The first round came and it was announced that we all literally had to pour a "heart out." How fitting. As the crowd cheers and laughs, my own heart started to pound like I was about to go on stage and sing the national anthem in front of Obama or something. I took a deep breath and approached the La Marzocco Linea espresso machine like I might approach a Grizzly Bear I might find in the wild. Sure I know all about them, but here I am standing face to face with very limited personal experience. Please don't eat me. I test out the steam wand to see how sensitive the twist is. It's not sensitive. It's extremely sensitive. The tiniest extra twist sends another 50+ pounds of pressure blasting into my milk. I gotta play it safe or risk flipping a ton of nasty bubbles into my shay.
The shot starts pulling.
And there it is. The stillness. Suddenly, the sound of the bustling cafe and hipster music just fades into a perfect silence. Like everything around me just got swallowed into a big fluffy nothingness cloud. All that exists is this stainless steel steaming pitcher, this lovely milk, and these two ounces of espresso waiting for me in a ceramic love cup. My competitor is gone, the judges are gone, the room is gone. I release the steam valve and begin to caress the milk- a little bit of aeration here followed by a gentle spin there... and after about a minute the temperature feels right so I return the steam valve to its original position and clean the wand. I reach over and grasp the 8 oz cup with freshly pulled espresso waiting inside. I tenderly pour the hot milk into the espresso, giving as much flair and panache as I dared-- still needing to meet the requirements of a "heart shape" to pass the judge's watchful eyes. And then, it's finished. The cup is full, my pitcher is empty, and the sound of the cafe fills my ears once again.
I set my cup before the judges, a little shy, a little proud perhaps, but still unsure of whether or not they believe my artwork to be the better of the two. My competitor places his craftmanship beside mine and our eyes meet.
I shake the hand of my opponent before the verdict is called. We know what we did. We already know who was the winner. His artwork had some class, but mine filled the cup with contrast and precision. I won this time. But it really doesn't matter. We were both momentarily locked into a battle of skill and extreme pressure. Many have strolled up to the bar only to have it smack them mercilessly across the face until they submit to its power and might. We are the victims, just as much as we are the heroes of this underground game.
Sigh.
The rest of the night was a bit of a blur, I won some rounds and lost some, but I do remember that first pour, and walking out of that cafe with the first place prize: less than a quarter pound of a whole beans from a roaster I had never heard of. Nice.
But who does it for the money? Not us. Not the few. The proud.
The barista.
Man, I love my job.
