Nancy Rommelmann

Coffeehouse Chronicles

10.

Matt looked at his phone. The battery had dislodged when Cassi threw it. Seemed to be working. He put it in the pocket of his cargo shorts, hoping she would not wake up and start in. She really had an amazing ability to do that, to fight over nothing.

The cafe was four blocks away. Matt walked, and thought he’d screwed up marrying Cassi. He’d loved her, and she had needed her green card, but it was seeming now like a rash decision. His father implied as much, when Matt brought Cassi home for a visit the year before.

“She’s a beautiful girl, Matt,” his father said, not adding the “but”. It was late summer, a peaceful time on the farm, the harvest in, foals and calves in the fields, the air soft and thick. “Is it that you need to, son?”

Matt told his dad no, it wasn’t that. But there had been pressure from Cassi, to help her, to be a helpful man. And so Matt had been, and was being, and this helpfulness was being repaid by her staying out at night, and accusing him of what she herself was likely doing.

Do I care? Matt asked himself as he came to the cafe. There was a little girl holding a star-wand twirling by the register as the barista with the red hair handed the girl’s mother change.

“Hi,” the barista said. She held out a plate to Matt. On it was a swirled Danish, cut into pieces. “Try this. The baker brought samples.”

Matt took a piece. It tasted like maple and butter and crunchy sugar. He nodded at the barista as he chewed.

“Good, right?” she said, and handed him a paper cup for his coffee. He pumped it himself. As he went for cream, he noticed the woman in the baseball cap, no eyelashes.

Coffeehouse Chronicles

8.

Molly sat at her usual spot -- corner table, closest to the roll-up door -- and felt herself exhale, a loosening she experienced each time she came to the cafe. It was the fourth time this week, a good week. She liked to come early and see the same faces: the two men who laughed a lot together at the communal table, the morning barista; the woman who came in around the same time each morning and said a few words to the regulars. Molly had not yet caught her eye, but maybe soon, if it kept being a good week, a good month.

She sipped her coffee, black -- the chemo was making anything sweet taste like metal this week -- and appreciated the sameness, the no-slippage, the daily routine that took place yesterday and would take place tomorrow. The luxury of sameness. Also, to be around people not asking how she was feeling, how she was doing. She was in fact feeling well. She was still in the hellish big curve, but had a sense it was the second half of the curve; that in not too long the road would open to a straightaway. Preferably a scenic road! The 1 in California. Or what about Capri? There must be a beautiful seaside drive in Capri.

Molly looked into her coffee. Everything these days made her eyes wet, including this morning the gratitude that came with thinking she might get to Capri. 

Coffeehouse Chronicles

7.

James rolled up to the cafe at 6:50, a little earlier than usual. Well, twenty minutes earlier. He'd decided to ride his bike to work today. Not completely unusual, his offices were just downtown, but a somewhat hare-brained idea this week, when he'd have head out to the Bull Run Watershed near Mt. Hood; the feds were making noise again about wanting to cover the reservoirs, which was ridiculous, James thought, as he locked his bike next to hers. Well, he could get a ride out there with Brian.

There was only one customer ahead of James, a pregnant woman with a yoga mat. The girl in the green skirt was handing her change. James did not want his moment to pass so soon. He decided to study the pastry case. Not that he ever bought any pastry, or only a few times, that roll-up thing with the ham. Peering into the case, he was able to surreptitiously see her in profile. She wore her hair short, and yet in the back she had made two tiny pigtails, each no bigger than a pen cap. Just looking at them make James swallow. What was he going to do?

"Hi," May said, to the guy staring at the pastry. "Do you want something this morning?"

Marea, who was behind the counter grabbing yesterday's bank, saw the guy by the pastry case straighten. She'd seen him here before. Youngish, tall, and apparently this morning, struck mute.

"Or just the usual?" asked May.

"Just coffee, thanks," said James, taking the paper cup she handed him, hoping his face was not as flushed as it felt.

Marea stood with May, watching the young man walk out and to his bike. "Ooh, he likes you," she said.

"What? No," said May, but she was laughing.

Coffeehouse Chronicles

6.

Francisco pulled the Ram to the kerb. He was running late today. He preferred to be here by 6:15, and it was nearly 6:30. He opened the door of the double-cab and lifted out the plastic tray of donuts. Two dozen, plus three specials, today aqua-icing with chocolate sprinkles. American holidays called for specific colors, pink-with-red for Valentine's Day, green for St. Patrick's. Francisco was not sure why there was an Irish holiday in the States but none for Italians or Mexicans or Hondurans. Most days, which started at 2:30am, getting the donuts frying and decorated and delivered, Francisco picked the colors at random. It was commerce, not art.

"Good morning," said Francisco.

"Good morning," said May, as Francisco passed the length of the espresso bar, swapping today's full tray for yesterday's empty, and heading back out the front door within twenty seconds.  

May picked up the donuts. The aqua ones were hilarious. Who, one might wonder, would eat aqua food? But May did not wonder as she set them in the baking case, knowing the specials nearly always sold first.

Coffeehouse Chronicles

5.

Marea pulled open the cafe's glass door. If the cleaning gal looked like a wood sprite, the man on the settee looked like someone who lived inside a tree, like Father Time with a gin-blossomed nose. She'd seen him here several times this month, always just after opening. At first she thought he might be homeless. His white heard was frayed, and he had a timid look, as though he might not be welcome inside. May, who was the cafe manager; who had been the business's first employee six years ago and knew what was and was not good policy without asking, had several times chosen people to give coffee to, for instance, the silent smiling be-robed young man who Marea had seen all last summer, juggling just outside the cafe's back door, whom May had said was entirely harmless.

This old man, Marea decided today, was not homeless. His clothes were clean, he did not shake, he gave off no odor. He made eye contact with Marea, as he had since the first time she'd seen him. And while he always sat very still with his cup of coffee, no pastry, not reading the New York Times delivered each morning and sitting on Noguchi knock-off table in front of him, it seemed to Marea the man's mind was working quite hard to keep him in place.

Coffeehouse Chronicles

4.

The cleaning company wanted Anya to start at 6:30, but in spring and summer she came earlier. It was light enough to see the cigarette butts and empty cups, the loose pages of free newspapers and occasional oyster shell left on the patio. She held the biodegradable bag -- this city, Anya knew, had strict rules about environmental cleanliness -- in one hand and with the other picked up the trash. She also cleaned the street by the kerb, easier to do at 6:15 as not too many cars had yet parked, not too many people coming yet for their coffee. 

Marea saw the woman cleaning several times a week, but did not think the woman saw her. She did not appear to ever look up from her task. She looked to Marea like a  wood sprite, or maybe a Soviet gymnast, her build light and compact, her copper hair cut in a thick wedge, a style not seen much since the 1970s.

Marea, whose husband owned the coffee shop, had tried to make eye contact with the woman before, to no avail.

"What a gorgeous morning, right?" she said today. 

Anya looked up. Could she just smile and nod? But the woman was waiting for a response. 

"Please," Anya said. "You say more slow?"

Coffeehouse Chronicles

3.

Matt looked at the clock: 5:46. He had slept not at all. He'd been lying there looking at the ceiling since Cassi conked out a little after four, after three hours of her crying and recriminations and threats of going back to Brazil. It made no sense; she was the one who came home at one in the morning, slamming her purse on the kitchen table and starting the tape-loop she'd been on all month: where had he been the night before? Why did he have to study with that girl? She advanced on his desk.

"Meu gatão," she said, the once-endearment sounding so sour he thought she might spit.

"What do you want me to do, Cassandra?" he said, his eyes flicking to the cellphone on his desk. "You want me to not pass the boards?"

Matt was not fast enough; Cassi grabbed the phone and sped to the kitchen. She expected him to follow. He did not. He watched her hips lean against the sink as she read the names of people he had spoken with that day: Evan, Dario, mom...

"So now you are erasing?" she said, throwing the phone at the front door. Still Matt did not move. He was too tired, he could not hold algorithms in his head and the tantrums of spoiled 24-year-old from Sao Paolo. Or he could, he thought, watching the ceiling whiten, but did not want to anymore.

What he wanted was a cup of coffee. 

Coffeehouse Chronicles

2.

May had trouble again getting the key to turn. She meant to bring some spray graphite from home, but she'd been up until two painting and forgot. She drew the key from the lock and smoothed its grooves, thinking of what she'd finished, or nearly finished. She was pleased with it, very. She knew she might find the pleasure unfounded when she clicked the easel's clamp light on tonight at ten, always at ten. But she'd told herself that two nights ago and last night the portrait looked just as strong, stronger, perhaps, than he looked in real life. At thirty, Isabel was getting the sense that she could paint him as she wanted. She was thinking what she might do to the collar of his white t-shirt, maybe add a little rust, as she reinserted the key and it turned. It was 5:42. She'd have to hustle.

Coffeehouse Chronicles

1.

James did not want to read more into it. Yes, she was friendly to him. But maybe that was just the job. Waiting in line, he glanced out the front window at what he knew was her bike. Knew because he'd seen her gliding up one morning at 5:40, James in his car at that hour because a friend had needed a jump. He'd slowed down, not wanting her to see, but wanting to see her. She was wearing the short green skirt he'd seen her in before, he wanted to go slow enough to see her take off her helmet. But he felt creepy. What is she saw him? He thought about going around the block, or parking for 20 minutes and being her first customer of the day. Instead, he drove home and made himself stop in at his regular time.

 

Ristretto Roasters: Hot People Hot Coffee

A Love Story, with Pastry

Wherein I tell the true story of a chance meeting with Kim Boyce, a meeting that's led to continual laughter, sleepless nights, and one of these days, a bottle of wine.

 

Look, Ma, We're on TV!

Ristretto Nicolai Opens

We will be open today, 8am-6pm, pulling shots, selling beans, letting you bask in the gorgeousness. Want to shop? We have Hario kettles and pourover systems, and Schoolhouse Electric, well, I want everything. 2181 NW Nicolai St., PDX, 503-227-2866. More info at www.ristrettoroasters.com. See you there.

Coffee Roaster of the Year

We enjoyed our visit with Star Chefs earlier in the year. Antoinette Bruno and her crew were so fast, so smart, sophisticated and interested and interesting. For a follow-up, they decided to add three new categories to the Portland Rising Stars Awards, to be held December 5. One of the categories? Coffee Roaster. Here are the nominees; congratulations to all.

In case you want to join me, I'm rooting for Din xx

Brandon Smyth of Water Avenue Coffee
Sam Purvis of Coava Coffee
Brian Keefe of Stumptown Coffee
Din Johnson of Ristretto Roasters
Adam McGovern of Coffeehouse NW and Sterling Coffee

Coffee is Sexy (Apparently)

 

Another Bullshit Night in Suck City Hearts Ristretto Roasters

My daughter Tafv (pictured left) is working in the art department of the film adaptation of the Nick Flynn memoir, starring Robert DeNiro, Paul Dano and Julianne Moore. They're filming in New York. I send them six pounds of coffee a week. They sent their appreciation this morning. 

The Elements of Scrum

Ristretto Reading Series is pleased to present the book launch for The Elements of Scrum, a field guide to the practice of this popular software development methodology, co-authored by Chris Sims, one of the country’s leading scrum trainers, and author and business journalist Hillary Johnson, around these parts known as sister of Ristretto owner and roaster Din Johnson, also my husband.

Please join us tonight, Wednesday February 9, at Ristretto Roasters Williams, 3808 N. Williams Ave., in Portland. More info on the website, and at Ristretto Reading Series Facebook page.

Sure, sure, you're thinking, but what the heck is scrum? My favorite two answers yesterday: "something vaguely dirty" and "a Scandinavian rum." For answers, come on by tonight -- we'll be pouring wine -- and get a little primer below.

 

Scrum is an agile methodology that helps software development teams learn to achieve the team equivalent of Abraham Maslow’s concept of “self-actualization”, a higher state of being characterized by flow, performance, synergy and happiness. Scrum is named after the rugby field phenomenon where the whole team locks arms to press forward as one, and it has applications beyond the world of software, in any work environment where small teams of people collaborate to get things done.

Chris Sims is a Certified Scrum Trainer and agile coach who has been helping teams improve their happiness and productivity since the turn of the century. He has made a living in roles such as: scrum master, product owner, engineering manager, C++ developer, musician, and auto mechanic. Chris is the founder of Agile Learning Labs and a frequent presenter at agile conferences.

Hillary Louise Johnson is an author and former business journalist who has written on innovation, technology and pop culture for Inc Magazine and the Los Angeles Times. As an intellectual property consultant she has drafted numerous technology patents. She has been editor-in-chief of several print and online publications and is now Agile Learning Labs’ creative director.

This event, as are all Ristretto Reading events, is free and open to everyone.

Give a Little, Get a Lot

 
 

Books, Books, Books, Ice Cream

Read Patti Smith's "Just Kids" while in El Salvador. Loved loved loved. Get it.

My review of Daphne Kalotay's "Russian Winter," from this past Sunday's Oregonian.

And my novel, "The Bad Mother," in on Amazon, in paperback and Kindle. I would love if you buy it BUT not yet: I saw some glitches in the first edition which, in the brave new world that is digital publishing, can be fixed rather quickly. I'll give the sign when we're good to go.

Until then, a few shots from El Sal. Yes, we were there for the coffee, but here we are eating ice cream, first, Leticia and I in Ahuachupan, and second Din, outside of Metapan.

 

 

Ristretto Reading Series: Kim Boyce, "Good to the Grain," October 29

The only thing that could make us as happy as having Kim Boyce's outstanding pastry in our pastry cases every day, is if she read for us from her spectacular baking book, Good to the Grain. And maybe let us throw her a little party.

So we asked. She said yes.

Please join us on Friday, October 29, at 6 PM, at Ristretto Roasters Williams, for coffee, pastry, reading and Q & A with Kim Boyce, pastry chef extraordinaire.

Want a preview? Check out "Afternoon Delight," a profile of Kim in Willamette Week (Oct. 27).

Kim Boyce is a former pastry chef at Spago and Campanile. While at Campanile, she helped Nancy Silverton with her Sandwich Book (Knopf, 2002) and has cooked alongside chefs like Mario Batali, Claudia Fleming, Lidia Bastianich, Alice Waters, and Anthony Bourdain. She has contributed to Bon Appetit and has been featured in the Los Angeles Times on numerous occasions (both as subject and contributor). In 2010, Kim and husband, chef Thomas Boyce, relocated to Portland with their two children.

This event is free and open to everyone, as are all Ristretto Reading Series events.

Coming November 11: Steve Dublanica and Keep the Change: A Clueless Tipper's Quest to Become the Guru of Gratuity