"This," I say, patting the gleaming chrome beast, "is Beatrice."
"You named your machine."
"Everyone names their machine. It's a sign of respect." I cross my arms, daring him to argue the point.
He eyes Beatrice like she might bite him. Studies her chrome curves and brass fittings with the wariness of someone facing down an unfamiliar opponent. "What does she do?"
"Makes espresso. Which is the foundation of every drink on the menu." I pat Beatrice's side again, proprietary. "Lattes, cappuccinos, macchiatos—all start here."
I walk him through the basics, pointing as I go. Portafilter. Grounds. Tamp. Lock. Pull. The rhythm of it so automatic for me that breaking it into discrete steps feels strange, like explaining how to breathe.
"Seems simple," he says, which tells me he hasn't understood a word.
"It's not."
I hand him the portafilter, watching his massive hand close around the handle. "Fill it. Level scoop."
He takes it carefully, turning it over once like he's examining a weapon. His hand dwarfs the handle completely. He scoops grounds from the grinder, overfills by half, dark powder mounding up over the basket's rim.
"Less."
He dumps some back into the grinder with all the caution of someone defusing a bomb. Tries again. This time it's closer, though still slightly generous.
"Now tamp. Firm, even pressure."
He picks up the tamper. It looks like a toy in his palm. He presses down, and the tamp disappears entirely into his fist, swallowed by green-gray fingers. There's a faint cracking sound from somewhere inside the portafilter.
I wince. "Gently."
"That was gentle."
"Gentler, then."
He tries again, visibly restraining himself. The puck comes out lopsided but intact, which I'm counting as a minor victory.
"Good enough. Now lock it in and hit the button."
He locks the portafilter into place, the motion awkward but successful. Presses the button. Espresso begins to stream out, twin ribbons of dark liquid pooling in the cup below.
Dark. Aromatic. The crema actually looks decent. Almost perfect, really.
"See?" I say, unable to keep the note of approval from my voice. "Easy."
He looks pleased. Almost smug. A tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Now make another one."
The smugness vanishes immediately.
By the third attempt, there's coffee grounds everywhere, on the floor, and somehow on Grath's shirt. Pebble's relocated to the top of the pastry case, watching with what I can only describe as feline judgment.
"How," Grath says, staring at the machine, "does something this small make this much mess?"
"Talent."
He turns his glare on Beatrice, mouth pressed in a hard line. She hisses a jet of steam back at him, indignant and mechanical. The sound cuts through the quiet of the café like a tiny scream.
"She doesn't like you," I observe, crossing my arms.
