Behind the Pastry Case
An inside look at Berkeley’s Cafe Milano
As my third year at UC Berkeley approached, I canceled my flight from Los Angeles to Oakland so that I could drive back with my friend Dylan to campus, which was finally resuming in-person classes. The two of us had become close as baristas at our job at Romeo’s Coffee. It is a bougie cafe on Telegraph Avenue that proudly displays the American flag and was one of the few places that remained fully operational during the peak of COVID. They had kept us employed for the majority of the pandemic despite our visits home. We were surprised when we returned from a brief summer break to find out, from our favorite manager, that our jobs had been slyly given away. The owner could barely face us.
Dylan soon found another barista job at Cafe Milano, just across the street from the Cal campus, and I found a waitress job at a brunch spot closer to my apartment in downtown. It wasn’t long, though, before she was bugging me about working together again: we felt the need to re-conjure the camaraderie we had found through work. It’s not often you foster that type of friendship. As it happens, soon enough the brunch spot abruptly stopped giving me shifts. I later found out that I had mixed up my tips with someone else’s, which came wrapped in old receipts with our names scribbled on in barely legible handwriting. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dylan had engineered to have me be fired — such was the pull of our friendship—but I should also admit: I was an awful waitress.
So, a little over a month into my third year at Berkeley, I found myself at Cafe Milano in the most informal interview of my life. Dylan told me to ask for Enrique or Jorge before I came in because she still hadn’t figured out who the manager was. I surveyed the scene: a jumble of rickety marble top tables, cracked wooden beams reaching up to the height of a large tree growing inside, which in turn support a second level of seating. The structure of the lower level creates a maze-like path, which I followed that day past a pastry case towards the counter. I would soon find out for myself that not much about this place makes sense.
I approached the man standing by a cash register and multiple variations of iPads, and asked for Jorge.
“Oh that’s me,” he said, a little confused.
I told him why I was there and he smiled with recognition. Dylan had already told him about me. He walked over to the back to inform Enrique that someone was here for an interview.
I watched the two of them emerge from the back. Enrique was probably wearing the dark blue T-shirt that gets worn so much that his son has given him the nickname “blueberry”. I suspect it has less to do with the shirt and more to do with his small round figure and plump face. His skin crinkles at the corners of his circular eyes after years of sarcastic humor. Jorge went back to the counter and I stood by the stairs talking with Enrique. He asked me a few basic questions in Spanish and I started responding in Spanglish. He was already making fun of my American accent. This endearing teasing would become a constant soon after I got hired.
In retrospect, the key question he asked was: “Do you want to help with the baking?”
He lit up when I said yes because, for some reason, no one else wanted to do it.
Six a.m.: RING RING RING
Annoyed, I reach over to turn off the generic Apple alarm on my phone. I can’t allow myself the extra five minutes because I’ve learned at this point that it’ll turn into thirty too easily. I motivate myself to get up by running a familiar conversation through my head.
“Really?! You must be up so early” is what everyone says to me when I tell them I bake for Milano, but honestly, I don’t mind. Before this job, I didn’t regularly watch the sunrise. Now I get to see Berkeley in a completely new light, with the clouds often painted in the cotton-candy hues of the first morning rays.
After my alarm wakes me, I jump out of bed to do my makeup, choose my outfit, and put on my headphones. Warm tones of R&B brace me for the crisp morning. The sun will be up by the time my shift is over, but I always reluctantly bring an extra jacket for the cold morning trek through the familiar bends of the university-built forest. Three years in the Bay Area and I’m still annoyed by the constant breeze.
Once I see through a clearing to Sather Gate, the floor-to-ceiling glass doors with “Cafe Milano’’ printed in antique red cursive are the only thing between me and hot coffee. I succumb to the comforting flow of warm air that pushes against the morning chill. I shout out “buenos dias!” to the ever-present Jorge over the sound of R&B in my headphones. Jorge says “buenos dias” back and starts to say a few other things, to which I respond to by taking my headphones off. Pandora’s Cumbia Mix radio wafts over the speakers and fills my ears instead.
“Vas a la panadería?” Jorge repeats, hopeful that today I’ll say no and keep him company at the cafe. His question refers to the makeshift bakery in a cramped space at the back of a Subway located a block across the street. Our boss, the owner of Cafe Milano and apparently a franchisee, makes us share the oven. It’s a strange set up, I know.
“Sí, como siempre,” I inform Jorge before beginning my search for the Subway keys.
They are never near where I left them last and I assume they’ve been misplaced by one of the too-many people who have access to them. Our boss has told me repeatedly that he’s getting me my own copy, but I hardly believe there’s space for small details like keys in his busy mind; he can’t even ensure that our checks don’t bounce almost every other pay period. As I search for the keys, Jorge attempts to stall me. He reminds me to clock in and make my coffee, then starts to tell me a funny story about Dylan being late the other day. He then walks down the brown-tiled aisle from behind the pastry case to the back office and finds the keys for me. Before handing them over, Jorge asks if I know the song playing.
When I say I don’t, he exclaims, “this is Mario’s song!”
He points out the line, “If the waves of the ocean turned to beer I’d die happy”. I envision our coworker Mario swimming happily in beer and laugh while I make my latte. Jorge’s extensive knowledge of lyrics always fascinates me. He’s able to define everyone through music. Dylan and I quickly were nicknamed after the song La rubia y la morena after making it a habit to smoke spliffs together in the cafe’s parking lot — something about her blond hair and my brown skin. He then tells me to take my time frothing my milk before I leave to the bakery because, “in life there is too much work”.
As I grab a fresh bagel to go with my drink, we make conversation with the other early birds on the opposite side of the counter. At this hour, only the UC Berkeley custodial staff fills in the space between the pastry case and the islands of empty study tables in front of us. They talk to the two of us in Spanish, but most of their attention is directed towards Jorge. Laughter bounces between them, huddled together like childhood friends after years of making the same coffee run. They tip their friend well too. Jorge has said it’s his dream to work for the university — for better job security. As I’m about to leave, he asks if I want to change the music; some people have said they don’t think mariachi should be playing in a cafe and, most days, it’s not worth the complaints.
“It’s not even mariachi,” Jorge says, rolling his eyes. The ability to make these distinctions is a true Mexican trait. I frown and put on Amy Winehouse Radio, finding a British analogue to the Mexican singer swimming in beer. Finally, I exit Milano through the back door to the cafe’s parking lot and walk towards the street to get to the ‘bakery’. I always feel ridiculous when I get to the crosswalk. The eyes of a few students on their way to get a coffee before their 8 a.m. class follow me as I carry a gallon of canola oil for the various sweet concoctions.
At 7:20 a.m., the part of the city usually bustling with activity is still sleeping while I set the oven on preheat. The Subway is empty so it’s just me, my headphones, and the batch of bread my coworker Ricardo left there an hour ago. Like Dylan, I still haven’t figured out the job descriptions for most of the men at the cafe. They pop up at seemingly random times to fulfill the various odd jobs my boss commissions to keep the cafe profitable. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch a glimpse of Ricardo’s shining belt buckle and cowboy hat as he speeds off from Subway to the Berkeley hills on his motorcycle to help with construction projects. I smile to myself as I envision his giant knuckles kneading focaccia dough. I suppose his lack of sleep contributes to his eccentrically weird personality. I then queue up some of SZA’s songs and slip into the back of the establishment to weigh out the measurements for brownies:
- 6 pounds of sugary chocolate mix in the bowl to make a well
- 1 pound of oil
- 1 pound and two ounces of hot water
It all comes naturally. The movements flow through me easily, as if I were dancing. The second two ingredients are poured into the well of sugary brown mix. Then slow circular motions, steady to the beat of the music, to combine it without getting clumpy. Carefully, I pour the concoction into two separate pans, one for each cafe my boss owns in Berkeley. I know no one can disturb me as I strut over to the oven, the pans expertly balanced atop the palms of my hands, and I’m singing I wish I was a normal girl out loud while I set the brownies down into the oven. The glow of the bulbs radiate onto me as I swivel around to start the muffin batters, my timing prompting me to complete at least one before the timer rings. It’s not always brownies warming and growing in the oven; it could be lemon cakes or strawberry shortbread, or cookies, or whatever toothsome treat I didn’t bake earlier that week. It’s become my responsibility to produce a confectionery family for the cafe’s daily needs.
By the time I’ve tucked my mixes away into the fridge and my pastries are all laid out on the Subway counter, steam crescendoing beautifully, Mario walks in to help me carry everything. He smiles to reveal a skyline of jagged teeth with the strong scent of cologne following him. Despite his slim stature and an unexplained limp, he’s always happy to help me. He tells me stories about his mother whose name he keeps tattooed inside a heart on his chest and jokes around with me while we stack the pastries onto a cart. As I follow him out of Subway, he grabs a bag of chips as a friendly surprise for Dylan. She is surely acquiring a free mocha before her 9 a.m. class. As we cross the street he looks at me and tells me how impressed he is by our ability to juggle school and work. Meanwhile, he teaches us how to look at life with lightheartedness, smiling with the glittering metal cart of pastries jostling on the sidewalk in front of him.
When we’re back at the cafe, Jorge helps me organize my creations into the chilled linoleum pastry case before letting them find their home in the stomachs of satisfied customers, and more importantly, coworkers. Tommy, who only works at the cafe on Mondays and Tuesdays, shuffles his compressed body out from the kitchen where he makes the breakfast burritos. His cheeks protrude from his face when he sees his favorite, a fresh batch of carrot muffins.
“Para mí?” he asks jokingly before taking one one out of the case. I smile and scoot past him before exiting past the pastry case for my first class.
Just past 10 a.m. I try not to interrupt the mechanical groove that, with the morning rush building up, Jorge has entered into. Before I can say goodbye, he asks if I want anything to take with me. And before I can respond, he slyly passes me a dirty chai on the opposite side of the espresso machine on my way out; he knows that, as Dylan would say, we’re “chillers” at work. The scents of small coffees — only $2.75 each — and toasted bagels with cream cheese — just $2.95 — are drifting in and out the cafe as patrons enter. Pretty fair prices, don’t you think? Despite the wifi that cuts in and out constantly, and a lack of outlets, Milano is the perfect place for a quick bite between classes.
On some days, you’ll see my lukewarm, half-empty dirty chai on the table by the couch if no one has snagged the prime real estate before the end of my shift. But the free coffee isn’t the only reason why I spend so much time there. My favorite coworkers say hello and it feels like home. Sometimes, Dylan and I will be on the couch, immersed in our work, and Mario will come up from behind to deliver a playful jump scare. Other days, Ricardo will drive up with Marlboro Reds in hand, just in time for our smoke break. And when I’ve been sitting at a table studying for a little too long on a weekend, Enrique has new recipes ready for me to taste. The comforting energy of the cafe, crafted solely by the expertise of these men, is what keeps everyone coming back.
