coffee shop

5

Lou

I'm awake at 6:00 AM, though I don't want to be. My phone screams at me from the floor; I reach for it to turn it off, but end up face down on the hardwood. I lie still for a moment, too lazy to move, until the sound of that bloody siren makes me want to chuck my phone out the window. I finally silence it and drag myself up off of the floor to get dressed. Jeans, shirt, jumper, jacket, scarf, socks, shoes. I brush my teeth and run a brush through my hair, putting in the minimum amount of effort before I grab my keys and head for the door.

The streets of Edinburgh are deserted at this time of morning, save for a delivery truck or two. People enjoy their beauty sleep. Unfortunately for me, beauty sleep wasn't included in my job perks when I accepted the offer. I've found ways to cope, though, so, despite the infuriating alarm,  it's not nearly as bad as it used to be.

I drive down the streets of Old Towne until I reach the Library. It's not a library anymore, but it still bears the name, much to the confusion of local bookworms. They don't leave disappointed, though; most are pleasantly surprised by what they find instead.

The Library was a small, local library in Edinburgh about seventy years back, nestled among other historic buildings. Up until about two years ago, it was scheduled for demolition; there was a need for more flats and fewer libraries, apparently. Luckily, a crazy Scotsman called Calum decided to buy it and convert it into a coffee shop, and his wife's nephew, Conor, just so happens to be my flatmate. I've worked at the Library Coffeehouse and Bakery for nearly a year, and though I tire of the early mornings now and then, I still enjoy it.

I turn off the car and grab my keys from the center console. The lamps scattered throughout the store are still on, and from the outside, it seems like someone's home—quiet, sleepy, warm. That's nothing compared to what it looks like with all the lights on, though. I unlock the door and close it behind me, then set to work plugging in the string lights and turning on the radiators. I get the basket of blankets from the back and weave between the wooden bookcases, throwing them out onto the mismatched sofas and armchairs before straightening the equally mismatched rugs. By the time the floor is swept and the tables are wiped down, it's only half six, so I roll up my sleeves and head behind the counter. I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker and start up my favorite Spotify playlist before rolling up my sleeves, throwing on my apron, and getting to work. 

I enjoy making coffee, but what I really enjoy is making bread. That sounds stupid coming from a twenty-one-year-old guy in uni for a degree, but it's true. It's therapeutic. It's fun. Best of all, it gives you immediate satisfaction—in a relatively short amount of time with a little bit of effort, you get something that you made with your own two hands. It's something to be proud of. Flour, yeast, salt, water. Simple ingredients, but a billion different ways to combine and customise them for an infinite number of results.

Nothing was prepped last night, so I have to measure everything meticulously on the scale. Another thing I love about bread—it's a science. Same measurements every time, and I know them by heart.  I pull together a couple batches of dough and set them aside to rest for a few hours.

Next, the dough that's proofing overnight. I pull it from the fridge in the back and move it to the counter, where I score it and prep it for the oven. The dough is fluffy and soft, but fragile, so I move quickly and carefully to get it in the oven.

I spend nearly two hours making dough, prepping dough, and baking dough. At half eight, the sun is breaking the horizon, the store smells amazing, and Calum walks through the front doors with a large green scarf covering half his face.

"Freezin' outside," he mutters as he walks past me and to the back, probably to strip out of his layers and sleep another five minutes in his office.