A Tale of Two Stores

Lee: “Nov. 29.”
Me: “Yeah?”
Lee: “The last time you wrote a blog post.”
Me: “2. That’s the number of stores Quills has opened since that date.”

I’m sitting in the second of those two stores right now, a disarmingly beautiful space that is at once both cozy and comfortable. We opened this space on Monday, and we’re about an hour and a half away from closing down the third day of business here. To say we’ve been busy would be an understatement, but to attempt to say more would very likely fall short of what we’re feeling right now.

I had an older gentleman sitting at the slow bar tonight, regaling me with tales of his brewing exploits with a Chemex. His glee at sipping on our Rwanda Kigeyo was nothing short of perfect. He went through that brew fairly quickly, but from the happy glint in his eye, I don’t blame him. That ritual, the one where the craftsman shares in the satisfaction of his customer, has been played out for centuries by many others who have gone before us, but that doesn’t lessen the experience one bit. I’m sure he’ll be back, and I hope he looks forward to his next visit as much as I look forward to serving him.

Over the past several weeks, as I’ve thought through the role of the roastery and the (now) three stores, I came to a conviction: The primary role of the roastery must be to serve the baristas and the stores that serve our coffees, and, as lead roaster, it is my job to lead in that service. If you think that sounds a little daunting, a tiny part of me agrees with you. For the most part, though, the thought of taking the reigns of service really gets my blood pumping… even if I’m still really unsure as to what that’ll look like, or how the heck that’s going to happen.

I sometimes take a step back and think to myself, “John, you have a job doing what you love. Don’t ever take that for granted, you big donkey.” He’s getting quoted way too much for his own humility, but a couple weeks ago, after I dropped a load from the roaster into the cooling tray, Lee looked down at the coffee for a second before smiling and nodding slightly and saying, “Dude, that’s your effing job!” and gave me a fist-bump. And you know what? He’s right.

On Monday morning, just a couple of days ago, Ginger and Sarah and I stood around in the brand-new-but-still-empty shop, waiting for its first customer ever. We talked about how crazy things have been, but how all of us at the core of it are totally set on seeing things through. A thought hit me then, and I think it’s the closest I can come to articulating just how insanely wonderful this experience has been: There’s gonna come a day when all of us are sitting around, and one of us says something to the effect of, “Well, I’ve decided it’s time to move on… I’ve found another job, and I’m leaving Quills,” and with that statement, the wind will effectively be sucked out of the room. An end of an era will be upon us, and we’ll look back on these times with a sort of sad fondness.

All of this comes full-circle, you know. Sitting there, talking to that elderly gentleman, stuff like that doesn’t take place unless you love your job. And, what’s more, loving my job doesn’t happen unless the people I’m in the trenches with are totally loving their jobs, too, and help me do mine so they can do theirs. I suppose you could say this is my public way of saying, “Thanks for putting up with me, guys… I’m grateful for each of you.”