As a writer, I spend most of my time imbibing drinks of the frothy or frosty variety, or, at the very least, in situations where one of the two is being concocted. Back in my pre-21 days, my doe-eyes were always batting at the stubbly chinned booze dude, partially because he had the sweet serum I was in search of, and, well, maybe because I had beer goggles on. But now I am of a more mature variety—as my (valid) license will attest. I spend many of my days click clacking in the various cafés gentrified Brooklyn provides, judging them on their internet connection, the strength of their macchiato, the freshness of their bagel, and, well…the hotness of their baristo.
Let’s face it, sauntering up to get a refill at the bar gets a little hazier each time (if you’re the type who fetches her own drinks). Eventually you don’t care what/who is handing you said beverage. But, with each cup of sweet caffeine, your nerve endings are wound a little tighter, your sense of self as heightened as your sudden ability to perform complex math equations involving pi. This leads to some of the most awkward/sober/genuine interchanges between barkeep and patron—ones that involve less hair twirling and more flexing of your Oxford English Dictionary skills.
I know bartenders are of equal intellect. And hell, I’m sure there are some baristos that moonlight as tenders themselves. But lately, the sexiness of a man preparing coffee supersedes that quintessential martini mixing, bottle tossing stud of the 80’s. Maybe it’s just another product of Tom Cruise’s drastic fall from stud. Personally, I never found him hot, but that’s just me. I’m an Ethan Hawk paper cup of coffee girl. Before he left Uma.