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Amaat, as we know, is like everything in the universe. Therefore, it must be the case that Amaat is like coffee. But it sure does seem like the Radchaai do not think this is possible, because I've been working here four months and we've had about twice as many customers. There's a few regulars and apart from my somewhat irregular tasting sessions there's never more than one in here at a time.
And no, I'm not interested in this idea that the Republic of Two Systems is not Radchaai. When you break a piece of bread off of a loaf of bread, it's still a piece of bread. They wear gloves, they toss stones, they drink tea. They're Radchaai, and they do not drink coffee.
There's money in coffee though. There must be, because this place is still open. Every six weeks I get a deposit in my account, and there's someone paying the bills to keep the lights on and the beans delivered. The grinder is state of the art, too. I don't even really need to be here, because the coffee gets made by a machine and all the customers have given me one look and decided they can serve themselves.
I think it's because the porcelain coffee set is very nice, and not because I'm wearing the cheapest and most functional gloves I own. Let me tell you, this glove business is not for the faint of heart, either. I thought I knew what I was getting into when I took the job but it turned out that maybe I should have used the glove allowance to actually buy gloves.
What's done is done, though. They pay very well, too, though for what I can't say. What use is a coffee sommelier who can sniff a bean and tell you where it's from when the first batch I bought is still waiting to be finished? These days I use the bean delivery service to order what I like and try out new samples. It's how the tasting sessions got started - not because I wanted to attract new business but because there's no fun in drinking something new without anyone to talk to about it. For today's session I've been experimenting with ice-steeping a dark roast that the farmer says is absolutely not ready for it, but I have my doubts.
The door buzzes and I look up from my desk. Of all the days to actually have a customer, today is one of the less convenient ones. All my regulars know that the tasting sessions only start after the shop closes.
The person who walks in is not Radchaai. I know this, because everyone on the station knows her. She's the Presger Translator who keeps referring to herself as either Zeiat or Dlique depending on her mood, and there's some wild stories about her recovering from being shot in the head, the chest, or perhaps both. She's accompanying someone I have not met before, though her bearing suggests a military outlook.
"Welcome to The Coffee Consortium and Cafe!" I say, hiding my wince. With the amount I'm being paid, pretending it's a good name for a coffee shop is the least I can do.
"Hello! My friend here says that coffee is an abomination against all civilisation, so we would like to try some," the Translator says. Her friend merely shoots her a look of the kind I'm familiar with - one that says 'You know you shouldn't be taking me literally but you are.'
I think about it for a second, and decide that I'm not being paid enough to malign my job. Especially when my dark-roast could oversteep at any second.
"I'm afraid that we're all out of coffee for today, unfortunately. I'm sure there's a tea dispensary more suited to civilised tastes close by?" I say.
"Oh, I heard from Citizen Elming that there was a tasting session today. Was she mistaken?" the military woman says, her tone dry as the instant I keep around to demonstrate why one should never try it. My heart sinks. Basnaaid is not the most dedicated coffee-drinker but she likes it well enough. She is conscientious, though, so if she's told someone else about it I'm sure it's because she wants me to make a good impression.
Basnaaid's not paying me, either.
"Unfortunately the session is the reason we have no coffee. All of it has been used," I say. Who knows, perhaps Radchaai think it's possible.
"What about that stuff over there?" the Translator asks innocently. She's pointing to the bag of dark roast I haven't put away yet. I was planning on having some, but lost as I was in thinking about steeping I'd forgotten it was there.
"Ah, that is for enthusiasts only. You wouldn't like it, I'm sure," I say.
"No, I'm sure I will! And if I don't, that's even better. I don't get to dislike things that often," the Translator says. My heart, already sunken to my navel, falls to my knees.
I name an outrageous price for it, but the military woman merely grins at me. Instantly the station notifies me that the shop has been credited the full amount. I look at the notification and the reference reads "Uncivil Coffee, Uncivil Service".
I grit my teeth.
"Very well. If you would like to take a seat, it will only be a few minutes. Would you each like a cup?" I ask.
The Translator waves off any ideas to the contrary and in fact asks for four for herself.
"Is there a reason you would like four cups?" I ask. Much as I wouldn't mind giving her friend a caffeine headache it would be criminal to inflict it on someone who is genuinely interested.
"Well, I've heard you can put all kinds of things in it, so I want to try them all!" she says.
It is at that point that I truly break. It's true you can put all kinds of things in it. You can put tea in coffee, if you like. I'm telling you, I don't like. Not only do I not like, it would be criminal to allow someone without any idea of what coffee is to do this to themselves.
"Are you alright? You seem to be in some pain," Military Woman says. She's enjoying it, too.
"No, not at all. However if you would not protest, I will make each of you a single cup and you might tell me how you like it. There's no need to experiment if one finds what one likes, after all," I say.
The Translator peers at me questioningly, and then acquiesces.
It's a good thing, too, because my alarm goes off at the same time and so I remove my coffee from the ice-steep bag and sniff it. It's still a little sharp, so I remove half of it for comparison and put the rest back in. Making the dark roast is rote, of course, so a few minutes later they each have a coffee in front of them exactly the way the farmers say it is supposed to be drunk - one part coffee to two parts milk, a pinch of cinnamon, and served boiling. The truth is that they are right that this is perfect for these beans.
Both the Translator and the Military Woman drink the coffee without flinching. You're supposed to leave it for a couple of minutes so that the cinnamon can properly travel through the coffee, but they don't seem to care that it's liable to burn their mouths off.
"Oh! This is delightful!" the Translator says. Her friend merely grimaces, which I take to mean that she has no choice but to accept that this is true. Even though this is an imposition I know for a fact it means I've done my job right.
"Is this what you are tasting at the session?" the Military Woman asks. I've never been good at lying to a direct question so I answer in the affirmative.
"I'd love to try some more of it. When is it?" the Translator says. I realise now that I've expertly painted myself into a corner. Of course they'd like it. Of course they'd like to try more of it. And of course they'd want to know when the session is.
"After the shop closes, in about three hours," I say, defeated by myself.
"Excellent, we will return then," she says.
"We will?" her friend asks.
"Yes! There's all that stuff in the fridge to try, too," she says. "Goodbye!"
As they leave, I realise that I have two more Regulars now. I'll have to take it out of Basnaaid's hide.