People think a café is about caffeine, but it’s really about faith.
Every morning, people line up at my counter believing I can make their day better in twelve ounces or less. Some pray with exactitude — two pumps of vanilla, oat milk, 130 degrees — and some surrender entirely: “Whatever you recommend.”
Either way, they’re confessing. I’m the high priestess of the espresso machine, and this is my church of small awakenings.
The freshmen come in clutching their phones like rosaries, rehearsing orders from TikTok. “A venti caramel thing with, like, cold foam? But make it dairy-free because I’m trying to be mindful?”
They look terrified until I nod. I remember that fear — the kind you get when you’re young enough to think everyone’s watching.
The professors order double espressos and talk too loudly about deadlines. They believe in bitterness as a virtue. Their cups are communion wafers of self-importance. They never tip, but they always compliment the crema, as if that absolves them.
There’s the woman who orders decaf but still asks for extra shots — the theological version of wanting the ritual, not the repercussions. And the man who insists his cappuccino be “authentic Italian.” I use the same beans as everyone else, but I give him extra foam and a flourish on top. Religion, I’ve learned, is mostly presentation.
My own faith used to be theater. I sang in choirs, wore robes, knew the difference between gospel truth and harmony. These days, I find more revelation in the hiss of steamed milk than I ever did in a sermon. The machine exhales like a tired god, and for a few seconds, the world feels orderly.
Every cup has a creed.
The dark roast drinkers are Stoics. The latte lovers, humanists. The frappuccino crowd believes in reincarnation because they come back three times a day.
Then there’s him — the grad student who always orders “whatever you’re having.”
I tried to scare him off with black coffee once.
He drank it, winced, and said, “Bold choice.”
Next day he was back, same order, same grin that hovers between curious and reckless.
I’ve started testing him. Macchiato, cortado, cold brew, café au lait. He drinks them all, uncomplaining.
“You’re learning about people,” I said once.
He shrugged. “You learn more by tasting than talking.”
I didn’t ask what he was studying. He looks like philosophy or physics — one of those degrees that start with hubris and end with debt.
Last week, he brought a friend who whispered, “That’s her,” like I was a myth.
He laughed, embarrassed. “I’m writing my thesis about her,” he explained. “About how choice defines consciousness.”
I told him that was the most pretentious thing anyone had ever said while wearing Vans.
He said, “Maybe, but you inspired it.”
Now I’m hyperaware of every cup I pour. Am I an example? A case study? A metaphor for free will? If he asks for “whatever you’re having” again, is that faith or laziness?
This morning he came in late. The rush was over, the café humming that peaceful afterglow that feels like exhalation. He took his usual stool by the window.
“Whatever you’re having,” he said, smiling.
I poured two cups of house blend with a splash of milk — nothing fancy, just honest. “Sometimes,” I said, “the theology’s simple.”
He nodded, blew on the surface, sipped. “Perfect.”
The word hung between us, unearned and generous.
After he left, I wiped the counter and thought about how people chase meaning in grand gestures — miracles, revelations, lightning bolts of certainty — when most of it’s here, in repetition. The steady ritual of boiling water and ground beans. The smell that promises you can try again.
The café isn’t a church. It’s a heartbeat.
Every morning I unlock the door, grind the beans, prime the steamer, and listen to the world come back to life one sip at a time.
That’s enough belief for me.
