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I grin from ear to ear just to hear his voice. He’s the coolest dude I know.
“Is the investor already getting worried about his ROI?” I ask, nodding to my customer and handing over a double espresso.
Pops laughs. “I hope so, your investor’s on a fixed income now.”
I laugh while taking more coffee orders and signaling my staff for a replacement on the re
gister. I shuffle over to man the espresso machine so the customers don’t have to interact with someone talking on the phone.
“Fixed income. That’s cute, old man. Where are you right now? Teeing off at eight a.m. on a Friday?”
Pops scoffs. “Golf is for suckers. I’m learning how to kayak. Lot more available young honeys out on the water than at that crusty country club.”
I hand off an order and rush over to pour some fresh Nicaraguan beans into the commercial burr grinder.
Ready to change the subject, I say, “Tell the jittery investor that the coffee addicts are here in droves. Can I put your order in?”
The old man laughs, “No sirree, I got my Sanka right here in my trusty thermos.”
This gives me a full-body cringe while I’m grinding my precious hand-picked beans. I groan theatrically, which makes Pops laugh. “Pops, you’re killin’ me. Please don’t drink that swill. Come on in after you’re back on land and I’ll make you something that will rock your world.”
He chuckles. “Nah, son, I’ll be chasing the ladies at the boat house when I’m done here,” he says.
“Aw, man, it’s too early in the day for you to be putting that image in my head,” I say, while making a sweep through the dining area to wipe down tables.
“Suit yourself. You might not be such a prude about it if you made time to chase a lady yourself,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I know, I know. But Shelby and I were on the outs for a while. We’re better as friends, though. Listen, I’m on fire over here. I’ll see you for dinner tonight?”
We’re running short of Guatemalan brew, so I head back to the storeroom to get more for grinding. One of my cardinal rules is we don’t grind a single bean until we run out of that particular coffee.
I hope Pops’s chef has something hearty planned for dinner tonight, because I’m going to earn it.
He and I have a standing dinner date every week to catch up with each other. Maybe it’s not an enviable way for a single, not-terrible-looking dude such as myself to spend a Friday night, but I live for those dinners. The man is my hero.
“See you then, but feel free to cancel if you meet a lovely lady friend,” he cajoles.
I shake my head. “Bye, Pops. And don’t say ‘lady friend.’ Lot of women hate that.”
He likes to bust my chops, but I can take it. He’s been good to me.
So of course I had to honor him with the name of my shop.
He’s a classy guy, and this place reflects that in every way. I personally polished every inch of glass, stainless steel and mahogany. I installed every blown glass pendant light from Italy. Most importantly, we roast our own beans, and every bean has a story.
Coffee beans are my passion, just like studying the brain and helping people are Pops’s main passions in life.
“Excuse me, but don’t you have any decaf?” I whirl around from cleaning tables to see a middle-aged man in a power suit, looking like he’s in a hurry.
I smile and explain, “No, sir, we don’t serve decaf coffee.”
“Why the hell would you not? That’s terrible for business. Don’t you know lots of people have high blood pressure and can’t have caffeine? What about those people?” he huffs.
I swallow back my urge to clap back at this knucklehead, but instead I patiently explain, “The de-caffeinating process uses chemicals that cause…” But he cuts me off.
“Look, pal, I don’t give two shits about chemicals, and you’ll be out of business in less than a week,” he says.
I take a deep breath and continue to smile. “May I interest you in an herbal tea to calm your blood pressure?”
