Marcus has been the head barista at Harris Park since week one. He's in his early thirties, started in coffee after a brief stint in other work, and he moves through a shift with a kind of quiet rhythm that you notice without him trying to show you. Here's a week through his eyes.
Monday morning
Monday mornings are always interesting because everyone's reset. The rhythm breaks over the weekend and you have to rebuild it. I came in at five-thirty. Checked the machine, purged the group heads, made sure the grinder was where I left it. The espresso was a little over-extracted from Friday — the shower screen had coffee oil buildup. Cleaned that. Ran a shot into a cup, tasted it. Better. But not perfect yet. By the time the first customer came in at six, I had maybe four shots under my belt just for calibration.
Monday our regular crew doesn't all come at once. They stagger. So the rush isn't really a rush. It's steady. A woman I'd never seen before came in and asked if we had "that really good coffee." I said all our coffee is good, but then I understood she meant something smooth, not acidic. I made her an Americano with our darker roast instead of the filter coffee. She came back Tuesday, so I was right.
By nine I'd made somewhere around forty-five shots. My hands were warm. The machine was dialed in perfectly. Those are the days that feel like you're not even working.
Wednesday: the difficult morning
Wednesday morning I woke up and something was wrong. I can't explain it. I just felt off. Not sick. Just wrong in a way that makes you move slower. I still came in at five-thirty because that's the rhythm. But I was tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix.
The first few customers didn't notice. They just ordered and I made their drinks. But around seven, someone asked if I was okay. That's when I realized I was probably showing it. I told them yeah, just a rough morning. They left a five-dollar tip, which was kind.
By eight, the machine had somehow gone out of calibration. Shots were pulling fast. Everything tasted sour. Normally this wouldn't be a big deal — you just adjust. But Wednesday, with the feeling I had, it felt like everything was going wrong. I deep-cleaned the group heads. Adjusted the grind. Pulled ten bad shots just to get back to where I needed to be.
The owner came in at nine and could tell something was off. Not with the coffee — the coffee was good by then. With me. She asked if I needed to leave. I said no. I asked if I could just make drinks and not talk for a while. She said that was fine.
By ten, I'd made something like sixty shots in three hours. Muscle memory took over. My hands knew what to do even when my mind was somewhere else. By eleven, I was back to normal.
Thursday: teaching
Thursday we had a new person shadow me. She's going to be the second barista starting next week. I've taught people coffee before, but this is different because it's my place now. I care whether she gets it.
The first thing I do is have someone taste the espresso — just taste it, no talking. I ask them what they taste. Usually they say "coffee." I wait. Then they say bitter, or smooth, or bright. That's where you start. You have to train your mouth to notice the difference between shots.
We walked through pulling. Dose, distribution, tamping, tamping angle, lock in, water temperature, pressure, extraction time. I showed her that you can pull a shot and know by the flow rate whether it's going to be good before it even finishes. The pour tells you.
She was nervous. I told her the machine doesn't care if you're nervous. It just does what it does. Get the fundamentals right and the machine will teach you the rest. We practiced twenty pulls. By the end, they were all getting into the right range. Not perfect. But right.
Friday and the weekend rhythm
Friday is when people break their weekday patterns. Some folks who come Monday through Thursday disappear. Different people show up. The energy is lighter. People linger longer with their drinks instead of grabbing and going.
I love Friday mornings because you get to have actual conversations. A woman asked about the single origin we're running as a special. I told her where it came from. She asked what it tastes like. I told her and she ordered it. She came back ten minutes later and said I was right. That's the part of the job I didn't expect to like — helping someone taste something for the first time.
Saturday we're only open until noon. I made coffee for maybe eighty people in six hours. Different demographic on Saturday. More families. More people with time. Slower pace. I prefer weekday rhythm because it's more technical. But Saturday is important because it's different people who don't want a rush.
Sunday we're closed. I stayed home. Didn't think about coffee. By evening I was looking forward to Monday.
What it means to pull shots for the same people
The best part of this job is that I know what people want before they order. The contractor who comes at six-forty comes in and I'm already steaming milk before he asks. The woman with the dog orders a latte and I know it's oat milk. The developer crew walks in and I have four cups set up.
That rhythm — knowing what people want, having it ready, them walking in and feeling seen — that's why I actually like making coffee. It's not about the espresso machine, though the machine is beautiful. It's about the routine. The consistency. The fact that I'm part of someone's morning ritual.
By Friday this week, I knew I was good at this. And I knew I wanted to keep doing it.