Coffee Rosens No. 1 Shop (4)
It might have come off as rude, but in that moment, it was high praise. The man just smiled.
Lambert de la Tremouille drained his cup without a shred of dignity, shaking out the last drop before speaking up.
"It's strange, really. To my refined palate, this is undoubtedly coffee. And yet... the color and flavor defy all reason..."
He was right. The coffee I knew was a deep brown, with varying degrees of bitterness and acidity. But this man's brew was nothing like that. If anything, the color was like muddy water—harsh words, maybe—but the taste? It had none of the divisive edges; it was smooth, universally appealing, with an aroma anyone could love.
"Makes you wonder if this is even coffee. Care to explain?"
"Simple enough. I just added milk and sugar."
"Milk and sugar...? To coffee?"
The outdoor cafe stocked a bit of milk and sugar for various drinks, and he'd used that. But in coffee?
"Francois. Is there a recipe like this?"
"No, first I've heard of it. I know some add a bit of sugar, but milk...?"
"A deplorable recipe."
Lambert cut her off decisively.
"Coffee is a sacred process from harvest to roasting to extraction. A highly trained barista accounts for humidity, temperature, bean quality, and the drinker's preferences."
Listen to this guy. You'd think he was the dean of some coffee academy.
Undeterred by Lambert's bluntness, the man kept smiling. Lambert lifted his cup slightly and continued.
"That said... I must admit the taste is exceptional. Coffee like this would appeal to experts like me and common folk alike."
"Captain, aren't you overselling yourself a bit?"
"Approved."
Ignoring me, Lambert gave his verdict.
"I like it too," Francois said.
"It's a bit far from pure coffee, but that's just a different direction—not invalid. Bertrand ordered something everyone would love, after all."
"Exactly, Chef. If you'd like, I can brew it properly. Shall I, uh... Guard Captain?"
The man hesitated slightly, and Lambert introduced himself.
"Guard Captain Lambert de la Tremouille."
"De la Tremouille...? Of the marquisate?"
"Indeed."
Not every noble son inherits a title unless he's the eldest. Otherwise, they mooch off the family or strike out like Lambert. Military service is popular—decent pay, family backing, no real hardship.
So the man wasn't shocked that a scion of the great de la Tremouille house was in the guards.
"Then brew me a straight one, no additives."
"Understood."
The man got right to it, and I patted Lambert's shoulder.
"He any good?"
"Of course. A true barista can craft endless drinks from pure espresso."
"Francois? Thoughts?"
"Seems solid. If we're not serving royalty or high nobles, leaning into this flavor could work."
Both judges approved, and so did I. That sweet shock still lingered on my tongue. With a taste like that, even Idwild would down it like an oasis in the desert. If she loved it, all of Rosens would.
One hang-up: that burn scar. Doesn't bother me, but some might find it off-putting. Still, you can't please everyone in business. The inn's packed despite the half-elves crawling around, and they draw worse stares. A scarred face running a cafe? Fine, as long as the coffee's good.
The man finished the straight brew and served Lambert, who went through his theatrical sniffing and sipping routine before declaring:
"Incredible. Truly superb. Best coffee of my life. Bertrand, hire him now."
"Anyone'd think I was the figurehead and you're the real boss, Captain."
Smiling at the man, I said:
"Let's make it official."
"Agreed."
We drew up the contract right there at the cafe table. His name was Rowell, a bit older than me. He skipped personal details like hometown, so that was that. Assigned him Ukun's spare room upstairs. Living with a dwarf's no picnic, but Ukun's a clean freak—thank the gods. Rowell had no complaints, just nodded.
Left Lambert reminiscing over his noble days with a sip of coffee and headed downstairs with Rowell, showing him the inn and bathhouse. Despite being older, he insisted on informal speech as boss and employee.
"What's that?"
"Lurtjog, a blue dragon. You might've heard."
"Ah, that Lurtjog? The red dragon Aterugar, guardian of justice and common sense, passed judgment."
I couldn't help a hollow laugh. A kid holed up in bed playing affair games with a bunny doll? Guardian of justice?
At the monster zoo, Rowell reacted like every first-timer.
"What in the world... How is this even... I mean..."
"Monster zoo. Load folks on wagons, let 'em gawk, take their coin."
"Heh..."
He clicked his tongue in disbelief.
"But there are predators here. How do you keep them from eating each other?"
"Dimensional gate to southern jungles. Grab monsters there for feed."
"Using gates like that? Ingenious."
Rowell nodded thoughtfully.
"Staff helped a ton. Anyway, that's the setup. Visitors speak for themselves, right?"
"Yes. Don't worry—I can handle it solo."
His confident tone inspired trust.
As always when the inn launched something new, the cafe was a smash hit. Rowell quizzed customers on tastes and whipped up custom brews. Coffee newbies got the milky brown one he'd served us—universally loved, no exceptions.
He dubbed it Maximum Coffee—supreme in every way. The name stuck like the sweet-bitter finish. Unique to us, impossible elsewhere.
Rowell innovated further: iced coffee. Lambert, a daily regular, bellowed in outrage.
"Cold coffee?! Madness! No thanks—I'd sooner top pizza with whipped cream. What barbarity!"
Rowell persisted, and Lambert relented, trying iced Maximum Coffee.
"Hrrm... This... Hmmm... Ohhh..."
Speechless, he chugged it. I tried it too, then force-fed Idwild.
"Good, right?"
"Hooee... How can coffee do this...? Hooeeee..."
She drained three cups on the spot, making weird noises.
One day, Celereja dropped by with her novice nuns—all young, underage girls. The archbishop picked them to avoid veterans overshadowing her inexperience. They adored her, clinging to her arms and waist. Celereja, powerless to scold, just floundered. A rare sight.
Ironically, the cafe's success bred bigger headaches. For merchants, worries mean money. We're selling drinks at half price for the opening promo. Fine for most, but coffee's pricey. Even small batches cost a fortune to test Rowell's skills. Jack up prices for margins? Most couldn't afford it.
Mollo confirmed: "Coffee's not cheap to source, Bertrand. That's why nobles drink it."
Late one night after close, I called Rowell alone.
"Something wrong?"
"Sit, Rowell. Got a dilemma."
I explained costs. He spoke casually, like it was nothing.
"Simple fix for that."