The first cup is never for the customer. It is for the grinder, who has been asleep all night and needs to be coaxed back into a conversation. We pull a shot at four past seven and pour it into the sink.
The second is for the barista. By the time the third leaves the group head, somebody is already standing at the bar with their coat still on, pretending not to look at their phone.
A rhythm worth keeping
There is a particular tempo to a Shoreditch morning that has nothing to do with the espresso machine. It is the sound of a shutter going up two doors down. The bus turning onto Bethnal Green Road. A delivery van reversing into the lane with that little melodic beep that means somebody, somewhere, is about to be very early.
“Coffee, when it is done right, is the slowest fast thing in a person’s day.”
Our regulars know the order of operations: hang the coat on the second hook, nod at the window seat, wait for the saucer to be warm before you say what you actually want.
