Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
“Yes, yes, just need a bit more money for that. But that is where this comes in…” He gives the machine another swipe. “A little beans, a little water, and we will be printing money!”
“Right.” I hate to be the voice of reason, but someone has to be. Mrs. Rossi is usually around to ground her husband after his flights of fancy, but she’s stuck upstairs, so it’ll have to be me. “Um… does it work?”
“Of course! Just needs a little bit of polish.” With a final swipe, Mr. Rossi tosses aside the rag and rubs his hands together. “Good as new. Help me move it, darling girl.”
Mr. and Mrs. Rossi took me under their wing and gave me a job when I was fifteen and in foster care. Now, I make enough to live on my own even though money is tight. For them, I would do anything.
It takes both of us to roll the machine out, and by the time we’ve lifted the heavy monstrosity off the cart and onto a clear section at the very end of the side counter, I’m sweating, and my sweater is smudged with the last bit of dust. I have to admit, the machine looks very fancy.
“Perfetto,” Mr. Rossi announces. “Now we will be printing money!”
“As soon as we learn to use it,” I remind him. “Is there an instruction manual?”
“Not that I know of.” Mr. Rossi rubs his head until his curls spring up in a childish halo.
“That's okay,” I say. The original manual was probably written in Chaucer's English. Or an obscure Italian dialect. “I'll figure it out.” I pat the machine, and something falls off the back with a clang. I snatch my hand back.
“We will be printing money!” Mr. Rossi dashes to the back and returns with a stack of the white paper cups we use for the drip coffee. He’s so excited, he drops a few cups on the floor, and they promptly roll under the counter.
Mr. Rossi scrambles around the counter and crouches in front of the chalkboard sign we use as a menu.
“Um, maybe we should wait until we’ve figured out how—” I start, but he’s already adding the word Lattes in a barely legible scrawl underneath the usual list of coffee, tea, and daily muffin flavor.
Guess we’re making lattes now.
“Do we have enough milk?” I ask, coming to stand next to him. “Because lattes require milk.”
“Oh. No.” Mr. Rossi scratches his head.
“All right.” I carefully erase what he's written and write out Espresso in my neat script. “Let’s start small.” I frown at the espresso maker. “Are you sure there’s no instruction manual? Maybe a Latin scroll, handwritten by monks?”
Mr. Rossi has already disappeared into the back. He comes back out carrying a box filled with several shiny pieces, and lengths of opaque plastic hosing. “I forgot to reattach these,” he says and ducks his head like a little boy with his hand caught in the biscotti jar.
The oven buzzer blares.
“Okay.” I take the box of missing and probably essential espresso machine parts. “I’ll deal with this. You deal with the oven—leave the muffins out, and I’ll fill the case once they’re cool. Then you can go check on Cedella.” I’ll try to figure the machine out while he’s upstairs and out of my hair.
“Perfetto.” Mr. Rossi salutes me and scurries off, leaving me grinning. Sometimes my boss just needs to be told what to do.
“Tell her I’ll be making the apricot and cream cheese scones! They’re her favorite,” I call after him.
“Sei un angelo!” You're an angel!
“Too bad I’m not an engineer,” I mutter to the box of missing parts in my hand before setting it aside. Maybe the bad weather will make the morning rush light, and I’ll have time to figure out the glossy monstrosity on the countertop.
With snow mixed with sleet spitting from the clouds outside, I expected fewer morning customers, but the popularity of my muffins proves me wrong.
The lemon poppy seed ones run out first, like they always do, followed by the cinnamon buns.
Mr. Rossi returns and helps at the counter while I whip up a big batch of Mrs. Rossi’s favorite scones, and do a quick check in case there’s an espresso machine instruction manual lying around that Mr. Rossi forgot about.
So far, the coffee shop gods have smiled on us and everyone ordered their usual—a drip coffee and a muffin. But in between customers, Mr. Rossi reminds me that “We are going to be on the map! We will be printing money!” so he’s probably not going to give up on the machine any time soon. That means I need to become a barista, stat.
In my search, I unearth an old Italian cookbook, and tuck it under my arm to take out front and read between customers. Mr. Rossi pretty much lets me bake whatever I want, and I’ve been wanting to try some new recipes. Why not biscotti to go with the espresso?