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.
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