“Venice misses you!”

“Venice misses you!” 

I thought I heard someone shout this last night as I took my trash bins out to the street. I wasn’t sure. My street gets pretty noisy at night because my apartment is right next to Dodger Stadium. After home games, thousands of people walk down my sidewalk, and thousands of cars inch by on the street, honking at each other. 

Usually my mind doesn’t register random shouts after games. I’ve learned to tune them out. But I heard this one. I used to live in Venice. 

I looked up from the trash can and saw a barista named Nicely who served me coffee for years when I lived in Venice. “Is this your spot now?” he asked. “What’s up Nicely! Yeah, it is,” I replied.  

I was amazed he recognized me in the dark, as he strode past in a crowd, while I wore glasses and a hat and a jacket. I had just emerged from the side year seconds before. He spotted me called out instantly.

Nicely has an interesting reputation. He’s a three-time latte art world champion. He was the lead barista at one of the best shops in Venice. As you might expect, he’s serious about his coffee—sometimes to the point of getting visibly and verbally annoyed with customers who aren’t ready to order, or try to order things he doesn’t serve. People have mixed feelings about his methods.

When I was a customer at his shops, I was on a budget. I ordered one of two things: an americano (the cheapest thing on the menu), or a drip coffee (which had unlimited refills). On Sundays, I got a pastry. That was it. Nicely knew I usually ordered drip coffee, so he would spot me in the back of a long line and call me to the front. He’d quickly pour me a mug of drip coffee to let me skip the line, and say “you can settle up later.” Once the line died down (and I wanted a refill) I’d walk to the register, and settle up. This happened about twice a week for three or four years. 

There was nothing special about me and Nicely’s relationship. I ordered coffee. He made it. We shared occasional small talk, but not much. Last night’s interaction reminded of something that’s becoming a value to me: consistent customers who know what they want and are easy to work with—that’s a special relationship. There’s inherent meaning in simple transactions when they’re consistent and respectful. 

For a man as focused as Nicely to spot me in the dark on a busy street and let me know that he misses me? That’s just proof.