Barista

Tom's consumption of coffee doubled after he became captivated by the stunning beauty of the barista at the coffee shop near his office.

Tom is a barista.

Tom works at a cafe as a barista.

Feeling a bit sedentary, I took my second walk in the morning of the 8th of November of 2021. By around 10:30, I was at the pizzeria. The pizza vendor was a chunky Hindu Sri Lankan. Then, at the cafe, I was drinking coffee-infused iced oat milk. A couple, both brown-haired, sat at the table across the room. The man in a green jacket, light brown pants, and grey garden clogs was in good shape. I wanted to see him nude. The woman was wearing a red scarf. He was reading a fat book, whilst she was using a tablet computer. A trio of Mandarin-speakers seated themselves at a table next to the couple. A muscular Arab man who was frequent at the cafe entered. Chris the half-English half-Japanese barista in a black shirt with the red-lettered word "PARIS" and in green pants entered.

Max the barista at the cafe before had her hair tinted blue. She cut it. Then, she had it tinted raspberry red. Now, it is orange. She wants to dye it purple. She is Chinese. She is like an anime character.

Francis, a Métis barista at the cafe on Lulu Island, said, "Machines are taking over! Machines are taking over!"

On the day before my birthday of 2022, I ate a Yummy Meat pizza at the pizzeria, and at the cafe, I drank a glass of black iced tea and I tried a cup of pistachio latte with oat milk. I told the Vietnamese barista Jessica there that I could really taste the pistachio in it.

In the afternoon of the 22nd of February of 2022, I ate three slices at the pizzeria on Lulu Island with an iced tea. At the cafe, the tables were full, but Don gave me his table, as he left. I was drinking iced green tea. There is a new barista named Sebastian, who is half-Austrian and half-Mayan, as he has Mexican connections. He was born in Austria and still carries an EU passport.

In the morning of the 3rd of March of 2022, at the cafe, I had barbecue potato chips, a cinnamon coffee cake, and iced black tea. I saw an ex-barista, the Mexican Lizbeth, who now teaches dancing. I thought that she had moved out of Lulu Island, as I had not seen her for a long time. Max, a Chinese barista, in green, sat at my table, as she did her psychology homework on her laptop before her shift started. Later in the morning after eleven o'clock, I returned to the mall, to the pizzeria, for a pesto cheese pizza slice and iced tea.

In the morning of the 12th of March of 2022, I took a long route going to the cafe. I saw Eurasian children with brownish hair in the Lulu Island neighbourhood. I saw that the cherry blossoms had not yet bloomed in the school yard. I sat in the gazebo to gaze at the grey-sky landscape. I saw my big neighbour in a grey jacket and black pants, as he looked like promenading fat Maitreya Buddha. At the cafe, drinking my iced black tea, I chatted with the brunette barista Sarah from Montreal about how the cherry blossoms seemed late this year. I went to the quiet pizzeria, and Rose the Filipina was unusually there on a Saturday. Eating pizza, her son John-Paul was there, who did not want to go to martial-arts class today, because of feeling too lazy. I ate a slice and drank cold diet cola.

"From behind the counter of this provincial train station coffee shop, Joanna was barista and unofficial shrink to wildly varied London-bound travellers," writes author Laline Paull. Confessions of a Barista on Platform 1 was published on February 9 by The Firle Press [...].

I helped out in the business while I was at school—we all did, whether it was washing up or baristaing or clearing the tables for Dad and washing them down when the shop closed—but this one night I was meant to be working a late shift when I had a chance to play in a concert. […] Are you still OK for another half-hour lesson on baristaing, tonight? […] ‘It’s advanced baristaing—an extra,’ he admitted.

Nevertheless, we’ll both be done with barista-ing soon.

We hadn’t exchanged a word since our stupid tiff at TSB—we’d just baristaed side by side in silence, which isn’t easy when your workspace is the size of a broom closet.

If pure chance guided me to glory in the heady world of competitive barista-ing, the rewards came to be measured in frustration.

But it was crappy of me to steal instead of bartending or barista-ing or temping or something.

Barista Boy grins and goes back to barista-ing.

I nodded to Mary, where she was working the frothing machine like she’d been barista-ing for much longer than a month.

When she’s not barista-ing, she’s writing scripts for murder mystery dinner events.

“How was barista-ing?” “Same as always. A few more burns, a few more tips.”

Somewhere right now, behind the counter at a McDonald’s or delivering pizza for Domino’s or barista-ing at Starbucks, there may be a guy with a gaggle of fantastic ideas for screenplays, Broadway shows, computer software, or, yeah, even healthcare!

Because I can’t fight crime every day, I spent Tuesday and Wednesday doing what I get paid for: barista-ing.

Actually I hear nothing but orders, shouts of / disembodied names / disembodied people / Barista-ing, hard on the legs

It’s easy—I turn out to be a sort of savant at barista-ing. […] Between customers I instruct her in the fine art of barista-ing.

Along the halls, stories were muttered of graduates turned down from barista-ing, pool attending, dishwashing.