Coffee Hunting

A fictional story about how I found the perfect café in Mildura.

Groaning, I placed my coffee down. It was burnt. The texture of the milk was completely off, leaving it with a rubbery smell and taste. The coffee was overly dark, suggesting the coffee grinds sat within the basket on the group head, attached to the machine for too long. Also, that it was clearly over packed, making it take longer to extract. The barista was clearly rushing, and so it was burnt. Burnt like the land around the town. The desert close to the country town of Mildura.

There was no way I was going to let my day start off with a horrid coffee. I am from Melbourne, and a barista myself. Coffee is my blood. It is my life. Leaving the piss behind me, I grabbed my bag and begin to storm off. If there is one thing I can do, is make an impression.

‘Is something wrong, sir?’ The barista’s voice was soft, poor girl clearly had no idea when it came to coffee.

Yes, your coffee tastes like shit. This café is shit. The- I cut off my train of thought before I said anything too horrid.

‘Sorry my dear, but the coffee is rubbish, so I am going elsewhere,’ I smiled politely, ’maybe you should give up making coffee.’

She gasped as I walked off, knocking over the piss with my bag. The dark milk spilling over the table, the floor, and the seat.

Of course, I never expected much in terms of coffee when it came to coming to Mildura. The town was so far from the city, they clearly had not gotten the memo on how to brew the blasted things.

Lighting up a smoke, I continued on my hunt. Eyes following as I walked, which I feel is normal. After all, I stick out like a sore thumb. Clearly a city boy, with my brown eyeshadow, constant scowl and smoke in hand.

I tried coffee after coffee. Some decent, some bad. Nothing compared to the first coffee, but nothing compared to Melbourne. It was getting close to noon, and I had been looking for the last three hours. The caffeine shaking my system, but I was determined to find that one perfect cup. Which was when it happened. I found it.

Sometimes, like in life, things come unexpectedly. 

Blk. Mlk. 

I took one look inside, and knew I found it. The perfect coffee. The style of the machine, the style of the café, and the style of the workers. It was very Melbourne, very suburban.

Ordering my coffee, I took my set and waiting in anticipation. Once the glass was placed in front of my, I gasped. It was perfection. The colour, the pattern, the texture of the milk.

I took a sip, and sunk into my set.

‘Finally,’ sighing, ‘a good cup of coffee.’