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Howard Hamlin was fortunate to have as great a mentor as Chuck McGill. Simply put, the man was awesome. As a back-bone to the Hamlin & McGill firm, the sharp, sage lawyer had earned Father’s neverending applause, so when he offered to tutor Howard for the impending bar exam, the invitation was hungrily accepted. Their routine was new but straightforward: once a week, Howard would appear at Chuck’s doorstep with a bag full of books and a head full of questions.
The house was tidy and stylish, as were their conversations, but what was a challenging hour for the blooming Howard was hilariously easy for Chuck. At the end of it, the student would nod tersely, repeating, “Yes, yes, I understand now,” while the lawyer sat back and smiled humbly. By their fourth Sunday together, Howard presumed he had their routine down-pat, but when he closed his textbook that afternoon, Chuck uttered a question, a single word, that should not have surprised him, should not have thrown his stomach into a knot, and yet it did.
“Coffee?”
As in, an invitation to drink coffee with Chuck McGill.
Concealing his eagerness, Howard answered with equal clarity: “Sounds great.”
Of course, coffee alone was unexciting (unless it was drunk in excess), but coffee with the extraordinary Chuck was a whole other story. In some capacity, Howard evolved by simply existing in the man’s presence, which was so uniquely affirming and impressive he seemed to turn everything he touched into gold. Nothing that surrounded him could fail, much less displease Father. Each week, Howard left their study sessions a more fortified man, closer to the lawyer he aspired to be, so the mere suggestion of coffee, in its mundanity, reinforced the wishful idea of one day being something like Chuck’s equal. The invitation likewise reminded Howard that his charming mentor shared his time and wisdom not out of obligation, but because he simply wanted to.
The espresso machine was clean and authentic, similar to the one Father kept at home. Chuck operated it easily, his motions second nature. He was schooled and graceful yet humble in everything he did, even in the kitchen.
“Let me show you a little trick for pouring a cappuccino,” he said after steaming the milk.
Howard perked. “A trick?”
Chuck curled a beckoning finger and Howard appeared at his side.
“Pay attention,” he started, raising the steamer and poising the little cup below it. Howard nodded obediently. “Take your steamed milk and start pouring from a little higher up than feels natural. See?” — he began pouring — “This way, the milk stays beneath the espresso. Pour into the centre until you can see the foam on top, and then…”
Suddenly, the milk began to surface in a small pool at the centre of the espresso, expanding until Chuck drew the steamer back and pulled the floating shape into a heart.
“Oh! Amazing,” Howard beamed, ogling the artistry.
He had drunk many a decorated cappuccino in his life, but he had never contemplated or witnessed their creation. Of course, Chuck’s golden touch elevated the drink to the highest possible standard. It would surely be delicious.
Chuck laughed heartily. “It’s not difficult, but it’s a fun trick, and, I’ve found, a surefire way to impress a girl. Give it a try.”
“Me?” Howard stiffened, exhaling an awkward chuckle. Suddenly, the careful attention he had paid seemed insufficient. He needed to be shown again, but Chuck insisted that he tried.
“The key is caution. Don’t be overzealous."
Howard proceeded deliberately, his chest terribly tight as he postured the steamer over the second cup. Chuck’s supervision was simultaneously assuring and debilitating; the last thing Howard wanted was to fail before him, even in the most minute manner. Wary of their proximity, his blood coursed with a flaming hot, caffeinated kind of vigor. Chuck instructed him at which height to begin pouring — “Yes, there” — and how to draw the steamer closer to the cup — “A little lower now” — but Howard still found a way to mess it up. The milk rose over the espresso too suddenly and the drink coalesced.
“I've ruined it,” he sighed. While he frowned into his failure, Chuck gingerly patted him on the back.
“That’s alright. I certainly didn't get it right on the first try. You can try again next time.”
Howard smiled half-heartedly, vaguely disbelieving that Chuck had ever fumbled at anything, even on the first try.
“Okay.”
They arranged the cups, saucers, and cookies at the same table they studied at, though the dining room was transformed by the absence of books, the fresh aroma of coffee, and a big band jazz vinyl. Chuck set the superior cappuccino where Howard had been sitting. While pulling back their chairs, Howard scrounged the courage to ask a question.
“Would you have any more advice on that matter?” he shyly broached. When Chuck’s brow wrinkled with momentary confusion, he clarified: “On women, I mean.”
“Ah.” Chuck grinned wryly. “I thought our tutoring session was over.” Before Howard could stammer something stupid, he continued more seriously, resting his elbows on the table and weaving his fingers together. “But I can offer a tidbit.”
Howard mimicked his mentor’s motions, placing his elbows on the table and scooting closer, as if an increased nearness to any wise words would promote their resonance in his head.
Chuck began matter-of-factly. “Without any specifics on who it is you’d like to impress, the best piece of advice I can honestly give is to be yourself. Let your true personality show and follow your instincts to be respectful, honest, and generous. If a woman isn't endeared by that, then maybe it wasn't meant to be.”
“That's all?” Howard frowned. The advice seemed so broadly relevant—a little naïve, if he was being honest.
“That’s all,” Chuck echoed, calmly tasting his cappuccino. Howard detected no enthusiastic nuance in his reaction to drinking from the cup he had messily prepared. He did, however, seem to register his student’s mystified expression. “If you seek better, peer-reviewed advice, I recommend you ask a married man. Heck, you can ask George! But it's my humble opinion that if you're not your honest, unexaggerated self from the courtroom through to your personal endeavors, you will never be happy.”
Howard mustered a smile at Chuck's initially lighthearted tone, but his final words carved a strange chasm in his chest, a new, ironic premonition that he might never be his fully honest self around his mentor or anybody else.
“Of course. That makes perfect sense.”
Chuck nodded modestly. “How’s the cappuccino?”
Remembering his drink, Howard took a chaste sip and pondered the taste and temperature of the foam and coffee, which was altogether lovely. A well-made cappuccino danced on a subtle, precarious line of bittersweetness.
“It’s just right,” Howard hailed.
“Good.”