I’ve started writing a short story that may or may not become a film script. Please read the first couple of pages and tell me what you think in the comments section. More to come on this.
Part One - Part Two
Brian is the Barista. He’s the submissive employee of Monseigneur Saché, the owner of the coffee shop. He can’t seem to please his imperious superior, though he tries very hard to be good at his job.
Every morning at 6:30 he arrives at the shop and starts getting things ready. Brewing the iced coffee, cleaning and prepping the La Marzocco, getting all the baked goods arranged so people will want to eat them. Then the shop opens at 7 and people come in and order their coffee to go. Around 8 they stick around a while.
The coffee shop caters to a certain kind of person who is a little upset that gourmet coffee is a run-of-the-mill experience these days. M. Saché, who claims he’s a direct descendent of French nobility, knows these people, and is the apotheosis of their kind, at least when it comes to coffee. He hates Brian because Brian has a stupid name that isn’t eldritch or peculiar at all, and he doesn’t know these people that come into the coffee shop.
“I ask you to wear all black, for a reason,” Saché tells Brian. Brian just bent over to pick up a pain au chocolat that one of the customers knocked on the floor while gesticulating with his umbrella. When Brian bent over the hems of his pants raised up a little bit to reveal that he is wearing argyll socks and not black ones. “It is your uniform. You ruin the coffee shop with socks like that!”
Brian is sorry and promises not to bend over at all for the rest of the day.
The girl, whose name Brian hasn’t asked, who is sitting up in the window gives Brian a look that he thinks might be sympathetic, but he’s too afraid to be totally sure. She is intimidating. He is intimidated. She comes from the building across the street. He’s seen her.
* * *
“We only use the finest beans here, Brian.” Saché says Brian’s name like turned milk tastes. “We only serve the finest clientele the finest beans, because that is our business. If you do not grind them at the proper coarseness, you destroy their flavor. And you destroy my business.”
Brian promises that he will be more vigilant in making sure he grinds the beans at the proper coarseness. Saché elbows him out of the way as one of the regular customers comes in. He always does this. When certain people come in Brian is not allowed to make their coffee.
“Monseigneur Saché, always a pleasure,” the man says. He is very tall and his turtleneck makes him seem skinny. He gives Brian a look that makes no sense. Brian demurs and goes back to grinding and trying not to accidentally bend over for anything. “Is the house blend this week any good?”
“Fabulous.”
“I’ll have a tall black cup of it.” He looks through an art book on one of the tables for a second.
“Monsieur Conduire, how was your journey to Europe?”
“To be honest, I discovered something there that you might take an interest in. A variety of coffee that I wasn’t familiar with until now. It’s called Mongolian Red.”
“You can’t grow beans at that latitude.”
“On the contrary, there is an isolated micro-climate in Mongolia that produces the finest beans on the planet. It’s the hottest thing in the finest cafes in Milan and Paris.”
“Why red?”
“Something about the climate up there. They are quite beautiful to look at, and their taste is so refined that only your most select patrons will appreciate its complexity.” Monseigneur Saché is smitten. There is one thing that he hates more than regular people’s coffee, and that is regular people who come in and buy his coffee. He has a very specific clientele, and wants nothing to do with the kind of people who come in off the street. “I have a business contact that wants to begin exporting Mongolian Red to the states. I can get some for you if you would like,” says Monsieur Conduire. Saché grins and nods. He has a great admiration for this customer.
Posted: August 15th, 2005 under Writing.
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