I lift the plastic lid off the cup and inspect it for any signs of bubbles. Maybe one or two linger around the edges,tops.But my smile never falters.
“I’d be more than happy to fix this for you, Maryann.”
Her scowl softens ever so slightly.
“Hey, have you ever tried this with oat milk?”
Her blow-out bobs as her head shakes slightly, those bright blue eyes narrowing with skepticism. I’ve never offered her anything different before.
“No,” she says, but the word is laced with a barely-there curiosity.
“I think you’ll like it. It doesn’t taste much different than regular milk, and it doesn’t get as foamy.”
I know Maryann’s not exactly wrong when she picks up her latte and feels the bubbles. The more bubbles, the lighter the cup. And milk does a funny thing when it’s steamed—it keeps making foam. So, between the time that I skim the last of the bubbles off the top and the time I hand it to her, more foam has already formed.
Oat milk doesn’t do that.
“Would you like to try it today?”
“It’s made of… oats?” She wrinkles her nose.
“Yeah, you’ll be surprised how creamy it is.”
She squints as she considers.
“Tell you what, if you hate it, I’ll remake your usual, and both drinks are on me,” I add.
Maryann nods in acceptance of my offer, and I get to work making her an oat milk matcha latte.
I dip the steamer in the milk and tilt the jug until I hear that satisfying hiss, only letting it do so for a second or two before I set it down to heat up. When it’s done, I pour the smooth green liquid into a paper cup, scrape off any visible bubbles, and hand it to her.
Maryann picks it up, bobbing it up and down as if checking the weight. The first, and most difficult, inspection passes, and my shoulders relax a little. Then she brings it to her mouth slowly, for the taste test.
She smacks her lips together a few times, concentrating on the flavour for a few torturous seconds. I mutter a silent prayer that today might be the day that I conquer the Matcha Monster.
“It’s fine.”
Excitement bubbles up within me.
“Really?”
Fine,in Maryann-speak is like a normal person explaining that it’s the best matcha latte they’ve ever tasted.
Her hot pink, normally pursed lips soften. “Yes.”
I might be imagining it, but I swear I notice the corners tick upward. Mine do the same.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Any time. I’m glad it’s to your standards.” I offer her a soft, restrained smile as she walks out of the café, oat milk matcha in hand.
As soon as the door closes behind her, Ethan comes out of his hiding spot in the storeroom.
“Oh my god,” he exclaims. “You did it. You really did it. The oat milk worked.”
“The oat milk worked,” I repeat, as if I’m trying to believe it myself.
Now my smile takes over my face, and the excitement bursts out of me in a squeal. A few of the other customers glance towards us as Ethan and I throw our hands up in a double high-five, interrupting the quiet.
