Fox & Bear

A bear stumbled to the city,

after hibernation.

A fox wandered from the alley,

caught his attention.

Far from the forest what are you doing here?

The fox was jilted & she needed some cheer.

And for the bear, the same was true.

They traveled & they sang,

The two became one.

But the fox moved so fast,

And the bear could not run.

Where are you going? I'm content right here.

The fox felt jilted & she needed some cheer.

And for the bear, the same was true.

The fox ran away,

It's all the bear's fault.

Can't find the words,

To unlock his heart.

Back to the mountains I don't like it here.

The fox was hot & she needed a beer.

And for the bear, the same was true.

And for the fox, the tears were true.

And for the bear, the same was true.

A Summer Day in March

Today I declare a turning point!  The city bugged the barista like a spoiled kid with clueless parents.  The mountains drew him as the moon pulls the tides.  Resistance was futile  The Dolphin was poised.  Dumb asses at work and at home brought the barista down.  If not for the cinnamon girl, I’d be gone by July.

Deano nearly turned on the conditioned air in the car as he drove the barista back to the Big Crabcake. 

“It nearly feels like June today,” the barista said to his pops. “But maybe we should save the Freon for summer.” 

Spring fever gripped the barista like a slugger grips his bat in the Grapefruit League.  He was returning from a weekend at the Old Creek Home to ring in Mart’s 33^rd year on the planet.  While there, he patched the roof of his mini-recreation vehicle.  The Dolphin sat idle on Deano’s driveway for a year-and-a-half.  It had to move.

The barista armed his self with a silicon gun, climbed out the skylight and lathered all around the 27-year old roof.  He installed a new battery for the engine.  He propped up the ceiling above the overhead bed with a bamboo rod.  Beads of sweat dripped down his cheek, so he slugged a Lord Chesterfield Ale.  He wiped away the mouse turds bordering the sink.  He aired out the mattresses; then aired out his lungs.  He reminisced about the 5000-mile road trip he took in the Dolphin nearly three years prior.  I’m cycling back—back to the mountains.

But the soil under the barista’s feet proved fertile.  He did not know at the time, but he was about to be promoted at le café.  Responsibility knocked.  So he would stay.  He hired a new staff.  He embraced the position Shelly graciously offered him on Jennifer’s thoughtful recommendation.  But he planned an escape to the mountains—if only temporary.  Shasta was too far, but not Shenandoah.

"Not Her Type"

A special treat lies ahead.  For those who have ever desired to more easily visualize the establishment which is the inspiration for le Harbor Bungalow Café, for those who have patronized the shop and listened to the barista retell the story, and for those who have read last November’s blog post Potentially Reciprocating and patiently awaited the result of Luis Guanzon’s music video production, enjoy.  The barista raises his mug to both the director and the musician, and is proud to present “Not Her Type”, a music video featuring Julian Roso.

What's Shakin'

Through the distorted glass of an empty cookie jar resting on top of the bagel case, the barista spies a frail, old man with a gray moustache and leather biker hat having just walked through the open front door.  His eyes seemingly hypnotized by the pastries greeting him at the café entrance.

“Otis!  What’s shakin’?”

Otis used to be the regular among regulars.  He was Jennifer’s first customer when she bought the shop at the innocent age of 24.  But months prior to Shelly taking over the business, Otis’ visits became less frequent.  The Dead End Tavern became a recurring beneficiary of his presence. 

“Oh, nothing.  I’ll have a coffee.” 

The weathered man’s hand shakes like a possessed slot machine lever with attention deficit disorder as the barista hands him his coffee.  Otis embraces his inner child with a fluff of whipped cream on his beverage.  The barista prepares him a chicken salad wrap.

“So have you been playing out lately?”  Otis blew the saxophone in his heyday.  Gigged all around town.  Lived the life—explaining his shaky hands.  He and the barista often talk music.

“Sa matter of fact, I’m sittin’ in with some friends tonight.”

“Where?”

“Leadbelly’s…but the big gig is on the 25^th. I’m on all night with Curt and Crissy.”  That reminded the barista…he never got the time from G-Tore, the young, acoustic blues duo he was to play with tonight.

“So have you seen Jennifer?”  Jennifer was a local celebrity in the point called Fell’s: A young college graduate and entrepreneur thrust into business world.  Easy on the eyes, especially to old, retired men such as Otis.

“Yeah, she was in the shop yesterday…and I heard this morning, too,” said the barista as he tucks some spinach in the black bean wrap with the chicken salad he whipped up seconds earlier.  “I schedule her on occasional Saturdays.”

“Schedule her?” Otis seemed confused.

“You didn’t hear?  Sally asked me to manage the shop.  So I’m in charge of the scheduling, hiring, et cetera.”

“Ahh, congratulations.”

The barista had been fairly modest about his promotion, choosing to focus on the task rather than talk about it.  While choice baristas were digging their graves, the barista was searching for recruits to attend barista camp.  He planned to loosen his lips after a reliable and deep staff was in place.

Eight O’clock.  It was the G-Tore on the phone.  The barista would have to hustle to make it on time:  Close shop, shower, eat, warm up & go! 

~~~~~

The barista slung his bass over his shoulder and briskly walked down his apartment stairs, along the sidewalk, over a cobblestoned street, then diagonally across the piazza of Fell’s to Leadbelly’s.  G-Tore was about to begin their second set.

“Let’s give a hand for Reggie.  He’s gonna join us for this first one.”

Shit, no warm up beer.

The guys waved the barista to the front corner of the bar.  Practically all the bar stools were taken and standing room was tight around the narrow, row home-of-a-bar.  He plugged in and followed the slow blues progression.

“They call it stormy Monday…but Tuuuuuesday’s just as bad…”

The barista met the G-Tore duo at the open mics they frequented at Leadbelly’s.  The 20-something vocalist has a 50-year-old’s voice: scruffy, yet soulful.  The acoustic guitars weaved and resonated dynamically.  They were quick friends and the trio would jam on songs by the Allman Brothers, The Band and Phish.

The barista is searching for another fun gig.  A year ago, the barista tripped into a summer festival tour with Angelique Henle.  He traveled from Kansas to Maine--weekend warrior style.  But since Angie’s label folded last autumn, she put the band on hiatis.  So the barista plans to lure her, along with the G Tore, Hound and Curt & Crissy to le Harbor Bungalow Café. Sally wants to host open mics at her new shop.  The barista has been playing open mics in the neighborhood for a year and a half.  He's forged connections.  Why not pull as much talent as you can gather in one room?  See what happens.  So along with Otis' hands, that's what's shakin.

Following is a clip from the barista's 2011 summer festival tour.  That's our hero playing his bass.

 

Repairing a Refrigerator

Living the life of a barista, like that of a bartender, one is subject to a multitude of stories.  Good stories highlight the imperfections of life, the triumphs and the coincidences.  Retired folks and vagabonds alike, have stories enough to fill their own personal bibles: stories of sailing, serving overseas in the military, on the road with the band, winning the lottery, romance and lack of romance.  One tale that branded itself into the barista’s memory was Buck’s.  Buck recalled visiting his preteen children at their mother’s house one recent weekend.  Interrupting the innocent, quality family time was Buck’s 9-year-old daughter massaging her cheeks with a vibrator.

“Where did you get that?!” Buck bursted.

“In Mommy’s desk?”

“Go put it under Mommy’s pillow.”

“What is it for, Daddy?”

“Nothing…she can tell you.”

“Hmmm…I bet she uses it to relax.”

At that remark Buck lost his composure and released a hardy, pink-faced chuckle.  How can a father remove such a scene from his brain?

~~~~~

We never know, nor can expect, who will sail into le Harbor Bungalow Café—especially after hours. 

Upon receiving the news that she sold the shop, the barista promised Jennifer not to tell anyone until she conducted a staff meeting six days later.  His patience was tested—like the silicon-patched roof of the Dolphin in a rainstorm—each time a patron asked, “So what’s new?” If that’s not the most common question the barista hears at the shop, then he’ll stop writing in the third person.  And if keeping Jennifer’s news a secret was like putting a cap back on a shaken bottle of Flying Dog ale, holding back the following story—which was relayed to him independently two times, days later—was like attempting to tap a keg of Natty Boh after it bounced down the stairs to a dingy Fell’s Point cellar:  a cellar not unlike the cellar at le Harbor Bungalow Café.

Two nights before the meeting that Jennifer planned to formally introduce her staff of four baristas to the new owners, she met with Shelly at the shop.  They were nearing the conclusion of about a month-long negotiation.  Shelly agreed to buy le café with her husband, but the shop was her project—explaining the covert conference of two.  The sun had long set, the curtains drawn and the front door was locked.  Fister Mishy lapped around his tank.  The trap door to the storage cellar was open, blocking the bathroom door.  Paperwork detailing the transfer of ownership may have been on the table before them.  Nonetheless, business was being conducted.  Suddenly, the sleigh bells hanging from the front door began to clang.  A key was turned.  Two baristas appeared, drunk, and carrying a toaster.

“Oh…hi.  We just came to use the bathroom.”

Jennifer was flustered.  “Uh, this is Shelly.  She’s here to fix the ‘frigerator.”

Soon after, one of the baristas commenced a goofy, intoxicated dance—unbeknownst to him, before his future boss.  The baristas said they came from a neighborhood tavern.  Apparently the bathroom at the watering hole whence they came was not good enough.  So the bulky trap door was brought to the ground and the barista proceeded into the bathroom while the ownership was being transferred beneath his glassy eyes.  The scene left Shelly bewildered. 

“That’s the exact story they told me when they abruptly keyed in months ago, when I was training Lizzy,” our barista said to Jennifer after he answered her frantic phone call later that night.  “I’ve used Dogwatch’s bathroom.  It’s fine…what do you think they were up to?”

Jennifer could only speculate.

Two nights later certain baristas must have wondered why the refrigerator repair woman was attending the staff meeting.  A sense of befuddlement clouded the dense, café air.

“Meet the new owners of the café,” Jennifer said.

The color drained from certain barista faces as quick as the urine drained from their bladder two nights prior.  Not a word was spoken about the incident.  No apologies offered.

Not many folks at le Harbor Bungalow Café like the feeling of being taken advantage.  So Shelly invited a locksmith to the meeting.  He installed a new front door lock faster than half the staff could prepare a couple of proper large, dirty, iced, soy gingerbread chai lattes—in the background of the meeting.  Our barista found it challenging to disguise his smirk.

Touché—but it’s going to take more than a new lock and key to repair this refrigerator.

The Delicate Art of Sacrifice

Decisions reverberate—especially big, life-altering decisions like the one made at le Harbor Bungalow Café last month. 

When the barista commenced his present stint at le Harbor Bungalow Café, it was no secret that Jennifer had ideas of selling her cozy, quaint, warm and tasty coffee and pastry establishment.  In fact, it was her first attempt—which imploded late in the process—that was a topic of discussion during the barista’s first week on the job.  Nearly a year and a half later—and six years since Jennifer bought the shop—the day arrived. 

“It feels like I’m breaking up with you,” said Jennifer.  The barista sensed something was up, but had yet to connect the dots as they strolled down Broadway after work.  “I’ve sold the shop.”

“Wow…congratulations!”

The responsibilities of running a coffee shop while raising a family are many.  For Jennifer they overlapped.  Her daughter was raised at le café.  Her infant son was a regular morning visitor in his car seat.  Now he too, can walk.  Jennifer’s was a delicate juggling act.  Where she once sacrificed aspects of her family life to manage the shop, now she decided to sacrifice part of her professional life by transferring ownership to an enthusiastic couple.  The barista understood.

“Please stay and help out the new owners,” Jennifer encouraged as the factory lights across the harbor twinkled and reflected in the night water beyond the square.  The barista noticed how tough the decision was for Jennifer. 

“Of course,” the barista said.  “I have no plans otherwise…have I met the new owners?”

“I don’t know.  They’ve been in the shop a few times recently.  She’s blond, her husband has close, dark hair…I think their teenage kids were with them once.”

The barista actually remembered a couple that fit Jennifer’s descriptions.  They stuck out from the crowd not only because they tipped very well, but also because they referred to the barista by his first name—without the barista introducing himself.  A tipoff.

“So will you continue baking for the shop?  You’re not going to totally disappear, are you?”

“I hope to (continue baking).  We’re still working out some of the details.”

 This could be exciting, thought the barista.  The infusion of le Harbor Bungalow Café.  The binging was over.  The purging has commenced.  Like Jennifer, the barista also experienced a sense of relief.  Relief that certain aspects of le café overdue for change will now be changed.

But how will le café be changed?  And why was Fister Mishy sacrificed?

Let me introduce you to Shelly.  She’s here to fix the refrigerator.

Murphy's Law

“Those generators kept me up all night,” a red-eyed and irritated Kathleen said. “Make it a large today.”

Walking out the front door of le Harbor Bungalow Café, patrons are used to seeing Kathleen’s antique shop, the Chess Club, Ped Ex, and J.A. Murphy’s Irish Pub across the street.  But for two weeks, a reality television crew occupied a string of five trailers obscuring the storefronts and taking half a city block of precious parking spaces.  The natives were restless.

“I’m gonna kill Keith!” Riggs yelled before ordering a dark chocolate mocha.  It was about 8 o’clock in the morning, but on this neighbor’s clock it was high noon.  “They’ve got a bundle of wires lining our breezeway…my girlfriend’s got paint on her new coat after their half-ass paint job dripped on our gate—all without a word from that clown.  I’m never going into that bar again.”

Keith is one of the owners of J.A. Murphy’s, the establishment that applied and won an appearance on Spike TV’s Bar Rescue.  Keith is a both a fun-loving boozehound and a persistent businessman who attended university with the barista’s brother.  After losing half his staff to a new tavern around the corner, Murphy’s took a turn for the worse, shutting down for nearly a month.  The barista investigated during the re-opening, slugging a few beers while watching the Orioles game as he often would do, but with the air conditioning busted, fans circulated the stench from the dirty taps and the frat house floors making his Yuengling taste like a Natty Boh.  Intolerable.  Now about six months later, twenty-two cameramen, producers and the like patronized le Harbor Bungalow Café on their work breaks.  The Los Angeles-based crew’s visit spanned two weeks—but they only planned to be on the job for one week.

“We found some mold on the subfloor and it turns out the jousts are not up to code,” said one of the show’s producers as she ordered some muffins for her colleagues.  “So it looks like we’re gonna be here for another week.”

The barista is far from a reality TV buff, but he sensed Bar Rescue, now in its second season, was either underinformed or conducted poor research.  Word is that the show paints, rebrands, decorates and drums up dramatic relationships—things visible to a television camera. So gutting the basement and replacing 36 hidden floor jousts appeared an unintended "rescue" procedure, but nonetheless contractually binding.

“Yeah, we’re way over budget,” the producer admitted as she carried away a carafe of coffee for the newly hired construction crew.  “But once we saw the problem we were obligated to say something.”

The big winner from the barista’s perspective is the owner of the building.  Many buildings—especially row homes such as Murphy's—on the Point called Fells are a couple hundred years old.  One bar even predates the independence of the United States—the same bar Edgar Allen Poe drank his last drink before passing out in an ally wearing someone else’s clothes.  This history may be one of the draws for programs like Bar Rescue, Homicide and The Wire.  Is it any surprise a neighborhood this old has so much structural wear and tear?  The building owner was under no timetable to fix the issues.  Bar Rescue had deadlines to meet.  The production picked up most of the tab.

In the meantime, most of the television crew had nothing to do.  They were communication majors, not construction workers.  So they flew home and back—cross-country.  A flatbed truck appeared across the street to receive wheel barrel loads from the cellar.  Rumors of dead rats bounced off the café walls.   The barista and Jennifer were grateful for the spike in business.  Few others the barista encountered had any sympathy towards the project.  The barista understood.

*****

“So Friday’s the big day I hear,” the barista asked the show’s producer, after speaking to her crew upon their return.

“Yes!  Finally.  Come by at 9 tonight.  We’re giving away free beer,” she replied with a sigh of relief.  The barista had a gig with the CR Experience at Betters of Lead that night and could not attend.  But two nights later he popped into Murphy’s Law—the rebranded J.A. Murphys—and got the scoop from Dan, Murphy’s spiked-haired, tattooed bartender and musician.

“Wow, man! This place smells great!” the barista said taking a deep breath of the fresh hardwood floors.

“Hey, buddy!  Great to see ya.  Welcome to the new joint,” Dan said with a handshake.  “What are you having?  We’ve got a whole new tap system.  But only four of them are hooked up tonight.”

“Hmmm…”

“I recommend the Kilkenny.”

“Irish Red, by Guinness.  Sold.”

It is no stretch to say that Kilkenny was the smoothest, creamiest tap beer the barista had consumed this past year.  Proper Irish Pub-style brew—from someone who has visited Ireland.

“So what’s the deal with the new name?”

“Well, the show wanted to move from the bad associations with J.A. Murphy’s.  So they suggested Murphy’s Law.  You know, ‘anything that can go wrong, will go wrong’.”  That explained the new photos hanging opposite the bar: a banana peal being stepped on, a cow fallen through a ceiling onto a businessman’s desk, among others. 

“Ah…you’ve got a new menu, too.”

“Yeah, it’s short and sweet.  Suits our small kitchen.” 

The barista read the menu: “Healthy” Grilled Cheese—deep fried, Fell’s Fries, Meatball sub…  “Simple pub food.  Nice.  How ‘bout another Kilkenny?  ...So other than the floor debacle, any other surprises?”

“Check this out.  They took a sample from our cutting board.  Not one, but a colony of E Coli.  That’ll be in the show.”

The barista should have been surprised, but he wasn’t.  “How’d Friday night go?”

“Packed.  People waiting outside two hours in the rain.  It kinda sucked, though.  Most of our regulars couldn’t get in.  More people just interested in being on TV.”

Figures.  A fickle, trend-following crowd.  Loyal, regulars outside.  Pissed-off neighbors.  Murphy’s Law in action.