Someday, I will say this to my son about my career in coffee shops:
Listen Lad, I built my barista credentials up from nothing.
When I started last year at Soho, I didn’t know the difference between an Americano and a pourover. All the bosses said I was daft to try and serve a latte, but I served it all the same, just to show ’em. I got fired. So, I got a second job at a coffee shop. That started badly, ended on good terms only because Koffee KGB was pleased that I was getting a useful degree, then I came back and Koffee KGB sank into the swamp. Or he was reassigned to deepest Africa. The third coffee shop was also pretty bad and I got fired from that one too because the owner wasn’t pleased with my floor mopping. But the FOURTH ONE. THE (HYPOTHETICAL) FOURTH ONE. The fourth one I stayed on for twenty three years! An’ that’s what your gonna get out of me, lad; the strongest, yet subtlest cuppa joe in this world or the next, one with a full body of syrupy notes and fine foamy head of flower designs to boot!”
and he will say “but I don’t want any of that–I’d rather just–just—”
and it doesn’t matter what he’ll say next because I won’t begrudge him the fool’s hope of finding a real job.