Work Text:
“And why shouldn’t I serve him?”
Max never intended to raise his voice, if he’s honest, he never means to do so in the first place (his employees are simply incredibly adept at forcing it out of him.) “You’re acting as if a toddler would have better customer service skills than I do.” he can feel the way Charles, who naturally leans against the counter with a bored expression as if he has nothing better to do, open his mouth as if he wants to say something.
He doesn’t even need to actually witness it to shout around the corner in the hopes that the other would hear him. “Don’t even start with me, Leclerc.”
Checo swats at Max’s shin with his towel. The café’s most reliant employee has had enough of either the crowd gathering in his small kitchen, or he’s simply had enough of Max’s antics. Either or, really.
“Not a toddler. A newborn baby.” Valtteri dances between his coworkers who have poured into the kitchen as if he’s done nothing but deal with make-shift meetings (he hasn’t) and anger outbursts from Max (he’s seen more than perhaps any other employee.) Valtteri was made to work in a high-pace environment. Something which the coffee shop located at the busiest street in town was more than happy to provide.
“Has everyone here forgotten that I pay your salary?”
Max is defeated. His employees, no, his friends, are ganging up on him in the cramped space obscured from the customer’s view. Checo swats him again, but Max isn’t moving an inch.
Thankfully, Latifi was the only one with a functioning braincell that remembered to man the till when his boss was having one of his ‘Mad Max’ (as affectionately named by Pierre) moments. Max didn’t think that Charles would be able to handle making a simple order if the customer was hot enough. And that was a shame seeing as Charles was by far his best barista.
“I will refuse to make another breakfast sandwich until you’re all out of my kitchen.” Checo smiled at him, even when everyone huddled in the cramped space knew all too well that the joyful expression was more blade than honey. “- and I have five on order.”
Nothing much had happened that day aside of the usual. Regulars came in, as did the crowd of shoppers that seemed to flock to their shop in search of a good cup of coffee and a welcoming atmosphere after a hard day of spending cash. It helped that ‘The Lion’s Den’ was labelled as a must-visit space in town on multiple websites and travel guides.
The store had been in the Verstappen family for generations. Max his grandfather had once started it as a bar, selling pints like hotcakes to the factory workers of the region before they flocked home to their families. Economic success had seen to the death of the honest working man, and to the rise of high-end stores and places of employment around them, and Max’s father had turned the building into a bistro.
Max, after having inherited the keys from his father, had turned the place with exposed brick and an industrial looking charm into a coffee shop that later opened up space for Checo to sell his homemade bread and sandwiches. Together with Lando’s bakery next door, ‘The Lion’s Den’ provided something for everyone, at almost all hours of the day.
One moment he was going through the motions of setting everything up for the expected rush later that afternoon (when college kids came back home, and when exhausted housewives brought their kids in for a treat after school) and the next, he was practically gripped at the scruff of his neck by Pierre, who’d dragged him into Checo’s kitchen.
He’d not even seen the dreaded customer come in.
“It’s Daniel Ricciardo. The Daniel Ricciardo.” Pierre had said, as if that made any sense to Max. “Ricciardo is one of the most revered critics around at the moment. If he says a place is bad, it’s out of business in the following month. He’s huge with multiple demographics. People read his blog like it’s the gospel.”
According to Nicholas, who’d come into the kitchen to pass along yet another order of breakfast sandwiches to Checo, Ricciardo’s blog was even better read than the gospel. Of course, the Canadian read it in his spare time, that seemed like such a Latifi thing to do. “I like his style, okay?” he’d mumbled as a way of defending himself when Valtteri had ushered him out of the kitchen.
So, it all came down to the fact that his employees thought Max shouldn’t be trusted when interacting with a customer as important as a certain mister Daniel Ricciardo.
And frankly, that was fucking bullshit.
“Oh fuck off.”
Max was out of the kitchen before any of his traitorous employees could stop him. Charles, who was still leaning against the counter with a towel in his hands to give the impression that he was working, didn’t even try to snag his sleeve.
To say that he stormed towards the table in the far right corner like a bull set free in a pasture was an understatement.
“Welcome to The Lion’s Den, my name is Max, how can I help you today?”
Daniel Ricciardo was… well, Daniel was something . The man looked up at Max with a pair of expensive looking sunglasses nestled between a mop of brown curls. The sweater he was wearing was a nice looking charcoal grey that made his skin pop. If Max was honest, the guy was attractive.
He also looked like a latte drinker. And that did bring the whole appeal down quite a few notches.
“Hello, Max -” alright, the guy had a voice like sex. Great. “- what do you recommend?” Daniel possessed a smile that could only be described as dazzling. Max was sure that it was made out of pure sunlight or something. He was also sure that it bounced between the industrial style hanging lights and empty bottles set out as dedication until it would blind a poor woman out shopping with her husband’s credit card.
It took everything he had not to roll his eyes at the critic.
“Our baristas make a mean cappuccino. And a lavender latte, which is always a top seller of ours.” Max knows that he’s rattling off his pitch without an ounce of added charm. He knows that Valtteri would have pinpointed Daniel’s taste within a second, and that he would have been able to give recommendations catered specifically to the man in question. “Everything we have is good. So it’s all up to what you like.”
Daniel laughs. A full laugh that seems to shake the entire café. It’s even loud enough to drown out the sound of the jazz music that their regular, Carlos, insisted added to the general ambience. It’s fucking endearing, that’s what it is .
“I asked you what you recommended. If you had to pick something to drink right now, what would it be?” he looks so honest, leaning back a bit in his chair, dark brown eyes scanning over Max’s features as if he’s the one that’s going to be critiqued, rather than the coffee he sells. “An americano, a dark-roasted blend.” Max’s aware that he sounds like an absolute maniac (who drinks americanos in the age of frappuccino?) just as he’s aware that all the sugary drinks are highly overrated in his opinion.
The critic's smile softens, yet becomes more honest at the same time. “I’ll have one of those then. I trust you and your judgment.” now, it’s nearly Max’s turn to laugh. From the corner of his eye, he can see Pierre lurking around the corner with a worried look on his features. “That’s idiotic, mate. But sure, one americano dark-roast coming right up.”
Nicholas prepares the coffee. There had been a time when Max had thought that Nicky always simply had a worried look on his face, but it was moments like these where he was proven wrong. His natural expression wasn’t nearly half as worried as his current one.
“Stop looking like you’re all collectively constipated.” he hushes to his employees, moving his hands in a way that should tell them to shut up and get back to work . “We’re just worried about our jobs, man.” Checo rolls his eyes as he hands two plates over to Valtteri. “I’ve got mouths to feed, and you’re on your way to a devastating review, my friend.”
“I’ve got this, have a little faith!”
Clearly, he’s the only one who has full confidence in his capabilities, but that doesn’t mean that his hands don’t shake the tinniest bit when he puts the cup and saucer on the table in front of Daniel.
“Charming decor.” Daniel glances at the cup. Victoria had demanded that there was something of hers left in the café, and with her becoming a mother, Max had allowed his nephews to finger paint all over the mugs before they were glazed, preserving the children’s drawings forever. “Did these yourself?”
He’s trying incredibly hard to ignore that Nicky made Daniel’s coffee in the mug that Luke had covered in badly drawn hearts.
It would probably be a bad look if Daniel thought the collective of the café was flirting with him .
“Charles did, actually.” the quip comes out before his brain can catch up to the words. Translation pulling it from the tip of his tongue, drawing it out from between his teeth before he can stop himself. Max doesn’t even hear Charles’ ‘hey!’ from across the space of the café. “He’s a real artist in his spare time.”
Daniel looks at him with a warm smile, and Max can’t help but feel the corners of his own lips tugging up in response.
Pierre calls him from inside the kitchen, and by the tone of his voice, Max is able to deduce that someone has broken another cup or plate. “Just give a shout if we can get you anything else, alright? If you want sugar or cream, I’ll get you some, but I prefer mine black. It brings out the flavour more.” Daniel thanks him with another wide smile, and Max is off to settle the problems his employees are causing.
Time slips by, as it has the tendency to do in the café. Checo needs a hand in the kitchen, and Charles pulls him off into the back to show him that they’re running low on stock of a few items (heaven forbid that they run out of the man’s favourite lime muffins from Lando’s.) and before he knows it he’s forgotten all about the handsome critic sitting in the corner.
Max is too busy laughing with Pierre and Yuki when the culinary student comes in for his afternoon shift with them. Too busy helping Lance study for his business final while simultaneously wiping down the counter. Sebastian comes in to talk about the café ordering organic honey from him, and he’s too wrapped up cooing over a jacket another regular bought to even think about Daniel.
He’s wandering around the café, having a moment of free time for the first time in what feels like hours, and Daniel is still seated exactly where he left him earlier. It hasn’t been hours, but the man’s cup is empty, and he’s pulled out a laptop to get some work done while taking up precious space.
“Can I get you anything else? Maybe something sweet?” he can’t explain why Daniel strikes him as a sugary-drink kinda guy, but it isn’t hard to imagine the man drinking something with an ungodly amount of whipped cream on top. “Or do you just want to sit here for a bit?”
His body is turning into a traitor, because he’s pulled out a chair to sit at the table with Daniel before he even realizes what he’s done.
To be fair, it’s his café and he can do as he goddamn pleases.
“I’m good, for now. Thank you, though, it’s always appreciated when someone notices me after an hour.” the other man’s voice doesn’t sound venomous, teasing, at the most. “Clearly, you haven’t died from thirst yet. Besides, I told you to just yell.”
Max doesn’t know why he’s sitting at the table with Daniel, doesn’t know why he suddenly feels like a customer in his own shop. The apron he’s wearing bears the logo in silver thread across his chest, it shouldn’t feel like he’s meeting up with someone here. “Are you always so rude to customers?” Daniel laughs as he closes his laptop, giving his full attention to Max.
“Only the ones that I like.”
He’s sure that he winks (fucking winks) at Daniel. But if anyone ever asked, he’d deny it until his dying day.
“No other place has ever made me feel so special. You’re doing something right here, Max. Even when the cups are a bit kitsch for my taste.”
“Says the man wearing a charcoal sweater. That’s an indicator of absolute no taste.”
“Touché.”
Charles walks past them, putting a hand on Max’s shoulder to tell him that he’s clocking out for the day and going home. The café is mostly empty, Valtteri and Nicky are busy with cleanup, and from the kitchen, the familiar tunes of Checo singing Mexican songs while doing dishes to seep into the jazz coming over the speakers. “I’m done, bossman. See you tomorrow. Don’t forget to order new lime muffins with Lando.”
Max waves him off, not noticing the way Daniel’s expression softens again at the display of business-casual affection. “I should be going, too.” he says, while packing up his laptop in an expensive looking leather bag. “You’ve given me much to write about.”
“Tell me one thing.” Max stands up along with him, one hand on his hip and his head cocked to the side, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Would you give me a better review if I’d misspelled your name on the cup, mister Ricciardo?” nothing like a quick jab at an overpriced, overhyped, coffee company.
“And cover the kitsch artwork that makes your place unique? Mister Max, I would have made sure you were closed before the end of the week.”
Daniel makes his way towards the counter, where Pierre helps him settle his bill, as Max goes about his business closing up.
Lance orders another espresso two minutes before official closing time, and Yuki is sure to make it extra strong to help the poor guy stay up to cram some more boring stuff for class. Max never minds, and neither do his employees. Lance is one of the few who tips well anyway.
“Oh, before I forget -” Pierre hands Max a folded up napkin as they both shuffle out of the door at the end of the day. “Daniel Ricciardo gave this to me when he paid for his coffee, seriously, Max, a dark-roast? Out of all our drinks, that was the one you thought you should recommend him? He’s going to give us two stars, if that. We’re going to be ruined. Ruined, I tell you.”
When his hands unfold the napkin, he’s greeted with a cellphone number written in blue ink, accompanied by a well-practised smiley face.
It’s the cheesiest thing he’s ever seen. And he can’t stop smiling at himself for the entire walk home.
*
NEW BLOG POST
:
𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙲𝙸𝙰𝚁𝙳𝙾’𝚂 𝙲𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙴𝙴 𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙽𝙴𝚁.
𝚂𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁 𝟷𝚂𝚃:
So, you guys know how I’m not a fan of the cliché places that have been popping up all over town these last few years. I’ve explained my reasoning for this many times before, but to recap for any new readers, they claim to be a personal experience - but find themselves lacking in every regard without fail. Vintage style cafés seem to have become the norm, but these so often lack the critical element which makes such an atmosphere work. This element is, to put it in simple terms, a personal touch.
The Lion’s Den, however, pulls off a laid back atmosphere (no, I swear, this is as low pressure as they come) while still being true to its own formula. The owner, a delightful man by the name of Max, makes the café burst with energy from the moment you walk through the door. Kind eyes welcome you from the moment you sit down at your table, and he’s not afraid to entertain you while you drink your coffee (or leave you alone, if that’s what you need)
Max has managed the art of business, and runs an impressive enterprise without losing sight of the humanity that makes a coffee shop like that work. If you’re looking for a way to relax after a long day, or for a place to get into the right mindset to get some kickass work done, The Lion’s Den is highly recommended.
Tell Max I said hi when you do visit him.
Oh, before I forget, their dark-roast is an exceptional blend. Like, I’d drink that every single day for the rest of my life.
Cheers!
*
“Thank you, for the nice review.” Max is pressing his phone against his ear as he nudges open the door with his shoulder. He can hear Daniel laugh on the other side of the line (he’s still just Daniel in his contacts, even when he’s pretty sure he should add at least some sort of emoji at this point.) “It means a lot.”
It feels dangerously close to opening up to someone, so he feels the need to eradicate any possible confusion from that sentence. “For Pierre, I mean. The guy was already looking at other jobs, seeing as he doesn’t trust my customer service skills in the slightest.” not only Pierre had feared for their income, but he wasn’t going to tell Daniel that .
There’s a lot that he does want to tell Daniel, though, and that’s perhaps the most terrifying thing of this entire situation.
“But, you haven’t come by since leaving that review. Kinda harsh, don’t you think.” finger finds the light switch, and the café becomes illuminated in an orange glow. “To say you like the dark-roast and then not coming back for more.”
It’s not that he wants to see Daniel again. That’s bullshit.
Daniel’s voice sounds slightly distorted through the phone, but his laughter sounds exactly the same. It still sounds like liquid gold, or some other ridiculous poetic shit. “Are you inviting me back, Maxy?” he’s cooing, Max can tell even through the slight crackle of the line. “Toss in one of those lime muffins Charles was talking about, and maybe you’ve got yourself a deal.” it’s infuriating how cocky Daniel can be, even through text or over the phone. It makes Max’s skin crawl in all the good ways.
He takes a breath, steadying himself as he shifts the phone between his shoulder and his ear to free up his hands to get started on opening the café. He’s feeling bold, maybe even a bit brave (definitely incredibly foolish, but when wasn’t he?) “I think I can do you one better.” he mumbles.
Daniel questionably hums into the phone, clearly getting started on his own day on the other end of the line.
“Forget the lime muffin. Dinner, at a place you can’t review, we don’t even have to drink coffee there. Wouldn’t want your poor head to ponder on work for too long.”
Valtteri and Checo walk through the door at the exact moment Daniel agrees to Friday evening. Ruining the mood with the little bell indicating their presence. “Don’t worry, babe. We can always get coffee at your place.” Daniel’s laughter echo’s in Max’s mind even after he’s disconnected the call to ruffle his employee’s feathers.
Yeah, coffee at his place with Daniel sounded nice .