“I have three options that look good. All mom-and-pop places with great ratings and longevity.” He rotated his tablet around and the pictures that stared back at me were the epitome of a snooty coffee shop. The coffee might be amazing, but the atmosphere was the antithesis of what I’d built this show on.
“I was thinking more like here.” I showed him my phone with the history of Café Om on the screen.
“Chain.” He said the word with disgust. And it was true. We never went to chains. It wasn’t our thing. But Café Om? It was different than other chains. I’d heard about the amazing things they did for their community and the owner was hands-on. It wasn’t a conglomerate or overly commercial. It was a guy who loved coffee, and even more than that—loved his community. It would be perfect.
“Bullshit,” I grumbled back, loving the way his eyes widened, like this wasn’t a typical response he’d get from me. It was.
“I’d never get it past the station.” He slid his tablet to me again.
“Neither would this foo-foo snobbery,” I countered.
“How would I sell your idea?” He sighed after a solid two minutes of silence. We were both extremely stubborn when it came to our positions as far as work went, but today I wasn’t going to cave and he had to have seen that in me.
“Café Om is a small chain, with a very active owner. True. BUT there is one location unlike the others.” I found the picture that best made my case and set it in front of him. It was a new location in a very unique setting and it looked adorable. “Quaint town—check. The only location with their own menu—check. Still the best coffee in the country—double check. The place where presidential candidates always stop on tour—check. It has all the things needed to make it unique while having a name that people will be drawn to.”
“It is a long trip for one episode.” As if his Route 66 idea hadn’t been filled with those.
“And we can find another place either there or on the way. You are creative.”
“And in the future—”
“I will push for your cross-country tour.” Given an entire season, it could be fun.
Three
Stan
I sat in a corner of the coffee shop and sipped the flat white I’d made myself. It was just before six and the shop didn’t open for another hour. The kitchen was humming with activity but the front of the house was empty. Some of the staff wouldn't arrive for another few minutes while others would come just prior to opening.
The first two months as manager of Abrar’s latest Café Om had come and gone, and it had been a huge learning curve, not only for the newly hired staff, but also for me. Living in a new town and settling into my apartment as well as hiring and training staff had been challenging, but I relished it.
My life had been upended moving to a small town, but it was my choice, and after having a criminal knock you unconscious, this was a tiny blip. A blip I was so looking forward to. Some of the locals had been wary having heard a coffee shop chain was leasing space in their oldest building in the center of town.
But Abrar’s designer had worked magic. He’d scoured local secondhand shops as well as online antique sites. Battered old signs that read, ‘Coffee,’ ‘Coffee Shop,’ and ‘Fresh Brewed Coffee’ adorned the walls while the original door handles and light fixtures added to the old-time feel. The guy had also discovered the original front doors stored in what was to become the Café Om kitchen.
The town’s inhabitants had been invited to send photos and other memorabilia of the building over the decades and we’d displayed them on the walls.
I'd had to do a lot of PR convincing the community that their beloved town wasn’t going to be taken over by conglomerates with strip malls being built along its main street.
The members of the town council were invited to a pre-opening event where we’d plied them with coffee and sugary treats before sending them home with goodie bags. And we’d had an open day of sorts for the general public where the crowd had sampled cookies and pastries and thimble-sized coffees.
Abrar made sure we had the most up-to-date shiny equipment, but just as in the original Café Om, he’d bought an old-fashioned espresso machine so customers could experience the ‘whoosh.’
We’d introduced a tasting menu which was a new concept here, but it was getting more popular. Everyone liked the suggested pairings of which baked goods to have with particular coffees.
I cast my gaze around the shop landing on the chalkboard which displayed the menu and daily and weekly specials. After running my eyes down the list that included red velvet cake, pecan pie, fruit cobblers, icebox pie, and sugar pie, as well as the usual assortment of cookies and pastries, I was satisfied everything was in order.
A metal something crashed to the kitchen floor, followed by a curse, but I resisted the urge to help out. They’d deal with it, and if not, they’d come get me.
Without thinking, I ran my finger over the table top and checked for dust. It was a habit of a lifetime, especially after working in a grimy city.
Closing my eyes, I ran over the list of things to get done today, starting with the daily staff prep talk before we opened. I wouldn’t get back to the apartment until after the café closed but having it upstairs was a Godsend. No commuting.
The only downside was not having made any meaningful connections, apart from the staff. I missed doing volunteer work and grabbing a beer after work with friends. But hopefully that would happen eventually. There was a community center that held exercise, dance, art, and creative writing classes, so that was a way to meet people, and members of a book club met at the library once a week.
I suppose part of me was reluctant to meet new people. Getting peppered with questions as to what prompted me to move to their small town made me anxious. Fibbing wasn’t an option and telling the truth might make people suspicious, thinking I associated with criminals and therefore potentially was one.
After glancing at my watch, I got up to finish my coffee on the patio out back. It looked onto a rose garden but there were no flowers as yet. The local library had photos from a hundred years ago showing the different-colored roses tended by the building’s owner. Not being much of a gardener, I’d researched online and had a local gardening enthusiast help prepare the soil and plant rose bushes. I was looking forward to them blooming.
The phone dinged. Please don’t let it be someone calling in sick. But when I glanced at the screen, the day suddenly improved. Abrar!
“Stan,” he said before I could get a word out.
“It’s great to hear your voice, Abrar.” It was a little piece of home, even though my new home was where I wanted to be.
“How’s it going?”
“Great. I’m loving this place, and I’m confident I made the right decision.”
“I’m glad. Life’s not too slow for you after the big city?” I hesitated and Abrar charged on ahead. “Stan, if you’re not happy, I can bring you back and create a job for you.”
“That’s sweet of you, boss. No, I’m loving it here, but with a new town, home, coffee shop, and staff, I haven’t had much opportunity to get out and socialize. Apart from the meeting and chatting to customers.” It’d been a little lonely, but by the time I got upstairs to my place, I was exhausted. “Now that things are running smoothly, I can enjoy small town life.”