenever I managed to pour a decent-looking heart, Mr. Wang would tell me to take a picture. I thought it was to help us remember. But he said, “Later, when you’re looking for a job and the boss asks about your latte art skills, you can show them these photos first.”
Mr. Wang was truly foresighted.
Making coffee outside of the school for the first time, I was a bit nervous, unsure if I could pour a nice heart.
Boss Wei’s machine extracted espresso differently from the one Mr. Wang used for teaching. The espresso from his machine trickled out from the portafilter spout like a leaky faucet—drip, drip, drip. After nearly a minute, I had no idea how much espresso was in the cup.
Boss Wei stood by, nagging incessantly. “Too much powder, way too much. Maybe the grind is too fine. Did you tamp it too hard…”
The 58.5mm tamper simply wouldn’t press down into the 58mm filter basket. How could I dare to press too hard? If I broke it, wouldn’t he make me pay for it?
After finally getting a small cup of espresso, Boss Wei took a carton of milk from the fridge and handed it to me, emphasizing, “This is whole milk imported directly from Europe. For coffee, you can count on European milk.”
I picked a small-sized frothing pitcher from the shelf and poured it about halfway with the milk from the European carton. I turned the steam knob to test the pressure. The steam wand hissed powerfully, just like the one at school, billowing white clouds everywhere.
I inserted the steam wand into the milk at an angle and turned the valve to its maximum setting. The milk swirled wildly in the pitcher. The steam, mixed with air, forced a creamy foam to form on the surface. My right hand, touching the pitcher, felt the cold milk quickly become scalding hot. I had to control it, not let the foam break down in my hand. Whether I could get this job depended entirely on the milk foam in the pitcher I was holding.
The milk continued to expand. Just as it was about to overflow, I quickly used my right hand to shut the steam valve. A full pitcher of milk and foam quieted down.
The crucial moment had arrived. I had to pour a perfect heart.
The cups Boss Wei used were extra-large disposable paper cups, completely different from the 9-ounce ceramic cups at school. Only now did I realize that the milk in my small pitcher might not be enough to fill this giant cup.
I started to panic.
Holding the huge paper cup of espresso, my hand trembled slightly—not violently like the willow leaves in the early spring wind, but more like the gentle ripple on a stream when a breeze passes over.
A trace of distrust crossed Boss Wei’s lips. “You don’t need to pour a perfect design. Just make sure the milk and espresso are well-blended.”
I didn’t have time to answer. What I wanted to express was that I could pour a good heart, it was just that… “Your shop’s cups are too big…” “These are the same size as Luckin’s cups. Customers don’t like small ones.”
Under Boss Wei’s watch, I tremulously poured the milk into the massive paper cup. It shouldn’t take much effort to meet his requirement; the milk and coffee blended well, though my hand kept shaking slightly.
Thankfully, the thick foam hid my mistake of choosing the small pitcher. As I poured the last of the foam into the cup, it came right up to the brim. While not perfect, it wasn’t terrible either.
For the finishing touch, I intended to draw a heart. But the remaining layer of foam clearly told me that the milk in the pitcher had no strength left.
I still made the motion of pulling through the center, even though it would do nothing for the heart in the cup. I just wanted to show Boss Wei that I could do it well, but that the equipment in his shop was mismatched.
A New Beginning
Boss Wei took the latte I made and took a sip from the edge of the cup.
“Hmm, the coffee tastes alright. Did Mr. Wang tell you about the salary?” “Yes, three thousand five hundred a month.” “One day off a week, 8:30 AM to 6:00 PM.” “Okay, that works.” “Can you start tomorrow then?” “I have an exam tomorrow. Can I start on Monday?” “Sure. You get paid 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 dormitory at the baking school, I rented a single room outside the Third Ring Road for one thousand five hundred a month. Now that I have a job, I can stay in Wuhan. My mom said that knowing how to make coffee is a skill, a way to support myself.