My formal apology to any barista who encounters me

The best perk of working in a cafe is the free rein over the different glasses and flavored syrups. When baristas infiltrate the kitchen, they inform me about new drinks our store would introduce for the approaching seasons--cozy ciders for the fall, white mochas in the winter, etc. As I polish glasses or sort out new inventory, they shoot out creative name ideas that capitalize on our token herbal choices and popular teas. They’d leave with a promise of bringing back a drink of my choice. 

When I first started my job, I was overwhelmed yet uninterested in our abilities. I’d respond to the offer of a custom drink with my previous go-to: a plain vanilla latte. I slowly worked through our year-round menu, sticking to mainstream drinks where I could predict the taste before the base was poured into a glass in the station a meter away from me. I received and praised the minimalism of our matcha and iced coffee in variations of hazelnut and mocha. I gave short laughs to their equally brief explanations and I took shelter in the plainness. My drinks were boring but safe. 

One day, my co-worker asked if I wanted my matcha sweetened with lavender, instead of the standard vanilla. My experience with lavender in the past was merely a sip out of my friend’s lemonade, in which she chose the one flavored with lavender simply for the vibrant purple. I questioned the decision, worried that the floral wouldn’t be enough to battle the natural bitterness of matcha and instead accentuate the herbal taste. But in the back of my mind, I asked myself, why not? I knew the change was typically arranged with a $0.50 penalty and if it was truly horrible, she would be happy to remake it with the usual recipe. So, with a conflicted hesitancy, I agreed and feigned a fearful excitement for what I was about to experience. 

On average, a hand-crafted drink is expensive. The cost of experimentation is not only a 45-second argument with a barista, as we go back and forth about what I can and can’t order, but it was the +$0.30 per request. With only the addition of alternative milk and extra shots of espresso, a plain coffee transforms into a $9 splurge. But once these costs were eliminated and my trusted baristas stripped away the awkwardness of conversations with strangers during a lunch rush, I felt free to explain unique intricacies and unknown combinations. The lavender sweetener tasted like a surprise, replacing the previous file in my head that classified lavender as a medicine-y flavor. As my co-worker explained the contents of the drink, from the added “berry” cold foam and the dozen decorative dried petals she scattered on the top, I kept thinking about my new perspective on lavender. I wondered how I would use its nectary freshness in other drinks. 

After that positive experience, I let myself experiment more boldly. With each new discovery, my options expanded. I found excitement walking behind the bar or flipping through copies of our prospective specialty drinks. I’d secretly wish for slow days so I could mix clashing flavors together, searching for a hidden gem. The fear I’d once held before I’d get a different drink from my usual was gone and replaced with an expecting readiness. That first change helped me realize the safety of my go-to's was holding me back, limiting what I could have known I wanted this entire time. When I order drinks at new places, I’m not scared to ask the baristas what they recommend, always hoping they’ll introduce me to something new. Forcing myself to try new things opened up new opportunities for a tasty fearlessness, and it was done with 2 pumps of lavender.