The Sound of an Espresso Machine
I stand in front of the espresso machine at the coffee shop where I work with a stainless steel milk frothing pitcher in one hand and the other on the toggle controlling the high heat steam. I bring the steam wand into my pitcher of cool two percent and activate the steam. It creates a loud whining noise at first, I quickly and carefully bring the tip of the wand to the surface of the milk, creating a "fishy kissing sound" as described to me, then plunge the wand back into the milk. It steams until the perfect 140 degrees Fahrenheit. At this point I deactivate the steam, lower my milk pitcher, and pour the steamed milk atop the newborn double espresso with vanilla sitting atop the granite counter.
It's a busy, surprisingly cold fall day, so my shift is a marathon of constantly steaming more and more milk. I put a thermometer into the milk to attain optimal heating, but I know when to stop based off the sound of the milk steaming. I listen to the milk, tap the side of the pitcher to gauge how hot the milk has become, and when it gets to a certain un-holdablility in the pitcher, and the steam is creating a noise I am so accustomed to, I look at the thermometer knowing it will say my desired temperature, and pour.
The sound of milk steaming is one of those sound-memories which has burrowed itself deep into my soul without my permission or conscious effort. Sometimes when I'm steaming milk I have these flashes of memories from growing up in a coffee loving family, like memories of the Starbuck my parents would frequent in the Fred Meyers shopping center down the street from our house in Oregon. I would often be treated with one of the little Starbucks chocolates while my parents got their coffee. The sound of milk steaming was present in all those jaunts to the Starbucks where my dad bought our espresso machine, so whenever I hear it I am taken back to rainy Oregon mornings sitting at the circle table with a chessboard print next to the bookshelf full of coffee and mugs.
I also have memories of our home in Oregon, the espresso machine's first home. Coming downstairs to the sound of beans grinding in preparation to create a shot in the awaiting Starbucks shot glass was a common welcome to the kitchen. I never liked the taste of coffee, but loved the smell. I think I started drinking coffee because the smell was so frequent and comforting. It's a smell I could find many places. In the kitchen of home, at the desks teachers, in Starbucks, in my grandparents house.
Now a days, due to my consistent consumption and deep love of the taste, I explore coffee shops in the many places I end up. I sipped vanilla lattes with biscuits on the patio of a cafe during an afternoon rain in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa. I've tasted almond milk lattes in the cold on Melrose Place and cold brew in the heat on the streets of Glendora. I cradled a large, round, shiny white mug of chocolate chip cookie latte with latte art in the design of an elephant, watching the waves of Kaulk Bay in Cape Town, South Africa.
Maybe I'll work in coffee shops for a while, in different places with different people, coffee shops provide the best people watching. I've watched men anxiously late for their date to walk through the door, I've served coffee to numerous late night paper writers, I've watched the best friends come in order for each other. All these people with the stories they hold gather at coffee shops and draw me to coffee shops. I will continue seeking out new coffee shops wherever I go because the sound of an espresso machine is a comforting sound, a sound seeming to be consistent across different coffee shops, state lines, and oceans.
