Blog

If you think weekdays are busy at a Dallas coffee shop, come in on a Saturday. I dare you. The line stretches out the door, and the espresso machine sounds like it’s about to lift off.

I work most weekends—by choice. The tips are better, and honestly, there’s an energy to weekend crowds that I’ve come to enjoy. Mornings are a blur of cappuccinos and cold brews. Everyone’s got somewhere to be—brunch, yoga, soccer practice, farmer’s market. Couples come in for pre-date fuel, hungover friends nurse black coffees, and parents wrangle kids while ordering “something not too sweet.”

You learn to read people fast. The ones who want to chat, the ones who just need caffeine now, the ones who are already late. You also get used to weird orders—“half-decaf quad shot with almond and one pump of caramel”—and the inevitable groan when we’re out of a particular pastry.

There’s a kind of camaraderie among the staff on these days. We fall into a rhythm: one on register, one on bar, one running drinks and busing tables. Quick glances, shorthand signals. Someone calls out, “86 croissants,” and the line collectively sighs.

By noon, the shop smells of espresso, baked goods, and a little bit of sweat. The music gets turned up slightly to compete with the chatter. Someone always plays that same indie playlist, and we all roll our eyes but secretly hum along.

Of course, weekends aren’t all fun. There’s the customer who loudly argues over a 50-cent upcharge. The influencer setting up an elaborate photo shoot on the busiest table. The spilled drinks, the clogged sink, the never-ending line of cups to wash.

But then there are those moments that make it worth it: a stranger complimenting your latte art, a dad buying his kid their first “grown-up” hot chocolate, the regular who tips double just because “you guys work so hard.”

By the end of my shift, my feet ache, my hands smell like coffee grounds, and my apron is a mess. But walking out into the Dallas sun, I feel oddly satisfied. It’s tiring work, sure. But there’s something about being part of people’s weekends—even for a moment—that keeps me coming back.

Most people only see the foam art and the polished wood counters. Maybe the indie playlist humming in the background. For them, this is a pit stop—grab a latte, scroll the phone, catch up with a friend. For me, it’s a second home. I’ve been pulling shots and steaming milk in this Dallas coffee shop for the past two years.

Every shift starts early. I’m in by 6:00 a.m., sometimes earlier, setting up the machines, grinding the beans. Dallas mornings can be unpredictable—hot and sticky one day, cool and gray the next. But the regulars are constant. The lawyer with her oat milk flat white. The contractor who drinks straight black drip. The writer who camps out for hours with a laptop and endless Americanos. You get to know people in this job, even if you only exchange a few words each day.

There’s a rhythm behind the counter, almost like a dance—dial in the espresso, steam the milk, pour with just the right swirl. A good barista knows when to hustle and when to slow down and make it feel personal. But it’s not always as smooth as it looks. There are days when the grinder jams, the milk curdles, and the register crashes—usually all at once. And let’s not forget the occasional entitled customer who treats us like we’re invisible.

But here’s what keeps me going: those little moments of connection. When a regular notices your new haircut. When you remember someone’s order and they light up. When a sleepy student thanks you like you just saved their morning.

Working here, you see the whole city walk through the door. Cowboys fans in jerseys on game day, tech folks from downtown, tourists asking for directions, first dates over cortados. Dallas is big and sprawling, but in this little shop, it feels like a community.

I don’t know if I’ll be a barista forever. Maybe I’ll go back to school, maybe I’ll open my own place someday. But for now, this is where I am—behind the counter, in the heart of Dallas, making coffee and catching glimpses of people’s lives, one cup at a time.