education — Thoughts

A friend recently asked why I don’t teach something more important than coffee. Kinda harsh, but they had a point. It’s a thought I’ve had more than once in my career: The world is ending, and I’m over here teaching people how to make pretty pictures in their lattes. Could I not better serve my community by teaching children how to read, lobbying for a cause, or at the very least, curing cancer?

Every weekend for the last two and a half years, I and a small team of baristas hosted public classes in a 700-square-foot room in Greater Goods Coffee’s East Austin cafe. The students ranged from tech bros to musicians to 60-year-old mothers and their adult sons, most of whom got into coffee as a pandemic hobby; when their favorite cafe closed indefinitely, it was time to learn how to do it themselves. Some bought french presses, others splurged on fancy espresso machines and James Hoffman videos, but all were fascinated by the coffee world and the secrets buried deep in its many rabbit holes.

Luckily, you don’t have to be an engineer to make a cappuccino (though weirdly enough, many software engineers are super into coffee). Brewing is intuitive, but latte art is a different beast. You can only learn it by doing, and nobody’s good at it the first time. It’s kind of like kissing; you could read hundreds of articles, watch TikToks, and practice on your fingers, but nothing compares to being two inches away from your eighth-grade crush.

Latte art (or lart, as the industry folk say) requires vulnerability and courage. Milk steaming is scary. It’s loud, the pitcher gets hot as hell, and you hold it with your bare hands. Everything happens really fast and there’s not much time for readjusting, so it’s crucial to put the wand (and your mind) in a good starting position before you begin. No distracted steaming is the law in the lab. As long as you pay attention, you’ll make good milk. Lart is just a matter of learning the technique, trusting the process, and putting the reps in.

Class begins with a little show and tell: Purge the steam wand, position it slightly off-center in a pitcher of milk, the tip just beneath the surface. Turn the knob to start the steam, then gently lower the pitcher until you hear a hissing noise, introducing air bubbles to create microfoam for a few seconds. Once the pitcher is warm to the touch, lift it to submerge the wand again, heating the milk to around 140F as it spins in a vortex. When it’s too hot to touch, turn it off, set the pitcher down, and wipe and purge the wand.

I gently swirl my pitcher, then pour the warm milk into a double espresso. The class huddles in. A thin stream dives under the crema and around the circumference of a ceramic mug. Once two-thirds full, I pause for a quick inhale, then pour low and heavy. A white bean shape spreads across the surface, billowing as I tilt the cup back toward the floor. When the cup is parallel, I slow the stream to the width of a spaghetti noodle. Seconds before it spills over, I lift the pitcher and strikethrough to make a heart.

The students shake their heads in disbelief. They don’t think they’re capable - at least, not yet.

Carlos, a Google UX designer, volunteers to go first. He’s been tinkering with a Gaggia Classic all pandemic but hasn’t gotten the hang of the whole latte art thing.

“Still tastes good without it,” he says, filling a periwinkle pitcher with whole milk.

The rest of the class nods in agreement. It’s true enough; a latte without lart still tastes like a latte, but I’d argue that a crisp rosetta could quite literally change the trajectory of someone’s life. That’s what happened to me, anyway.

He purges any leftover milk from the last steam, then positions the wand as demonstrated. He’s nervous. The lab machine is much faster than the one he has at home. Once the heat is on, he only has about two seconds to aerate the cold milk.

“You got this, I’m right here to help,” I say. “I won’t abandon you.”

He starts the steam, then freezes. Almost unconsciously, I take hold of the pitcher. Together, we lower it until we hear the soft paper-tearing sound of aeration. He resists my help at first (most of them do), then loosens up a bit. This is why he came, after all. When the pitcher is warm to the touch, we lift to continue heating without adding any more air. The milk whirlpools around the perimeter, and I let go.

“When it’s too hot, turn it off,” I advise. Count one Mississippi, then he spins the knob to stop the steam. There’s an audible sigh of relief as he sets the jug on the counter. The rest of the class flocks in like kindergarteners to a baby chick.

“Wait!” I slice the air with my arms. “Don’t even think about it till the wand is clean.”

We giggle as Carlos folds a black microfiber onto the wand and purges. No crusty steam wands allowed is another golden rule.

His milk is pristine. If we’re looking for a silky texture like melted marshmallows, light a campfire and call him Willy. There are a few small bubbles, so we tap the pitcher on the counter to pop them.

“Look at this frickin’ milk!” I exclaim. We ooh and aah and congratulate Carlos on a job well done. The hardest part is over.

~~~

My first time steaming milk was a total disaster. I used way too much, then steamed it to oblivion until it scalded and bubbled up over the sides of the pitcher, covering my apron (and the cute barista trainer’s Docs) with a barrage of white specs. Despite my humiliation, I tried again. He held the pitcher with me this time, guiding my movements while I memorized the mechanics. And it was better, then worse when I was on my own, then better again.

After a few shifts, I was pouring blobs and onions and Jackson Pollocks. An impatient and determined student, I became obsessed. I watched videos on my breaks, fought to pour every hot mocha (for contrast), and balanced my iPhone on the La Marzocco to film my pours and analyze the instant replay.

Then, on October 5, 2015, I finally made something I was proud of. I was going for a tulip, but the picture still saved on my phone looks more like a clove of garlic. Still, it was the first bit of evidence of a journey I’d only just begun, the journey I’m still on today.

~~~

At the front of the classroom, I pour water back and forth from a pitcher to a mug to demonstrate good pouring technique. High and slow, then low and fast. The students mirror, hesitant to spill water on the concrete floor.

“This will become a river if we do it right,” I say. I tiptoe around the puddles to place my hands over theirs so they can feel the motions. It’s unnatural for most, but they learn quickly, and soon, it’s time to graduate to the real thing.

Lisa’s son-in-law bought her a seat in the class for Mother’s Day. Her Breville has an automatic frother, so even though she’s poured some decent hearts at home, she’s not used to steaming her own milk. I offer to do it for her, but she vehemently declines. She’s here to learn.

Her milk doesn’t come out great - it’s extra hot and way too foamy - but it’s nothing we can’t fix with a little texturing. She slams the pitcher on the counter, showering milk bubbles onto the black countertop.

“Pitcher transfer!” I exclaim, punctuating with the “pew pew pew” of an air horn to celebrate a good learning moment. We pour the frothy milk down the side wall of another pitcher, a nifty trick I picked up from a coffee friend at a throwdown, and give the milk a gentle wiggle side to side.

“This ain’t gonna be pretty,” she warns.

“Hey now,” I say. If she thinks like this, like it’s gonna suck, it probably will suck. But if she takes a deep breath and tells herself, “I’m a great barista and latte art is easy,” miracles happen. I’ve seen it.

She repeats the mantra, albeit with a tinge of sarcasm, then angles the mug toward the pitcher. She’s tense. Her elbow is lifted to eye level. Her tongue peeks out the side of her mouth, her turquoise beaded bangles tapping against the porcelain handle. After a theatrical deep breath, she pours a thin stream of milk into the espresso below, moving around in a circle with the utmost control.

“Nice control,” I offer. “Now pause here.”

The cup is two-thirds full. She tilts it further, almost spilling the liquid inside to get as close as possible to the surface, then makes landfall. The milk lays bright and white atop the crema, growing in size as she pours closer and faster until finally, it starts to spill off the back edge.

“Tilt back!” I say, and she does, then drags the pitcher in a hard, straight line across the mug. She has made something comically phallic, and she’s blushing.

“There we go!” The class applauds. It’s all part of the process.

~~~

After 10,000 hours of bar shifts, I feel pretty confident that I can pour a heart, tulip, rosetta, and swan, plus some variations on those themes with no trouble, but I still have my fair share of off-days. As I tell my students, latte art is 75% confidence.

So much of what happens on the surface of my cappuccinos is because of the story I’m telling myself that day about who I am, what I do, and what matters to me. If I’m feeling burnt out, lost, anxious, depressed, confused, lonely - chances are, my pours reflect that. They’re off-center, rushed, careless. Those are the days you’ll find me idling in front of an espresso machine, staring off into space, wondering why I still work in coffee and how, after eight years of this, I still suck at latte art.

But what if I saw those bad pours as an opportunity to be gentle to myself instead? What if that lopsided slowsetta is inviting me into the here and now, flagging me to flip the script? I may not be able to control my ripple base, but I can control how I think. I’m a great barista, and latte art is easy, I say to myself until it sticks. Another customer orders a hot mocha, and I can start fresh. When that heart is more symmetrical than the last, it feels like progress. I call the customer’s name and remember to be grateful for things as easy, simple, and lovely as latte art, especially when everything else is falling apart.

~~~

Back in the lab, the students take turns steaming and pouring as I offer words of encouragement. They get frustrated, but I won’t let them give up. Be nice to yourself, I remind them. You’re learning.

Over the next 90 minutes, the only thing that matters is that their abstract art turns into a blob, blob to butt, butt to penis and garlic and onion until finally, it's a heart. We’ll hoot and holler and take pictures for Instagram, then sip our masterpieces clean off the top. Everything is temporary.

By the end of it, we’re glowing. Yes, we’re over-caffeinated, but also proud and down-right giddy. I assign some homework (clean your steam wand, keep practicing, send pics) and prop open the door. I don’t know what happens once they leave the training lab, but I like to think that tomorrow morning, they’ll fire up their espresso machine, show themselves some T.L.C., then pour something magnificent and drink it dry.

Latte art is fun and hard and satisfying and fleeting. It’s something to look forward to, work on, and wonder about. It’s extra, and it’s a mirror. It is, after all, art. The lessons taught in the coffee classroom are about more than just symmetry and contrast; it’s about being brave and kind to yourself, trusting the process, building confidence. It’s about failing and getting back up on the machine again and again. All of this is important, whether you’re pouring a latte, saving the world, or both.