I get my morning coffee from a small cafe owned and run solely by a middle aged, youthfully minded Italian couple. He’s a mild mannered struggling sculptor, she’s tough and often has this look on her face like she’s just gotten done lecturing him. In most other New York coffee outlets, whether it be a bodega, a Starbucks, or even a larger mom-n-pop establishment, the service is quick, efficient, done with minimal eye contact or change in facial expression, and if there is any interaction it’s a forced “How are you?…Have a great day!” kind of thing (or in other words, my manager told me to say this, and I’m a pretty good actor). But here, Jose always pours the milk in my coffee with three or four careful, intentioned splashes, like every single time he is really thinking about how much milk should be in there, and he puts the change in my palm with a graceful, almost choreographed flip of his wrist. And when I ask him how he’s doing he’ll say something like, “Mmm….I’m feeling laazy today”, and I appreciate the real-ness of it. (We all know that most days it’s really not as simple as “I’m doing good”, even if we are in a decent mood, so why do we always lie to each other?) The whole process really takes much longer and he’s probably putting forth much more energy than other baristas do, but at least he’s not sacrificing his creative spirit and honesty in his plight to make it in New York.

Turns out not all New Yorkers move fast.