Kouhii No Monogatari Daiichi— Tales of Coffee (Part 1)

I am partial to Asian baristas.

I get excited when I meet people who potentially share similar values and passion for coffee. We can commiserate over the fact that we didn’t become doctors, not yet anyway. Don’t remind our parents.

I graduated after the 2008 Economic Crash from a UC with distinctions, highest honors in my Social Sciences Department and a minor in Education. Naturally, I was unemployable.

My first job after college was baristaing at a local coffee shop in my White-as-Wonder-Bread hometown. I used to go there three or four times a week during high school, before I knew a thing about good coffee. It had a lot of heart and character.

I was pretty good at my job. I practiced frequently in my free time. Yup, I could put water through coffee dust like a champ.

Eventually, my strong work ethic paid off. Patrons liked the product and occasionally requested me. “Really,” I excitedly asked from the back storage room one cold winter evening, “they want me? I’ve been working on my technique...”

“They just asked for the Asian guy,” my co-worker replied.

Token.

People have blamed my good performance on my “Asian upbringing.” We apparently just try harder at everything. It makes others look bad.

One of the other baristas at the shop didn’t like me. I was the snitch who called him out for not paying for energy drinks. He was a master counter leaner. He who didn’t like when I got mad at him for standing around while I cleaned the floors or if I asked him to do his job instead of talk to the teeny-boppers. It apparently made me no fun.

One day he confronted me. Trying to use humor to lighten the mood and alleviate any tension, he offered an unsolicited accusation, “It’s because you’re Asian, you work too damn hard.”

Every shop has their cast of characters. Flash forward to another shop in another town. A Chinese woman a few years older than me used to visit my bar about once a week. She had kind eyes, a confident disposition and the most genuine smile. Serving her was a refreshing break from the monotony of of non-Asian clientele. She was a Starbucks fan, but we didn’t hold it against her.

One day she asked about my name. I gave her a quick explanation about my family’s history and our Toisanese origins. I have two Chinese names, middle and family, and I was proud of them.

She smiled and told me I didn’t look Chinese.

I smiled and told her grande isn’t a size of coffee.