It was a chilly November day almost five and a half years ago when Li and I first crossed paths. She had come to the shop for her initial interview, just as our previous business assistant was preparing to leave. My father, the firm’s director at the time, had arranged for a hiring agency to send a few candidates our way. Nestled in central London, our office enjoyed an enviable spot, flanked by Baker and Marylebone streets, right at the heart of all the hustle and charm. Or, come to think of it, maybe this is a long shot – the heart of London, as many would confidently say, is somewhere else, but liver or kidneys area look like an adequate reference as far as London’s breathing organism is concerned.
As soon as Li walked through the door, there was an inexplicable sense that this was the beginning of something enduring – a friendship that somehow felt older than that single moment. Li, you once told me you had the strange feeling we already knew each other back then. And I felt it too, as though our connection had been waiting patiently to be rediscovered that day.
I remember it as vividly as if it were yesterday. It wasn’t just the beginning of a friendship; it was also the day my coffee preferences changed forever – a shared love for caffeine that would play its own essential role in our story. But, perhaps more importantly, it was the day we quietly agreed to turn every work-related twist, every ‘tricky’ moment, into something we could laugh about.
And the reality is, anyone can relate to this: there are those rare days when you feel like quitting, and there are days when you finally realise – it is entirely your choice how to respond to any challenges which you are facing at the present.
I was sitting upstairs at the reception desk, a little nervous myself, even though I was not technically involved in an interview. My father introduced us warmly.
– It’s very nice to meet you, – I said, extending my hand. – Would you like some tea or coffee?”
– Yes, coffee would be great, – she replied with an easy smile.
– Would you like some milk with that?
– Oh, no, – Li said, shaking her head with just a hint of determination. – Just black americano, please.
And that was like a bolt of lightning for me. Why did I assume back then that a young woman like me (I was 24 then) would only go for some fancy, extra shot, oat or almond milk based, and hazelnut sugar-free syrup latte? I couldn’t picture drinking a cup of strong-roast black coffee.
I somehow managed to create a parallel between my mixed views on certain things in life, and coffee: just like my never changing love for a full of ‘unnecessary sugar-boost calories’ latte, my perception on other things didn’t always have any alternatives.
So, you can imagine the extent of my internal disagreement when Li said “no” to a milky coffee.
You see that coffee has taken on a symbolic weight for us in the retail world. It’s not just a drink anymore – it’s almost a code, a language that speaks to the kind of day you are having or the person you are dealing with. A drink that also mirrored our no-nonsense attitude: sometimes direct and without the need for sweeteners. Cup of strong americano, no sugar, naturally would recreate in your mind a person with a bold, opinionated character. We both shared a view that there was no need to coat words in a syrup, so a strong americano suited us perfectly. It has become a way to make sense out of the occasional chaos around us.
It had become a bonding ceremony for Li and I to enjoy a strong cup of americano every Monday morning (and through the week of course). Over that first sip, we would recount the weekend’s events, like two old friends catching up after years apart. Naturally, the coffee fuelled our discussions about work too – from trivial matters to the pressing topics of the day. It is fair to say that this book might not even exist if it weren’t for our mutual passion for those steaming cups of coffee. So, to stay true to that, I’ve decided to keep the format of this book much like our Monday chats – a dialogue between friends and colleagues.
