Sometimes I think that there’s a secret order to which certain baristas belong – only the painfully hip ones, mind you – which gives them insider tips on foam steaming, coaching on the right attitude to pouring, and special workshops on moustache trimming.  I like to imagine that they meet in an underground bunker somewhere, or perhaps a church basement.  Membership is, of course, rarefied.  Admission is by invitation only, and brothers-and-sisters-in-coffee are sworn to secrecy for life.

What do they discuss in their masonic jar meetings?  The first order of business must surely be hair.  Everyone is aware of that certain cadre of baristas who always don immaculately coiffed hair.  I think of them as the deliberately-messy hair brigade.  What was it they used to say in West Village and Lincoln Park coffee shops?  The higher the hair, the closer to God.

After hair, the next item on the agenda must be skinny jeans. To be specific, painfully skinny jeans, although that bit should be obvious.  I mean, who cares about any other kind of jeans?  When they discuss this agenda item in their meetings, I imagine it falls under the general category of The Barista’s Uniform.  I can just picture the proceedings.  At the outset, the presiding Grand Master of the meeting impels:

“My barista brothers and sisters, I call to commencement this meeting of the Esteemed Order of the Masonic Jar Knights Templar.”

At this point, all the members rise, elevating their mason jars in their right hands, vigorously moving them from top to bottom and left to right, as if forming crosses with a cocktail shaker.

“Pray be seated, brothers and sisters.”

The baristas take their seats wordlessly, in neat rows, facing the mint green La Marzocco machine at the front of the hall, their honored edifice for the duration of the proceedings.

“All hail the espresso maker”, calls out the Grand Master.

“Beans are greater than brains” reply the baristas in unison.  The Grand Master’s benevolent smile turns into a frown.

“That will not do” he admonishes.  “That was woefully half-hearted.  Come now.  Is the entire order caffeine-deprived this evening?  Surely not you, of all people.  I mean, why are we even here?  You can do better than that, my dear brothers and sis-“, but he is interrupted by a courageous barista:

“But why must you always address us as ‘brothers and sisters’, Grand Master, sir?”  You impertinent little vixen, he thinks, fuming.

“How very dare you!” spits out the Grand Master.  Taking a moment to look around the room – with its row upon row of skinny jeans-adorned hipsters – he looks directly at the brazen transgressor, egging her on. 

“Very well, sister”, he says, smirking.  “What on earth can you possibly have you to say that will be of interest to the collective?”

“Precisely, oh wise one.  I am Sister Mason Viscountess Robusta.  Pray tell, why not address us as ‘sisters and brothers’ even if only once in a blue moon?  I’m not asking for this at every meeting, but just occasionally, like on those days when we’ve run out of hair product.” 

An audible gasp is released from the collective.  Instantly regretting her words, Robusta realizes that despite the innocent spirit behind her remarks, she has been perceived as highly truculent.  In trying to correct one wrong, I have brought another one upon myself, a trap of my very own making!  Damn it, she thinks.  Burnt beans!

“That’s two transgressions, sister.  You know the rules.”

“No, Grand Master, please sir, do allow me to stay. I beseech you.”

“As moved as I am by your entreaty – for it should not be said that I am an antiquarian on linguistic matters as they pertain to gender – it is your second transgression which has even more flagrantly flouted the rule book.  You know the commandment.  Brothers and sisters, please recite it together…”

“A barista of the order shall appear behind the espresso bar – at all times – donning voluminous hair styled with visible organic hair wax.”

“Carry on, my fellow baristas.  Give us the corollary, will you please?”

“This commandment even applies when one is suddenly called on to cover a shift”, call out the baristas proudly.

“Marvelous, my children”, says the Grand Master, restoring his smile. 

This last utterance causes a bit of a flutter in the room.  Most baristas – save for brave Sister Robusta – accept the retrograde gender-ordered way in which they are ritually addressed. 

But being infantilized as “children” has caused some members to stir.  One barista even rumples his hair with his hand in protest, immediately attracting the Grand Master’s attention. 

“You: Brother Mason Marquess Arabica.  Yes you!  You may leave.  Now.  There will be no rumpling of the hair.”

“But, Grand Master, I…”

“Quiet!  We are the masters of two things, my brothers and sisters: our own destinies, and the perfect pour-over.”  Members nodded their heads in agreement.

“You know what to do, brother.”

“Very well”, emits Arabica, resigned to his fate.  He leaves the room without protest, his head hanging down, avoiding eye contact with his coffee-making clan as a few of his misplaced hairs obstruct his vision with seemingly cruel effect.

“Right then” calls out the Grand Master as soon as Arabica has secured the portal behind him.

“I shall attempt to recover from having been so rudely and needlessly interrupted.” 

Sister Mason Viscountess Robusta glares at the Grand Master, using all her strength to keep her hands on her lap and refrain from tousling her hair.  She has expended all of her social capital with her “sisters and brothers” request, and it takes all her strength to resist the innate desire to further disrupt the proceedings. 

I don’t want to be the next one pulling that portal behind me, she thinks.  And I most certainly don’t want to temporarily lose my foaming privileges.  I suppose I’ll just have to live with this humiliation.

Seizing the moment – for the Grand Master can sense that he has the room – he uses his plummiest voice to pronounce:

“We can begin tonight’s agenda – properly, now – with a matter of some grave importance.  It has come to our attention, based on multiple reports, that some of you are not following the edict to wear the uniform of skinny jeans at all times.” 

Another collective gasp is emitted.  Some baristas shuffle, swaying gently in their chairs, but all are careful to keep their hands from their coiffed hairdos.

“Order.  Order, brothers and sisters!  Tonight, I shall not be calling out the names of the particular Brothers and Sisters Mason who have transgressed.  I think we have had enough dissension for one evening”, his less than subtle reference to the brouhahas with Sister Robusta and the departed Brother Arabica.  The Grand Master emits an air of bonhomie, pronouncing:

“Now, look, my beloved brothers and sisters – allow me the liberty to be frank with you.” 

Oh sure, we’ll allow you, thinks Sister Robusta.  It is a liberty only you enjoy.  One day I’ll be Grand Master, I mean Grand Mistress…I know, I’ll be Grand Mx..  I am a Viscountess, after all.  Interrupting her thoughts, the Grand Master continues:

“Each and every one of you knows – from the bottoms of your high tops to the very summits of those marvelously coiffed sculptures atop your heads – that I esteem you.”

Heads nod up and down in gratitude, some baristas daring to display grimaces, if not full smiles.

“Well, I do indeed esteem you, and I wish for each of you to be all that you can be, to conquer the world of coffee, and most importantly, to always look scruffy but stylish. This is a surprisingly difficult visual presentation to assemble with consistency and honor.  It is our calling, my brothers and sisters, and challenging though it may feel at times, ours is a magnificent station.  We inhabit a nobility of our own choosing.”

More heads nod, as if to say: “Yes, we know.  It’s not easy being fashionably scruffy yet classy; bohemian, yet tragically hip.”

“In which case, I should not have to remind you of the cardinal rule: a barista must don skinny jeans at all times.  If you can feel your blood circulating in your thighs, then you are in flagrant contravention of the order’s rules, and Lord of lattes help us, you may as well be wearing potato sacks.”

Heads are nodding vigorously now; those baristas with longer hair are in danger of flouting the ‘no hair rumpling’ rule, even without using their hands!

“And do you know why, dear brothers and sisters, my esteemed colleagues in cappuccino?  Why do we enjoin this rule upon you?”

The room falls silent; all baristas remain motionless.  No one wants the fate of Arabica or Robusta to befall them.

“I shall tell you why, brothers and sisters mason.  Our order insists upon skinny jeans for one simple, logical – in addition to sartorial – reason: better tips.  The skinnier the jeans, the fuller the tip jar.”

The sisters and brothers now don full smiles, beaming from ear to ear, fearless for the first time all evening, forming an unabashedly ecstatic collective.

“I am witnessing your satisfaction, brothers and sisters.”  Warming to the room, the Grand Master evinces emotion.  A lone tear creeps down his wizened face.

“Very well.  Let us do something unprecedented, shall we?  This is a beautiful moment that none of us here is likely to forget for the rest of our lives, and our bank accounts will certainly thank us, will they not?”  He knows he now has absolute control of the room.

“Splendid.  In that case, for the second and final time tonight – and may I remind you that the first time was less than fulsome – all hail the espresso maker!”  Looking directly at the Marzocco, baristas call out with impeccable timing:

“Beans are greater than brains!”

Another of the Grand Master’s tears follows the salty trail that has been left on his cheek by the first one.  Instinctively, he reaches for his magnificent locks, rumpling away in ecstasy.

– Fayyaz Vellani