Angela Mollard: Despite the pain I need to break up with my barista

Many of us will make huge sacrifices for our daily fix of caffeine and Angela Mollard is no exception, but she has now been forced to make an agonising decision.

I need to break up with my barista. To be clear, it’s me, not him.

He makes the perfect coffee, which is the problem. Well, except yesterday when he brewed a long black rather than my flat white but it’s the first time that’s happened in the three years since I’ve been a regular at his cafe.

I don’t know what he does with the steam and the milk and the beans but there’s alchemy in those hands. His coffee – Goldilocksian in its perfection – is often the highlight of my day. When I’m not in town I yearn to return, not for my bed, or my kids but for the coffee at … well let’s just call it Tom’s even though it’s not Tom’s. Now before you mention First World Blah Blah and Israel and Ukraine, of course I know that the relationship between me and the man who makes my coffee is not of any consequence.

And before you have a go at me for buying a takeaway coffee during a cost-of-living crisis when I could stir a spoonful of Nescafe into some free water, I have budgeted for this daily treat. I go without perfume and new socks so I can have my caffeine fix.

Angela Mollard has said the time has come to break up with her barista.

I have even calculated how $35 extra a week invested in my superannuation might ease my retirement but I’ve made the executive decision to forego a cruise in the future for this single satisfying beverage in the here and now. Plus, it’s good for you apparently. Or it was when the industry last paid some researchers to say so.

No, my problem with my barista is that I don’t think he likes me. He uses my name because it’s on the cup but he doesn’t hand it over with any warmth even though the drink itself is always exactly the right temperature which is more important than you think. It’s for this very reason that it pains me to contemplate leaving him for another. What if that one is perky and engaged and asks me about my day but his/her/their coffee is lukewarm? There’s also the issue of convenience. My barista (well, I suppose he’s not really mine and therein might lie the problem) works out of a cafe 250m from my house.

Angela Mollard. Picture: Tim Hunter.

Each day I walk up the hill checking on the neighbour’s lemon tree and the dog with the gammy leg and the parakeets in the birdbath before turning right to enter the wide corner door at Tom’s. Inside, there are just the right number of tables, just the right amount of sunshine and just the right sized cups for the occasions when I decide to enjoy my coffee there. I have written before about my indignation at those who set up their laptops and use their local cafes as an office. I have not once done that. Tom and his colleagues have to make a living and that’s made harder when someone hogs a table for 90 minutes while sipping on a single espresso.

Am I sounding defensive? Yes, I think I am because despite applying myself to being the best possible customer, I can’t get Tom to like me. God knows, I’ve tried. Whenever I drink in, I take my cup back to the counter when I leave because it’s one less job for the staff. I put on deodorant before I go. I smile. I never complain except once back in 2021 when served a flat white with soy milk and even then I apologised so profusely, as if them using the wrong milk was my fault. I’ve wondered whether it’s my age.

Most of the clientele are younger but the rest of the staff are friendly. I know their names, ask them about their day and notice when they’re away. When I bump into them outside the café we stop for a brief chat.

But not Tom. Nope, I could be run over outside his window and I doubt he’d look up. A therapist would say I’m being needy. That Tom’s demeanour is his business and I am intruding on his work space by wanting a cheery interaction.

I’ve also considered that he might be going through The Panic Years. According to my daughter who has observed the issue on TikTok, the Panic Years (note caps) refer to the angst felt by 20-somethings who feel they need to have decided on a career, bought a house, spent time with their grandparents, read lots of books, formed good friendships and been present for all of it by the time they are 30. Perhaps Tom is suffering an existential crisis? Except he looks to be in his 30s. At the risk of sounding like I have a neurosis of my own, I appreciate I’ve given this too much thought. But most days I work from home alone and these little interactions count. So unless you have any better ideas (email below) I’m going to feign indifference. I’m also going to try another place a slightly longer walk away. If all else fails I’ll convert to tea.

Originally published as Angela Mollard: Despite the pain I need to break up with my barista