A Story

‘Such a fine coffee,’ said F. ‘A fine coffee indeed.’

F had invited his colleague J for a coffee in an out-of-the-way café in town.

‘Are you aware they roast the beans over wood?’ he asked his colleague.

‘No!’ cried J in disbelief. ‘Here?’

‘Come on J, how could they fit that sort of operation here?’ F took another sip with his eyes closed. He longed to savour the subtle nuances that only seemed to evade him every time he tried to place a name on them: dark chocolate, caramelized sugar, molasses, vanilla bean, and, he dared to think, roasted almonds. Yes, definitely a nutty taste of almonds roasted. He opened his eyes and spoke up: ‘Why, I’ve never had such a lovely coffee as this. Don’t you think it’s a wonderful brew, J? It’s lovely, you see, in that it’s devoid of all bitterness, something I’ve noticed, I’m afraid, going around all too much at the moment. Why, one would have to say this is almost like decadent chocolate.’

‘You know, I think I know what you’re talking about. Just the other day, in fact, I was telling a friend just this and—’

But F was not listening. Lost in his own revelry, he was relishing the coffee with each mouthful, like one of those wine tasting aficionados who carry themselves away when they stumble on a particularly good red wine. Then he uttered, mostly to himself, ‘Like we need more bitter people in the world, eh,’ which he thought amusing, and so gave a little chuckle.

‘Yes, yes,’ said J eagerly. ‘But tell me, F, how so? How do they manage it? For you are definitely right. It’s very enjoyable and no bitterness.’’

F was about to elaborate, but something took him away again, dragging his eyes to the café window, through which he now gazed.

‘F?….F?….What are you staring at?’

‘Pardon?’ F said and looked down at his watch in the process.

‘Why,’ started J, with building agitation, ‘I asked you about the coffee and how it’s so wonderful, and all I know now is that it’s roasted using wood. You have my interest. You primed me so nicely with this introduction, but I see either you can’t tell me, or simply you’ve forgotten. Perhaps you don’t care to tell me. So what is it?’

F looked from his watch to J’s face, which had taken on an anxious expression. Indeed, his eyes did not blink and seemed even to tremble.

‘Oh, you’re quite right, my friend. Yes, you are definitely right.’ F glanced once more at his wristwatch. ‘And you deserve to know. Certainly, you do. But now I really must be off. Yes, you see…’ He threw his arm out in front of J as though to show him the reality of the time. ‘I’m already dreadfully late.’

And with that F stood up and flounced out the door of the café, but not before taking up in his hand a packet from the counter, the writing on which J let his eyes quickly skim. Unfortunately, F was too fast and was already gone before J could decipher the text. If J had bothered to exercise a bit of ingenuity, he would have thought to go from the café and watch F drive off. For it was only two minutes later, at the end of the road, that F pulled up his car in front of a barn, above which rose a slither of grey smoke that curved ever so gracefully in a slight breeze. Instead, J remained seated in hopeless wonder, and only after some minutes did he even think to take up his own things and leave himself.

But then a notion, a slight thought, a glimmer of insight, took him quite involuntarily to the counter, behind which stood a young girl, barely out of high school, with prescription glasses that seemed to be somewhat out of proportion with her features; her eyes loomed out at him, in an innocent childlike manner, from her very small head.

‘Perhaps you can tell me, miss,’ he said and through his eagerness, unconsciously leaned over the bench toward her, so much so that she, in reflex, backed away. Noticing this unfortunate reaction, J adjusted himself so as to maintain a respectable distance and keep her from running away altogether. Once he was happy that she was still, he added, ‘What did that gentleman pick up from counter?’

‘Oh,’ she said with relief, and seeing it was only a small request, not requiring anything of her person, she divulged, ‘coffee.’

‘Really? Just this?’

‘Yes.’

A smile alighted J’s face, and looking as though he had just unveiled the mystery behind F’s abrupt departure, he handed over a twenty-dollar bill and asked for the same. He saw the hesitancy in the girl and pulled out a fifty.

‘It’s not that, sir. I wish I could take your money. It’s just, I’m sorry, but sadly we’ve run out. It goes so fast, you see. Really, as fast as it comes in, it literally goes. The coffee that is. I mean everyone loves it. And I believe, it’s is roasted over wood and he can—‘

Her words were rolling out her mouth as though on a treadmill.

‘Pray tell,’ J said irritably, ‘Who is this ‘he’ you speak of?’ For now this idea of roasting over wood popped up again, and he really wanted to get to the bottom of it, and to know about it before the day’s end, too, if he could.

The girl answered apprehensively, ‘the roaster sir. The man who roasts the coffee. He can only produce so much. And when that’s gone we have to naturally wait for more. Why they say he made the roaster himself. Maybe that explains it. I don’t know. Supposedly, it’s a long process—his roasting, that is. Yes, a very long process with a lot of care and attention… Are you all right, sir? You look a little piqued. Perhaps some water?’

J turned to see his reflection in the glass door. Yes, she was right. His complexion was quite pale. He took a couple of deep breaths and felt himself start to calm. Yet, at the same time, he remained strangely visibly tense. If one were to walk by and look through that glass door they would have seen a most perplexing sight: a man staring ahead, not moving, looking out at the world with an expression that was one of, on the one hand, comprehension, and on the other, absolute confusion. With a sigh, J finally muttered, ‘I see,’ and opened the café door to exit.

But did he really see? It was doubtful. For driving home, he was so topsy-turvy that he saw nothing around him, and so, did not see F outside the barn chatting to the roaster when he glided on by in his sedan. Neither did J see the magnificent, if simplistic, roasting machine the girl had talked of and the glow from the coals burning brilliantly in the firebox, which could easily be spotted through the barn doors. Of course, he totally missed, too, the shop sign “Fine Fellows Coffee” that dangled freely in doorway.

 

 

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