The forty minute trial starts with me putting on a faded polo shirt over my dress and tying an apron round my waist. The shirt smells strongly of other people.
The managers name is Melanie. Melanie shows me how to use the coffee machines and how to ring up orders on the till. There is still a queue at the counter and I feel like I am the in line entertainment. My cheeks burn as I stand with my back to everyone. I can feel my cheeks burn and this make them burn even more. I imagine my face right now, glowing, bright red, like a beacon of embrassement.
'Do you make coffee at your current job?' she asks me.
'Yeah, but we use cafetiers,' I tell her. 'None of this newfangled malarky.' I say this as a kind of joke, but Melanie looks at me with a blank expression.
'Er….I actually think Espresso machines are older than cafetiers. I think cafetiers were invented quite recently. Comparitively I mean…' Melanie tells me.
I give a surprised but interested look and don't say anything.
'…and if you need any help with anything don't be afraid to come and find me, or ask Alex here.' She moves an open palm in the direction of the camp barista currently serving people. He looks over his shoulder at me, smiles wildly and says Hi.
After she has left, I stand behind Alex, motionless, not sure what to do. Alex is serving. I see some customers leave there table and pick up a tray from the counter to go over to clear it up. I come back to the counter with the tray, unsure of what to do with it. There's no queue now and Alex shows me where the dirty cups and plates go.
People come in. People leave. Serving. Collecting coffee mugs. It's the same as the restaurant, I think to myself. I chat to Alex. Alex loves working at the café, he tells me. He says it's the friendliest place he has ever worked. He asks me about the restaurant and why I'm leaving. I don't want to say I have a crush on a racist kitchen porter that works there, but if I give him some vague answer about not getting on with people there then he could think 'what's going to stop her from getting on with people here?' I give him a different answer about wanting to get more experience.
At the end of the forty minutes the tail end of the lunchtime rush are just finishing their drinks. Melanie comes out from behind her black door and asks if I want to follow her. She tells me to get changed out of the polo shirt and apron and then we'll have a coffee and a quick chat about how everything went. We sit in the café and she asks me what I want. I have a regular latte and she has a double Espresso. Every movement she makes at the coffee maker seems completely natural and professional. She is at one with the coffee maker. I imagine her staying in the café after dark and sleeping next to the coffee maker with a big blanket covering the both of them.
She makes the coffees and brings them over on a tray. She drops two cubes of brown sugar into her double Espresso and stirs it gently, but somehow precisely. She asks me how I thought it went, explains what kind of hours I would be working were they to hire me and asks if I have any questions. I still haven't thought of any but I feel like she’ll hold it against me if I don't ask anything. Like it will reduce my chances of being hired..
'Are there any opportunities for, I don't know, like, promotion? I mean I know it's only an independent café but I was just wondering…'
'Right,' she looks right at me in a very business-like manner, 'well, like you said, we're an independent business. We don't have a chain of stores like Starbucks or anything that we can send you off to manage. But, you know, we run lots of different events here. Live music. Art show cases. And we're always keen to let you experience the more managerial side to how the café runs.
'I hope this answers your question.'
The managers name is Melanie. Melanie shows me how to use the coffee machines and how to ring up orders on the till. There is still a queue at the counter and I feel like I am the in line entertainment. My cheeks burn as I stand with my back to everyone. I can feel my cheeks burn and this make them burn even more. I imagine my face right now, glowing, bright red, like a beacon of embrassement.
'Do you make coffee at your current job?' she asks me.
'Yeah, but we use cafetiers,' I tell her. 'None of this newfangled malarky.' I say this as a kind of joke, but Melanie looks at me with a blank expression.
'Er….I actually think Espresso machines are older than cafetiers. I think cafetiers were invented quite recently. Comparitively I mean…' Melanie tells me.
I give a surprised but interested look and don't say anything.
'…and if you need any help with anything don't be afraid to come and find me, or ask Alex here.' She moves an open palm in the direction of the camp barista currently serving people. He looks over his shoulder at me, smiles wildly and says Hi.
After she has left, I stand behind Alex, motionless, not sure what to do. Alex is serving. I see some customers leave there table and pick up a tray from the counter to go over to clear it up. I come back to the counter with the tray, unsure of what to do with it. There's no queue now and Alex shows me where the dirty cups and plates go.
People come in. People leave. Serving. Collecting coffee mugs. It's the same as the restaurant, I think to myself. I chat to Alex. Alex loves working at the café, he tells me. He says it's the friendliest place he has ever worked. He asks me about the restaurant and why I'm leaving. I don't want to say I have a crush on a racist kitchen porter that works there, but if I give him some vague answer about not getting on with people there then he could think 'what's going to stop her from getting on with people here?' I give him a different answer about wanting to get more experience.
At the end of the forty minutes the tail end of the lunchtime rush are just finishing their drinks. Melanie comes out from behind her black door and asks if I want to follow her. She tells me to get changed out of the polo shirt and apron and then we'll have a coffee and a quick chat about how everything went. We sit in the café and she asks me what I want. I have a regular latte and she has a double Espresso. Every movement she makes at the coffee maker seems completely natural and professional. She is at one with the coffee maker. I imagine her staying in the café after dark and sleeping next to the coffee maker with a big blanket covering the both of them.
She makes the coffees and brings them over on a tray. She drops two cubes of brown sugar into her double Espresso and stirs it gently, but somehow precisely. She asks me how I thought it went, explains what kind of hours I would be working were they to hire me and asks if I have any questions. I still haven't thought of any but I feel like she’ll hold it against me if I don't ask anything. Like it will reduce my chances of being hired..
'Are there any opportunities for, I don't know, like, promotion? I mean I know it's only an independent café but I was just wondering…'
'Right,' she looks right at me in a very business-like manner, 'well, like you said, we're an independent business. We don't have a chain of stores like Starbucks or anything that we can send you off to manage. But, you know, we run lots of different events here. Live music. Art show cases. And we're always keen to let you experience the more managerial side to how the café runs.
'I hope this answers your question.'
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