Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 157140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
When Wayne looks back at me, there’s a grimace on his face.
“It’s like the evening crew never even works,” he mutters. “If you want magic, you won’t find it in this crapsack. Maybe try Sweeter Grind. Their coffee slaps and I hear those big-ass cinnamon rolls they’ve got are to die for.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Dude. You’re not supposed to be pimping the competition.”
“Eh, they don’t pay me enough not to. But listen, I can’t talk as much as I’d like today. I have this meeting soon with management. I’m probably gonna get a second asshole ripped in my skin if I don’t get this place in shipshape. Evening crew always makes us look bad.”
I nod politely and take another long pull from my perfectly decent brew.
I understand.
What you’re seeing is what Wired Cup has done best for decades—good, easy, reliable coffee without any frills or hipster wackiness. It’s entrenched as the second strongest coffee chain in Seattle for a reason.
The people are a lot like the coffee, too.
Wayne, for instance. He’s a good barista—always remembers my coffee order and graciously gives me this quiet space to think and breathe and experiment—but he takes his job seriously. He’s almost like a battle-hardened soldier who’s numb to the daily grind.
I’d better leave him be. Grabbing the hot cup with one hand and my purse with the other, I slink over to a table against the wall where I’ll be out of the way.
My handbag swings off my elbow, big enough to command its own zip code, banging my hip with every step. As soon as I sit, I let it tumble to the floor and pull out a notebook and pen, along with a small mason jar that holds the goods.
I know.
It isn’t polite to bring other drinks into a place like this—not even beverages I made.
Good thing Wayne doesn’t care.
And Wired Cup is just corporate enough not to make any moral muscles twitch.
I discreetly open the mason jar holding my latest blend for research and take a long, thoughtful sip of the dark, potent liquid inside.
Hello, flavor town.
Population: me.
I’m legit proud of how my fire-roasted coffee tastes smoother than velvet, and it’s about a hundred times stronger than the Wired Cup offering. Smoky, loud, and intense enough to make my toes scrunch up in my shoes.
God.
I’m either way too addicted to playing coffee chemist or in desperate need of getting laid.
My eyes fall to the Wired Cup brew again. Their new featured flavor is definitely good, for a chain. But there’s still something too generic about it.
I pull out a water bottle to clear my palate and then sip from the paper cup for comparison.
Yep. Hints of cacao, faint as a whisper.
That’s the big difference between this new “featured flavor” and their usual drip. The cacao is nice and smooth for a dark roast, playing at being mocha-lite. But you’d better believe the average person still needs two cups of this to get through a morning. I’m sure I’d need four.
It gives me an idea, though...
S’mores coffee.
If I combined my latest creation with just the right sweetness, it could actually work.
I’ve been working on this campfire brew for months, ever since a guy in a homeless camp introduced me to the original version. It gives the beans a unique buzz no chain like Wired Cup could ever replicate if they ever even worked up the appetite for risk.
What if a little cacao is the missing ingredient I need to make this a mouth-gasm?
I smile. A few cacao beans added to the campfire blend, plus caramelized sugar and vanilla. Pair it with a cookie from a Belgian chocolatier to stand in for a graham cracker.
Hell. Yes.
My muse is on fire today. Even if the coffee doesn’t work—and let’s face it, some of my concoctions are pretty out-there—it won’t be hard to find tasters in this town with Belgian cookies attached.
I take a hefty swig from the mason jar, trying not to moan.
So good.
It tastes like a summer camping trip with old-school coffee brewed by a couple of hot lumberjacks in flannel. As a s’mores coffee, it could be devastatingly awesome.
I just need to work on the name.
S’mor’ofee?
Meh, it’s a work in progress.
But it is a summer morning. A peaceful one.
I don’t have any deadlines staring me in the face, so I’m not desperate for caffeine to be functional. And the Wired Cup brew is still warm. I go to the condiment bar, drop in sugar and cream, and sit down to savor the warm coffee with a few add-ins to change the taste.
It’s not Eliza Angelo campfire good, but it’s nice enough.
I start jotting down notes in my worn black leather journal that holds the last three years of my coffee recipes. Someday, my pretties will live for a bigger audience than yours truly and a gaggle of tasters.