When I walked into Starbucks on my first day, I caught the eye of Marty, the store manager, who was behind the counter pouring hot water over coffee grounds in an eight-cup stainless-steel French press. He motioned for me to find a seat. Marty was in his mid-twenties and had buzzed blond hair and the traces of a slim beard lining his jaw. He wore khakis and a white linen shirt. We sat together in the middle of the café, among the afternoon customers. Marty decanted a cup of coffee for each of us and said that the brew was made from Ethiopian Sidamo beans. Marty coached me through the right way to sip coffee. He asked me what flavors I tasted and what scents I smelled. I had few words besides the obvious: hot, aromatic, ...
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