Summerfield: Chapter 12

Today I had the grueling task of interviewing local newbies and experienced professionals in the art of making coffee, baking pastries, and ringing up customers. I asked Josh, my land lady, and even the older ladies I had met if they knew anyone who was capable or at least responsible enough to handle one of the jobs. They recommended a few teenagers, college students, and others who had experience in a kitchen or service job. I had a help wanted sign up in my shop for a week and had a notice put in the newspaper.

Overall, it went fairly well. I hired a pastry chef, three baristas, and two servers. It was hard to know if I made the right choices, but based on their prior work experience and their references, at least they seemed like decent, hard-working people.

I had been emailing a self-proclaimed coffee expert whose job is to be the go-between coffee bean farmers and coffee companies or coffee shops. He was an Italian immigrant who came here as a teenager. He started with knowledge of Italian coffee: espressos, cappuccinos, etc., but became a barista, then a coffee shop owner, and now a coffee ambassador for various countries. If there was someone who could find me the perfect coffee bean for my shop, it was him. I found his website online and we had been chatting and emailing online since I graduated from college. Even though he was only a few years older, he was more like a mentor than an equal.

I was looking forward to finally meeting him in person the next day. I wanted his opinions and advice on so many aspects of my business: approval of my hiring choices, décor, method of making the coffee, and of course, the actual coffee beans I would be using.

At around 5:00, I was done with hiring and everything I wanted to accomplish for the day. I stepped outside for some air with a fresh cup of Joe in hand. I breathed in for a moment. For all its faults, the air sure was cleaner here.

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