The Burned Barista
The man sitting at the bar was male. Though gaunt, his frame was solid—if he put on some weight, he'd cut an impressive figure. His navy-blue hair was dusted with grime, a color rare around these parts. But what truly shocked me was his face. Half of it was a horrific burn scar. Not just discolored skin, but melted like lava that had flowed and hardened.
"You're the innkeeper?"
Though his left mouth corner was twisted from the burn, his pronunciation was remarkably clear. Hearing his voice delivered the second shock. People with severe burns usually can't speak or end up with a raspy rasp from inhaling superheated air that damages the throat. Yet this man's voice was pristine. Pristine and overflowing with refinement—it felt like chatting with Francois.
"Ah, yes. That's me."
"If my appearance offends, I apologize."
"No! Not at all. I don't care about that."
The man struggled to lift the corner of his mouth into a smile. His eyes gleamed clear, radiating an inexplicable confidence and strength. In stark contrast, his shabby clothes were stained everywhere, and his shoes were so worn from endless travel that the soles were frayed to rags. What the hell does this guy do?
"You saw the help wanted ad? Do you know how to handle coffee?"
"Yes. I worked as a barista briefly."
"I see. Where?"
"You probably wouldn't know it. I was employed in a small barony on the kingdom's outskirts."
Nobles could easily keep a barista on staff at their manor. Coffee was finicky to handle, with endless recipes, after all.
"Got it. But how'd you end up all the way out here..."
"If you hate the temple, the priest has to leave—what else can you do?"
So, he quit because he disliked the treatment or pay at the manor. But how'd his clothes get that ragged? He'd clearly been wandering for ages. A barista should land a job anywhere easily, right? Well, personal circumstances, I guess. Whatever happened to him, I wouldn't pry. Time to check if he had the skills.
"Alright, let's test your abilities first, then discuss a formal contract. That okay?"
"Of course. Naturally."
The man rose agreeably. His gaze lingered briefly on the Holy Sword hanging on the wall behind me. I grabbed passing Marim and sent her to fetch Lambert from the guards' post.
"If you tell him coffee's involved, he'll probably gallop here on horseback."
* * * * *
Francois, I, and the barista applicant headed up to the bathhouse rooftop cafe. Whatever Aterugar had done, there wasn't a breath of wind—it was comfortably warm.
"Here we are. Outdoor cafe."
"Excellent."
The man gave a curt reply and stepped inside, inspecting the cookware and machines with practiced motions.
"You didn't seriously buy all this new?"
"Yeah. If you're gonna do it, do it right."
"Impressive... Must've cost a fortune."
"Money keeps rolling in. Anyway, let's begin."
I stepped back as Francois came forward. She'd verify his skills. First, she laid out several unmarked sacks of beans.
"Can you distinguish by aroma and taste?"
"Of course."
The man began appraising them one by one.
"This is Sarasenica. Grown in the mid-southern continent's highlands. Smooth, uniform flavor with a distinctive acidity."
I glanced at Francois; she nodded. Correct, then.
"This is Kapone. Grown at lower altitudes than Sarasenica, matures very quickly. Thus, it's somewhat bland with a simple aroma."
He continued identifying the rest.
"Hmm. How on earth did you acquire this?"
He held up an especially large, elongated bean.
"From my regular trader. Problem?"
"No issue. Just... it's an extremely rare variety, so I asked."
"Rare? Expensive?"
At my mercenary question, he gave a faint smile.
"Not particularly. Its flavor lags behind others, so it's scarcely produced. Called Teberika."
He rattled off features and origins for the rest without pause. What...? Way more knowledgeable than expected. Honestly, he was hireable on the spot—no issues. Francois just nodded silently, no criticisms.
"You know beans inside out."
"Technically seeds. And this is fruit, not beans."
"You don't eat these raw?"
I pointed at the reddish items in the sack; he shook his head.
"Peel the husk to extract the beans inside. Usually two per fruit. Singles are called Pierong—eating those alone gives a unique taste."
"Oh..."
Francois murmured in admiration.
"Even Cuisine Academy doesn't teach that."
The man looked surprised.
"You're from Cuisine Academy?"
"Didn't graduate. But where'd you learn all this?"
"Pick it up over years on the job."
"More than picked up..."
But knowing and crafting were worlds apart. Now he'd brew, and Francois plus incoming Lambert would judge.
"Alright, make us some coffee."
"Understood. Any preferred flavor?"
"No specifics... but I have one request."
He waited quietly.
"Make it so good anyone who tries it craves more."
"Got it."
He replied breezily, as if no big deal. He eyed the beans, grabbed one sack, and dumped it straight into the pot.
"Takes a bit. Alright?"
"Fine. We'll watch the whole roast."
At Francois's words, he nodded curtly and lit the hearth. He roasted with expert finesse; she observed silently. The rich aroma spread, drawing staff peeks.
"Hehe... smells good... whatcha doin'...?"
Idwild waddled over like a duck.
"Roasting coffee."
"Roastin' coffee...? Coffee fried rice...?"
Grinning idiotically, she gawked curiously. Soon, he cooled the roast slightly, pounded it in a mortar to fine powder. Crushing those tough beans showed real strength.
I knew the rest from desert travels—got hooked on coffee, watched street vendors brew. "Coffee suuucks..." Idwild, who'd spat it in my face after one sip, fled downstairs shuddering.
With fluid grace, he proceeded to extraction. Hoofbeats clattered below—Lambert dismounted and hurried inside.
"Smells divine."
He bounded up, barely hiding his excitement.
"That's him? The new barista prospect?"
"Not hired yet. Brewing now. Taste and judge."
"Tasting's my forte. I'll spot fake from real in a sip."
Ignoring Lambert, the man calmly finished. Deep brown steaming coffee filled the cups.
"Mmm."
Lambert snatched one first, inhaled, and hummed oddly.
"Mmm... hmm..."
"What?"
"Quiet. Ruins the tasting."
He sipped delicately, flinched, eyed the man.
"Sarasenica. Strong acidity, light roast."
"Spot on. A true coffee connoisseur."
"Sarasenica's basic basics. But... what is this..."
He trailed off puzzled, sipped again. Why's he acting weird? I followed suit—and understood. Whirled to Francois, stunned.
"You ever had coffee like this?"
"No. First time, Bertrand."
"What the...? What's going on...? Those beans from Mollo, right?"
"Yeah... hmm... definitely Sarasenica I know...?"
We three downed the hot brew in eager gulps, like summer laborers chugging ice-cold beer. The man, hands on the counter, watched us with a pleased smile.
"Hothothot... whew..."
Setting down the empty cup, I asked him.
"You wouldn't be a con artist, would you?"