Salted coffee
By Max Olijnyk
A few nights ago, I dreamt I ordered a salted filter coffee. To be more specific, the girl at Customs asked me which coffee I wanted and I said, ‘I want one that’s good with salt.’ She shot me a withering look and said, ‘I’ll get someone else to help you with that,’ and then walked off behind the coffee machine.
The next day I texted Sam: ‘Dreamt I ordered a salted filter coffee last night’
To which he replied: ‘Plausible and potentially disgusting’
‘The girl I ordered it from thought I was a tosser’, I replied.
A few days later, I received a notification that Sam had tagged me in a post.
‘@maxolijnyk it’s already come true! Salty coffee!’
I checked the post and he wasn’t joking. Underneath a photo of a bag of Coffee Supreme coffee named ‘Christmas Cracker’ read the caption: ‘It’s here. Stay salty with flavour notes of sunscreen, melted tar on your feet and a bite from sandy sandwiches.’ It was followed by a call to action and a few great hashtags, the last of which was: #alliwantforchristmasisthechristmascracker.
Aside from being astounded that my salty premonition had actually materialised, I was more taken with the evocative, snappy copywriting of the post—it was immaculate. You see, I applied for a copywriting job at Coffee Supreme earlier this year and didn’t get it. After I’d gone through the process of applying, going for an interview and, finally, not getting the job, I consoled myself that it was a full-time position and I was only available a couple of days a week; deep down, though, I knew that I just wasn’t up to the gig. A few years ago, maybe, but I’m not that guy anymore. I’m too cynical, too out of practice; during the interview they asked what kind of vision I had for the company, and the only vision I had was of asking them what they wanted to say, recording it on my phone, and then writing it down and editing it for grammar. It’s a far cry from my short stint at Broadsheet, a highlight of which was when the owner stood up and told everyone to stop what they were doing and read the best piece of integrated content he had ever published—a few hundred words on American barbecue I’d bashed out earlier that day. I remember sitting there at the time, shrugging and thinking, I just wrote it like a newspaper piece. Of course it had jazz; everything you write should have jazz, that’s a given. But I wasn’t reaching for anything and that’s why it worked. If I had to write about American barbecue or salty coffee now, I wouldn’t know where to start.
On Rosie’s suggestion, I’ve been catching the train in to town every couple of weeks for a ‘mental health day’. I stare out the window of the regional train as it skirts through incredibly steep, lush hills before plunging into a tunnel through the Rimutaka Range that separates Featherston from the sparkly harbour. After walking out from the grand old Wellington train station, I just swan around doing city stuff. I go to the bookshop and see if my book is still for sale (it’s not); I stock up on rare culinary items at the wholesale grocer; I eat pho or falafel for lunch; I go for a skate.
A coffee at Customs is a crucial stop on these days; I love it there. Every city has a cafe like it: unapologetically cool and a touch intimidating, with young people permanently draped around the front with their dogs and torn hems. But it’s actually just really nice, with delicious coffee and food made by funny, interesting people.
This week, the two funny, interesting people who work there remembered me.
‘You’re back!’ said the guy. ‘What’s on the agenda today?’
I was pleased because, on my last visit, I’d explained in great detail about my mental health days.
‘I think I’ll start with a cold coffee,’ I said.
In the glow of being remembered, I decided to tell them about my dream.
‘This is kind of weird,’ I prefaced, ‘but I had a dream that I ordered a salted coffee from you guys.’
They both laughed politely.
‘And I think it was you,’ I said to the girl, ‘you seemed to think I was a bit of a tosser.’
‘That sounds about right,’ she said, and walked off behind the coffee machine.
I ploughed on. ‘But then I saw that you guys are doing a Christmas coffee that’s actually salty! Is that right?’
‘It’s sort of salty, I guess,’ said the guy. ‘It’s more of a savoury blend.’
‘Maybe I’ll try it after I’ve finished this one,’ I said while tapping my debit card.
‘No worries,’ said the guy, giving me a wink. ‘Just give me a shout when you’re ready.’
I sat at the bench and sipped at my cold coffee through its straw. I checked my phone: no new emails. When I’d finished, I walked up to the counter again but the guy and girl were both busy out the back. I decided against trying the salted coffee because it didn’t actually sound very nice.
‘Thanks, guys!’ I called out as I left.
You can buy Max’s book Some Stories from our online shop. Or, even better, buy it from Freddo Books, because they have the new edition. Max publishes other things through Freddo Books, too. The latest is his book My Mum Went to EMB, co-published by Heavy Time and dedicated to Shannon Michael Cane.
This story also appears in issue 5 of The Good Copy Gazette.
