Page 8 of Wassailing We Will Go
Just excited, he says with another winning smile. And maybe a little nervous, he adds with a wink. I can see how he won Helen over.
Right, well, first let’s have a coffee, I say. My brain needs a moment to catch up.
We walk through the tasting bar and through a shortcut that takes us to our upscale-casual restaurant, Root & Stock. It’s a beautifully designed space, all restored barn board and sleek black accents, with a rotating selection of locally made art pieces that are available for sale.
It’s nice in here, says Harrison. It looks newer than everywhere else.
When my aunts—the founders and original owners, who have since retired—finally had enough money to build this addition, it took a while for them to figure out what they wanted to do with it. When it first opened fifteen years ago, it was with plastic tables and a pizza oven, I explain. It got a little fancier every year, and now it’s a spot worth visiting, even without the cidery attached. Maybe don’t tell Charlie and Wendy I said that, though, I add. Actually—hold on, I have a picture saved on my phone. Let me find it. I scroll through a million photos that I have never organized until I find the one I’m looking for: a photo of me and Aunt Lauren all sitting at a table with a plastic tablecloth, eating pizza. I am maybe eleven and have atrocious braces and a terrible haircut with long, stringy bangs framing my face. I had forgotten those details, and I try to put my phone away quickly.
Wait, wait, wait, he says, pointing to the phone. That’s your aunt?
One of them, I say. Aunt Lauren. Not the one I share genes with, the one I officially got after I was flower girl at their wedding. That would be Aunt Jenn, who I think is either making the pizza or taking the photo. The clarification on who I’m related to is usually unnecessary, as while Aunt Jenn and I both have wavy, dark brown hair, light brown eyes, and are on the taller side, Aunt Lauren is short, blonde, curly, and freckly. When I was very little and drew pictures for them, entirely different sets of crayons were used for each aunt, even down to their outfits. Aunt Jenn has never met a floral she didn’t like and will buy every canary-yellow thing she comes across, whereas Aunt Lauren exclusively wears black and maybe also dark grey so that she doesn’t ever need to match anything.
It looks so different. This place is beautiful now, but it looks kind of fun, back then, says Harrison. Nice braces, by the way. Mine were worse, I promise you.
Doubtful, I say. This photo doesn’t show the headgear I had to wear at night. But yeah, it was fun. Sometimes, I still have a craving for the exceptionally mediocre pizza of that era. It was made with love, I laugh. Our current menu’s signature pizza has prosciutto and a pile of local arugula on it, and it’s delicious, but the too-cheesy pizza made with sauce that I’m pretty sure came from Costco was the taste of my youth. Anyway, coffee, I say and lead on to where an espresso machine and accompanying setup sit behind a rustic-looking bar. I walk behind it and start going through the motions: grinding the coffee and getting everything on and ready to go. Harrison sits on a nearby bar stool, his head leaning casually on one hand as he watches me.
Do you want one, too? I ask over my shoulder.
I want to see how you make it first.
Oh? I say, turning around. Am I being judged?
A little. It was my first job, he says. Other than working at my granddad’s cidery.
Be my guest, I say and hand him the portafilter over the bar. Before he accepts it, he stands up, rolls up his sleeves, and grabs one of the bartender aprons.
I didn’t realize this was such a serious affair, I say, leaning back against the bar.
You’ve never been to Melbourne, he laughs, tying up the apron behind him. What am I making you?
Latte, please. Milk’s in the mini-fridge below the machine. Just the normal two percent, please. I go and take his place at one of the handful of stools that sit in front of the bar.
From below the counter, I hear a slightly mumbled Right, I see almond milk, oat milk… He emerges from below with a bag of milk in a stainless steel container. …and whatever this is.
That’s the milk.
It’s in a bag.
Yep.
Sorry…why is it in a bag?
Welcome to Ontario? I shrug. I forgot that the West Coast doesn’t really do that.
He inspects the bag of milk, looking at it suspiciously. That…seems for the best.
He gets all the ingredients in place, checks everything to make sure it’s to his liking, and goes through the steps to make a double espresso. He’s precise in all his movements, but efficient. It reminds me a little of watching Charlie work, and I can see why they hit it off so well.
In a few minutes, I’m presented with a latte, and apparently not content with the traditional latte leaf, he’s managed to make a little apple with a leaf instead. He looks at me expectantly.
I think maybe I need to hire you just to do this all day? I say. This is painfully cute. We would sell a million of these.
He shrugs. Honestly, I’m not against that either. He nods to the coffee and puts his hands together like he’s about to pray. How is it, though? It’s been a while since I’ve used a proper machine like this one.
I take a sip and am not at all surprised that it’s perfect. I’m so hard up for a coffee that I’d have been pretty content with a double-double from Tim’s, but this is far, far past that. I sigh.
I don’t think I even need to see your CV at this point, I laugh. This is all the proof I need. But I still want to hear about your granddad’s cidery. Your first job?
