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“New grounds, huh?” Yeah, totally didn’t do that. “It doesn't do that automatically?”
He raises that eyebrow again, pushing the “coffee” in my direction.
“I'm so sorry,” I say, picking up the cup. “I'll be right back.”
Back through the side door, I go. Marie tilts her head but doesn't say anything at the sight of me reentering with the coffee.
“I can do this,” I whisper. “I can do this.”
When I look at twisty handle thingy, sure enough, it already has grounds in it. Grounds that were probably there since yesterday.
No wonder he made a face—I did serve him wastewater.
So much for southern hospitality. Sewage is definitely not the way to a man’s heart.
My hands shake as the grounds land with a splat in the sink, sending a spray of brown drops onto my blouse.
“Well, hopscotch,” I mutter to myself out of habit. I try not to use curse words at work. The locals pick up on it way too quickly when I let one slip, like the time I dropped a chair on my toe and let a big f-bomb fly. For a week, every time I went into the kitchen the staff sang it at me.
“Coffee grounds, coffee grounds. If I were coffee grounds, where would I be…”
Ta-da, as requested, a tub of coffee grinds appears just tucked behind the machine. Fate delivers yet again. There isn’t much left, but certainly enough for me to do this one single coffee and then get this man out of my life forever.
Coffee grounds are pressed in the twisty thingy. Twisty thingy clicks in place. Tiny mug clatters under the spout, and I hit the go button. With a whir and a sense of relief, coffee sputters out. I admit, it both looks and smells more like coffee than the last one.
The cup shakes on its tiny saucer, making tittering sounds like it’s threatening to fall as I walk past Marie. She eyes me up but doesn’t dare break my concentration. This man's got me worked up all because I said I would make him a coffee before we’re even open.
“Here, monsieur,” I say as I round the corner to the front terrace. “This one should be much better.”
Then, the worst happens. I can't say exactly what, but something got stuck on something. Maybe the runners in my pant leg, or my toe on a raised patch of sidewalk. But either way, the end result is that the coffee is now flying through the air in the direction of Monsieur Rich-Handsome-Grumpy-Customer’s lap.
I gasp and reach, but that isn't good enough to prevent what is sure to be catastrophe.
Disaster is avoided only because the man has the reaction time of a mosquito. He jumps back, avoiding the steaming espresso that cascades across the table.
“Yes, at least it smells like coffee,” he says, deadpan.
“I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry,” I mumble about three thousand times as I try to swipe the still burning coffee off the table top with my bare hand. It scalds, but that problem pales in comparison to the head-shaking bewilderment on the man’s face as I cart the coffee in my palms back to the restaurant. By the time I reach the door, most of it has dripped through my fingers onto my running shoes.
I can’t run back inside fast enough, and half-expect the man to be long gone by the time I'm out. That would be a relief. He can’t hold it against the restaurant’s reputation that I spilled coffee four hours before the restaurant is even supposed to open. My heart is beating out of my chest.
What if he's actually a restaurant critic? What if this is some kind of test? I've heard about this before—where people come incognito to put every aspect of a restaurant under the wringer before writing a review that can make or break an establishment.
Sure enough, Mr. Grouchy-Caribbean-Eyes is still there, reading his newspaper standing up.
“Are you sure you want me to try again?” I ask in hope as I wipe down the table.
“I'm sure.”
Here we go.
If I scrape the sides of the tub, I can just about get enough grounds to make one last coffee. This time, I don't pat the grounds down too hard. What's the point of patting down the grinds anyway? It just uses more coffee grounds to make one teeny tiny little cup of coffee.
Take three. Coffee grounds in the twisty thingy. Twisty thingy in place. Tiny mug under the spout, and I hit the button.
Once it’s brewed, I walk as though my life depends upon successful delivery of this little cup of coffee. I set it down on the table, my hands trembling, but nothing spills. He removes his sunglasses and sets them beside the cup.
“It smells decent,” he says, sits back in the chair, and looks up at me.
