Coffee

I've had my first few trial shifts in a couple of bars over the last week in Berlin.  Being a barkeeper here is somewhat different to working at my local in the Essex countryside.  There, all you needed to do was wipe the taps thoughtfully now and then with a damp cloth and occasionally produce a warm pint of muddy water for the gnarled old men huddling silently at the bar.  The Germans demand rather more of their bar staff.

After 15 hours of work, I've learnt every insane combination of drink you can guzzle in this bizarre country (banana and cherry juice, anybody?).  I can just about get my head round serving beer which is 40% froth in a glass the size of a large infant.  I can even handle being paid at a trial rate which puts me a rung below the technoslaves working away on Apple's Chinese production line.  I just can't work the bloody coffee frother.

It doesn't help that nobody can show me the precise technique for achieving froth Nirvana; instead, I've been told I need to 'feel' it, much as I imagine a jazz musician feels their way through a jam session.  I've seen it demonstrated - mostly when my exasperated co-worker whips the test-tube Vesuvius I'm creating out of my hands and with a graceful movement gently brings forth a delicate cloud of froth.  One of them even suggested I start talking to the coffee machine, or praying to it like some horrible god.

My inability to produce good-quality froth makes me feel inadequate with an intensity I've not experienced since I was a teenager.  The waitresses whisper to one another as I skitter along the bar, scalding myself on the latest hastily-made coffee I've crowned with limp burnt milk:

  "Look at that, the new guy can't even make half-decent froth."

  "I know, it's pathetic.  Do you know he can't satisfy a woman in bed?"

  "I hear he's got a willy like a damp Wotsit."

In truth, I'm struggling to muster up the energy required to master this absurd triviality.  Why do people need to have their coffees topped off with a decorative  hump of aerated lactose anyway?  The wretched stuff disappears as soon as you put your spoon into it.

But I'm going to need to learn it.  Somehow, inexplicably, I've been invited back to do a paid shift in the week, despite the quality of my work ranging from unacceptable to barely adequate.  The coffee machine and I are now tied in an unhappy marriage of convenience.

So while I battle to learn this dark art I entreat you: next time you order a posh coffee, please spare a thought for the poor bugger who probably burnt half his fingers off perfecting that pointless milky top.