That said, I'm trying to go with the flow, accept my early morning professional responsibilities and get with the groove. Heck - I'm even thinking I could perhaps train myself to be a "morning person". The most critical thing for this 'new and improved morning Bliss formula' would of course be a generous portion of strong coffee. It has become a mission to get on the early morning cafe circuit and discover more of Melbourne. To-date, it has been a relatively unsuccessful mission as I'm still too often hitting the snooze button for the third time and heading in straight to my desk. I haven't found a regular coffee establishment that fits the bill either.
I do miss my regular stop in Collingwood since moving house a few months ago. It was a convenient mid-point in my walk to work. It was far enough into the journey, to get the blood circulating so as to improve my complexion from its zombie pallour. It was far enough from the office for the caffeine fix to work its magic and boost my brain capacity to at least avoid getting hit by a tram. Those benefits aside - I miss the good coffee, conversation and obscure coffee art to boot.
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Bebida "spuffo" cafe latte, 2012
I have been braving an exploration about once a week not venturing too far from my path to work and have discovered it's a mixed bag out there. For months now, I've been a babe in the woods, lost and wandering aimlessly in search of early morning coffee options en-route to work. The memory of that barista still true to my senses, the others just flounder around not even coming close to piquing my tastebuds. With every new cafe I try, I also have a growing guilt of venturing from the riteous path. This feeling is heightened by the usual diappointment of a latte that is too weak or a flat white that is really a latte - only filling my take away cup three-quarters.
Baristas are like hairdressers, when you find a good one you really should stick with them.
I have a great hairdresser, who is tried and tested, consistenly fantastic at knowing what I like and get's my haircuts spot on. She demonstrates a fair intuition when I want to try something really different, she goes for it and creates something surprisingly suitable every time. She also always knows when I have pulled out the kitchen scissors to trim my hair in desperation. Inevitably, I usually bump into her post hair-hacking when my new cut hasn't even had a week to relax and soften. I am totally exposed with the severity of a fringe too blunt and short because of my paultry attempt to make it level and trim. Though I haven't gone so far as seeing another hairdresser, the look of scorn and the silence that follows the glib comment "so you've had your hair cut", always makes me feel like a real sneak and a cheat. There is no amount of explaining, "I just couldn't see" or recounting the amount of pain resulting from eyeballs whipped by coarse dry ends 8 hours of a day, that can ease the tension as her eyes inspect every inch of my head.
And now I can categorically say baristas are capable of stirring the same emotions of guilt, remorse and shame.
Last week in Fitzroy, while waiting for the pedestrian crossing I was caught red handed by the Collingwood barista driving by. Unbeknownst to me he beeped and hollered at the time, screaming "Noooooooo", from his car window, but his cries were lost in the noise of the traffic. It was when I dropped in to the old cafe a few days later and he asked me "are you seeing another coffee maker? " that I quickly realised I had some fast talking to do. The gravity of what I'd done hit me with a sickening panic and regret swelled inside. I knew full well, by the look on his face I couldn't explain the Wednesday coffee was an experiment, a rarity, an anomaly, a digression.... only once a week (if that!). I just stood there in that moment of silence, aghast, lost for words, feeling dirty!
Without further ado I'd like to advise, with great sincerity, be faitful to your barista!
