It is nice to know, in days when quitting a job might land you your own New York Times Op Ed, that some people take pride in their work. Take a small coffeeshop in Brooklyn, where the hours are long and the customers adorable, but generally in need of caffeine. They need a barista. Actually, they need "a fringe type, yet comfortable, like the middle of a Venn diagram" who wears pants with holes in them, lives in Brooklyn, listens to the radio (but not too much), is possessed of powers of extrasensory perception, knows about auras, is attuned to iconic '80s films, does not attach word documents in emails (or even pdfs!), thrives on being ignored and perhaps even disdained, and is obsessive about alternate side parking. Yes, can drive, too. Must love dogs, short cappuccinos, Konk Party.
Us: We are a quaint little coffee shop hidden amongst the bownstones in Fort Greene, Brooklyn.
You: You live in New York City, quite preferably Brooklyn, and are in need of part-time employment.
Us: We like our coffee strong and dark, pulled short. We run a tight ship, starched shirts and clean behind the edges, but with relaxed shoulders.
You: You have at least one pair of pants with two holes in them, the result of manual labor. Once a week you listen to the radio and goddammit, you know how to pull one hell of a good cappuccino. You are a fringe type, yet comfortable, like the middle of a Venn diagram.
Us: We need your help
You: You are intrigued by this aura of help now felt emanating from the corner of Fort Greene Park and believe that it is rather attuned to your own frequency
Us: We finally settle down from another romping hit from St. Elmo’s Fire and feel you approaching, destined to be behind the counter.
You: You are called in the early morning for an interview after you had replied to this ad with your resume, which had no attachments in the email. You come to our cafe the next day and are greeted by one of the owners who is outside drinking his Cortado while hurriedly, yet stern and with a clean grace, bringing in cafe supplies while being double parked. He has forgotten that you were coming and for the most part, ignores you.
Us: We are in the middle of a rush which has quickly extended out the door the morning you arrive. The flowers are blossoming in the park and there is a run on ice coffee. We spot you outside, unknowing of who you are, looking rather confused, and wonder why this yahoo is holding up the line.
You: You, being quick witted and bearing an acute sense of the situation, see up the road five minute’s time and spot a meter maid approaching! You are unoffended by the owner’s initial cold shoulder and try running into the shop to alert the him, yet are stopped short at the door by a wall of thirsty, uncaffeinated patrons that are certainly not going to let you cut in line.
Us: We see you attempting to rush the line like a lunatic and are unfazed; There are drinks to be made!
You: You, not seeing any other alternative and out of a genuine care and felt connection, run to the eurovan from which the owner was unloading supplies, narrowly dodging the meter maid who is now swerving through traffic to write the owner a ticket for double parking, swing open the driver’s door, pop the thing into first upon finding the keys in the ignition, (you know how to drive clutch) and skid out onto Dekalb ave, quickly find a spot under a tree on the other side of the park.
Us: We and the patrons of the cafe see you committing grand theft auto and immediately burst into an uproar. An angry mob, including mostly neighborhood dogs, is quickly assembled and sets out to turn you over to the authorities, as sensible and angry, Brooklyn mobs do.
You: You get distracted by Konk Party grooving through the car stereo (see here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwluIkaoR0M) and stay inside the van with your ears in a sublime rhythm and the windows down.
Us: We see the the owner, who has impeccable hearing, leap from his bench seat and jog straight to where you are.
You: You have become completely enveloped by the the beats of Konk when the owner arrives at your driver window, yet still try to describe the radical events that have just passed with a grand gesticulation, in keeping time with the song.
Us: We see your intentions and hire you on the spot (after you first delight us all with short cappuccinos, of course) and we, the shop, and you carry on like Coffee and Doughnuts.
Please get in touch with us.
The BitterSweet Cafe
You guys are too cute. Babyccinos, anyone?
Image via Shutterstock by Steve Cukrov.
This article is from the archive of our partner The Wire.
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