"Latte Art"

I'd like to make a confession. "Latte Art" is one of those lovely haute cuisine presentational novelties, like radish flowers, that can make one's cup just a little more enjoyable. But since it is ineffective as a substitute for good coffee, I have never given it much consideration, much less effort. When I shared this prejudice with my boss, like the good sensei he is, he replied: "These things will come in time." He did not say, "Too bad - you'd better get up to speed on it, or you're toast," nor did he say "I don't care about it much either." Rather enigmatically, he said it would come in time.

So I didn't knock myself out learning how to make those clever little squiggles, leaves, pictures of smiley-faced suns, Italian paper patterns or what-have-you on top of everyone's drink. Instead, I focused on rendering a quality beverage according to my employer's preferred specifications (which are also something as nebulous yet exact as any expectations about food can be). I made it my watchword to never be satisfied without some kind of exclamation of satisfaction from each customer - "Ahh, perfetto!" for example - "Just as I would have expected back home," as one Italian guest remarked. Every time someone took a sip of their drink and either shrugged or didn't react, I inquired if everything was all right, and whenever possible either remade the drink or memorized the person's face so I could do better next time - with the optimal goal of doing it right the first time, seeing as how you can't count on a second chance after a first impression. High standards perhaps, but without them, life loses some of its joy.

The funny thing that happened is that I started making art on people's beverages almost by accident. Or rather, I discovered that when one focused on technique for quality purposes, the art sometimes appeared on its own - perhaps this is how this particular element was discovered in the first place. I'd time the shots, position the wand in the milk just so for the right number of seconds, tamp out the few large bubbles, swirl, pour with the right elbow position and wrist action, and maybe my hand would tremble a little from having forgotten to pack my lunch that day, and there it was! - that telltale squiggle of crema on foam that said "Make that last gentle flick forward and you'll have yourself a leaf". And now I have a new highly-set ideal, designed for maximum challenge: In addition to a sigh of satisfaction after first sip, an exclamation of "Beautiful!" at first glance. So far I'd say I get that about 10-15% of the time, conservatively. I'd like to get up to 30%, but I'll happily take it one customer at a time.