It was a case of serendipity that Sunday mid-morning, I suppose. I made the wrong turn, took the incorrect elevator, and ended up nowhere near any of the two Starbucks outlets at Grand Indonesia. Instead, I found myself in front of a coffee bar called Djournal that had a mixed rustic-industrialized feel to it with its predominantly wooden interior and capacious floor space.
There was no queue and the sofas looked comfortable plus I espied an empty table with two high stools to the left of the counter that flashed privacy and quality quiet time with the third instalment of the Mars novels of Edgar Rice Burroughs. Then I laid eyes on him, one of the Djournal baristas on duty. His nameplate, I noted, read “Wildy”.
“Selamat pagi,” he said, his hands poised on the cashier.
“Good morning. One cappuccino, please,” I replied.
“No, that’s it. Thank you.”
Within a few minutes my cuppa was ready for pick up. It was a brief encounter, but all the worries seemed to have melted away. What is it with baristas that seemed to put you at ease? Wildy is the other barista that has made my habitual coffee runs an exhilarating experience. Unknowingly, he banished the cloud of ennui and replaced it with a shower of great possibilities, and created a chain of tingles running up and down my spine. You know, that school girl giddiness that swaddles you whenever you catch sight of the boy of your dreams walking down the hallway towards your direction.
Call me a meshuggener if you want. It will slide off my back like water on a duck’s tail. Baristas are part of my favourite people now because, if you look at it, it’s like getting an extra shot of caffeine when you are face-to-face with the modern rat race. Or putting it another way, they jumpstart your low biorhythm.