The Barista and the Billionaire’s Daughter – Chapter 105: Hana’s Birthday

Chapter 105: Hana’s Birthday

Hana turned one on December 14th, which was a Sunday, which was the day that Bloom did not open and which was therefore the one day of the week when the barista’s hands were not behind the counter and when the barista’s attention was not divided between the cup and the world and when the barista was—entirely, completely, undividedly—a father.

The birthday party was at the green-door apartment. Not the Hannam-dong house (too large, too formal, the four-meter ceilings producing a spatial excess that a one-year-old’s birthday did not require). Not Bloom (the cafe was the cafe; the cafe did not host birthday parties because birthday parties required balloons and balloons were not on the chalkboard’s manifesto). The green-door apartment—the 46-pyeong, south-facing, rosemary-on-the-windowsill apartment that had been Hajin and Sooyeon’s home since the engagement and that was now, with Hana, the three-person space where the daily happened in its domestic form.

The guest list was—small. Because the guest list was the community and the community was specific:

Mr. Bae. Who arrived at 11:00 AM—not 7:30, the cafe time, but the adjusted, Sunday-birthday, non-cafe time that Mr. Bae had agreed to when Sooyeon had personally invited him by placing the invitation inside his cortado cup’s saucer on the preceding Thursday. The invitation being a small card. The RSVP being: “Good.” The gift being: a children’s book. Korean. The Little Bear Who Waited. The story of a bear who waits for spring and who learns that the waiting is the season. The gift selection revealing—an interior life that the 7:30 cortado and the forty-three-second routine had never previously indicated.

“The bear waits,” Mr. Bae said. Handing the book to Hana. Hana taking the book. Hana putting the book in her mouth. The one-year-old’s literary criticism: the book tasted—acceptable. “The waiting is the thing.”

“The waiting is the thing,” Hajin agreed. Because the agreement was obvious and because the agreement was the only response that Mr. Bae’s communication style permitted.

Mrs. Kim arrived at 11:15. With a novel—not for Hana (Hana could not read; Hana could barely hold a book without inserting it into her mouth) but for the occasion. The novel was Mrs. Kim’s current reading: a Korean translation of a Japanese novel about a cafe owner who raised a daughter alone and who measured the daughter’s growth by the daughter’s evolving coffee order. “The daughter starts with milk,” Mrs. Kim explained, “and progresses through hot chocolate and cappuccino and latte and finally—at twenty—orders an americano. The americano being the adult drink. The arrival at the americano being the arrival at adulthood.”

“Hana’s first order will not be an americano,” Sooyeon said.

“Hana’s first order will be whatever Hana’s first order is. The order will be—wrong. Because all first orders at Bloom are wrong. And the wrong order is—”

“The right order.”

“The right order. Always.”

The professor arrived at 11:30. With a notebook—the professor’s gift philosophy being that “knowledge is the only gift that appreciates in value” and that “a blank notebook is an invitation to fill the blankness with observations” and that “a one-year-old will not use a notebook for seven years but the notebook’s waiting is—pedagogically sound.” The notebook was Moleskine. Italian. The kind that the professor himself used for lecture notes and that he had, since retirement, used for Bloom observations and cupping assessments.

“For Hana’s first observations,” the professor said. “When Hana is old enough to observe. Which will be—sooner than you think. The one-year-old is already observing. The observation is not yet verbal. The observation is—sensory. The one-year-old observes through taste and touch and sound. The one-year-old’s observation is—the most pure form of observation. Unfiltered by language. Unmediated by concept. The direct, sensory, ‘관심’ that the academy spends eight weeks teaching adults to recover.”

“Hana observes like a barista.”

“Hana observes the way all humans observe before language teaches them to stop observing and start categorizing. The barista’s training is—the recovery of the one-year-old’s observation. The attention that the one-year-old has naturally and that the adult must re-learn. Hana is—the original observer. The rest of us are—the translations.”

“The original is always louder than the translation.”

“Hana is the loudest observer in this room.”

Jiwoo and Minhyuk arrived at 11:45. With—spreadsheets. Not actual spreadsheets (the gift was a stuffed bear, the standard one-year-old gift, the bear that Jiwoo had selected with the same systematic, comparison-shopping, cost-benefit-analyzed approach that she brought to Bloom’s wholesale contracts). But Jiwoo also brought the year-end financial summary—the December document that tracked Bloom’s annual performance and that was, today, being delivered at a birthday party because Jiwoo’s operational mind did not recognize the distinction between business occasions and personal occasions.

“The year-end summary can wait,” Sooyeon said.

“The year-end summary cannot wait because the year-end summary is—the birthday gift. Not for Hana. For Bloom. Bloom’s birthday is October. Bloom turned six in October. The six-year-old cafe and the one-year-old human are both having birthdays. The cafe’s birthday gift is: the numbers.” She set the folder on the kitchen counter. Away from the party. The specific, I’ll-put-it-here-for-later, the-numbers-will-wait-but-the-numbers-are-here placement. “The numbers are—green. All green. First time in six years: all categories green. Revenue, margins, wholesale, academy, retail. All green.”

“All green.”

“All green. The color that Bloom has been approaching since the first cup and that Bloom has, in its sixth year, achieved. Not through growth—through stability. The stability that six years of daily practice produces. The stable cafe. The stable revenue. The stable—everything. Same everything. Including the color.”

“Same everything. Including green.”

“Including green. Which is—the color of the apartment door. The color of Bloom’s stability. The color of—” She looked at Hana. The one-year-old in the high chair, wearing a green onesie (Sooyeon’s choice—the green that matched the door that matched the stability that matched the life). “The color of the next generation.”

Taemin arrived at noon. With a V60—not a standard V60 but a miniature one. A custom piece. The size of a teacup. Made by Sangwoo—the ceramicist, the third-cohort graduate whose jade-glazed cups had become Bloom’s signature and who had, for Hana’s birthday, made a miniature V60 in the same jade glaze. Not functional—the miniature V60 could not brew coffee, could not hold water, could not perform the bloom. Decorative. Symbolic. The academy’s gift to the barista’s daughter: a V60 that was too small to use and that was exactly the right size to represent the thing it represented.

“For Hana,” Taemin said. “From the graduates. All of us. Sangwoo made it. The jade glaze. The same glaze as the Bloom cups. The same clay. The same kiln. The same thirty-two seconds on the wheel.” He placed the miniature V60 in Hana’s hands. Hana held it. Hana did not put it in her mouth. The one-year-old held the ceramic object with the specific, careful, both-hands grip that—Hajin noticed, in the way that baristas noticed hands—resembled the grip. The V60 grip. The cup grip. The both-hands, I-am-holding-something-important grip that the cafe had taught and that the daughter had—inherited? Observed? Absorbed through fourteen months of watching her father hold cups with both hands?

“She’s holding it with both hands,” Sooyeon said. Noticing what Hajin noticed. The both-hands grip. The one-year-old’s hands around the miniature V60 in the same configuration that the barista’s hands held the full-sized V60. The configuration that was—the gesture. The Bloom gesture. The attention gesture. The “I am holding this with care” gesture that the cafe had codified and that the daughter was performing at one year old with a ceramic object that she did not understand but that she held—correctly.

“Both hands,” Hajin said.

“Both hands. Like you.”

“Like the cup.”

“Like everything at Bloom. Both hands. Full attention. The one-year-old version.”

Hana looked at the miniature V60. The jade glaze catching the December light from the apartment window. The one-year-old’s eyes—focused, present, the specific, pre-verbal, pure-observation attention that the professor had described and that was, in this moment, directed at the object in her hands. The object that was too small to brew coffee but that was exactly the right size to carry the meaning of the thing it represented.

The chairman arrived at 12:30. Late—by the chairman’s standards, which were military-precise. The lateness explained by: Secretary Park, who followed the chairman through the apartment door carrying a box that was—large. Larger than a one-year-old’s birthday gift should be. The kind of large that produced the specific, Korean-grandfather, I-have-overcompensated-because-grandchildren-disable-my-judgment response that wealth amplified but that was, in its fundamental impulse, universal.

“I was informed that the appropriate gift for a one-year-old’s first birthday is—practical,” the chairman said. Setting the box down. The box was from a specialty children’s furniture store in Gangnam. “I was also informed—by Secretary Park, who consulted the internet—that the first birthday gift traditionally includes items for the doljabi.”

The doljabi. The Korean first-birthday ritual—the ceremony where the one-year-old is placed before a selection of objects (thread for longevity, rice for prosperity, a pen for knowledge, money for wealth) and the object the child selects is interpreted as a prediction of the child’s future. The tradition that every Korean family performed and that the combination of a Bucheon laundry family and a Hannam-dong conglomerate family would perform together—the two families, the two worlds, watching a one-year-old reach for an object.

“The doljabi items,” the chairman continued. Opening the box. “I have provided—the standard items. Thread. Rice cake. A pen. Money. And—” He pulled out an additional object. Not standard. Not traditional. The additional object that the chairman had added to the doljabi selection: a cupping spoon. Silver. Engraved. The handle bearing the characters: 관심.

“A cupping spoon,” Sooyeon said.

“A cupping spoon. For the doljabi. Because the standard items predict: longevity, prosperity, knowledge, wealth. The cupping spoon predicts: attention. The prediction that the standard items do not include and that is—in my experience—the most valuable prediction.”

“You added a cupping spoon to the doljabi.”

“I added the thing that matters. Among the things that traditionally matter. The thread and the rice cake and the pen and the money—these are the traditional predictions. The cupping spoon is—the Bloom prediction. The prediction that says: the child will pay attention. The child will taste the hidden thing. The child will bloom.”

Hajin’s mother: “The doljabi should also include—” She produced an object from her bag. A ladle. A doenjang-jjigae ladle—the standard, Korean-kitchen, soup-serving instrument that had been used in the Bucheon kitchen for decades and that was, in its battered, daily-use, forty-two-years-of-jjigae condition, the opposite of the chairman’s engraved silver cupping spoon. “A ladle. For the prediction that says: the child will feed people. The child will nourish. The child will make the thing that brings people to the table.”

“A ladle and a cupping spoon,” Sooyeon said. Looking at the two additional objects. The two non-traditional doljabi items added by the two grandparents. The cupping spoon from the Hannam-dong grandfather. The ladle from the Bucheon grandmother. The silver and the battered steel. The conglomerate and the laundry. The two versions of the same prediction: the child will pay attention to the thing she makes.

“Both predict attention,” Hajin said.

“Both predict 관심,” the chairman agreed. “The spoon tastes the attention. The ladle serves the attention. Different instruments. Same prediction.”

The doljabi. Hana was placed on the floor—the apartment floor, the living room, the specific, cleared-for-the-ceremony, all-adults-watching space that the doljabi required. Before her: the thread (longevity), the rice cake (prosperity), the pen (knowledge), the money (wealth), the cupping spoon (attention), the ladle (nourishment). Six objects. Six predictions. One one-year-old.

Hana looked at the objects. The one-year-old’s assessment—methodical, in the way that one-year-olds were methodical, the pre-verbal evaluation that processed the world through sensation rather than concept. The thread—thin, uninteresting. The rice cake—edible, tempting, but the one-year-old had just eaten and the appetite was—satisfied. The pen—cylindrical, rollable, possessing the kinetic potential that one-year-olds appreciated. The money—paper, flat, lacking the three-dimensional interest that one-year-old hands preferred. The cupping spoon—silver, reflective, curved, producing the specific, light-catching, visually-interesting quality that attracted the one-year-old’s attention. The ladle—larger, heavier, producing the satisfying weight that one-year-old hands appreciated.

Hana reached. The one-year-old’s hand—the small, uncoordinated, fourteen-month-old hand that had held the miniature V60 with both hands thirty minutes ago and that was now, in the doljabi, reaching for a single object with a single hand. The hand moved toward the cupping spoon. The silver. The light. The curve.

The hand passed the cupping spoon.

The hand continued. Past the cupping spoon. Past the pen. Past the money. Toward—the ladle. The battered, steel, forty-two-year-old, Bucheon-kitchen ladle that Hajin’s mother had brought. The ladle that predicted nourishment. The ladle that carried the jjigae. The ladle that was—heavy, satisfying, the weight that the one-year-old’s hand wanted.

Hana grabbed the ladle. Held it. Lifted it—with effort, the weight significant for a fourteen-month-old’s arm strength, the lifting producing the specific, pleased, I-have-acquired-a-heavy-thing smile that one-year-olds produced when they successfully manipulated an object that challenged their capabilities.

Then the other hand reached. The second hand—extending, grasping, finding the cupping spoon. The silver spoon. The engraved 관심. The chairman’s addition. The one-year-old’s second selection—the cupping spoon in the right hand, the ladle in the left.

Both. Hana chose both.

The ladle and the cupping spoon. The nourishment and the attention. The grandmother’s prediction and the grandfather’s prediction. The Bucheon and the Hannam-dong. The jjigae and the coffee. Both.

The room—silent. The doljabi silence. The specific, everyone-is-interpreting, what-does-this-mean silence that the Korean first-birthday ceremony produced when the child selected and the selection was—loaded with meaning. The meaning being: Hana chose both. The nourishment and the attention. The feeding and the tasting. The making and the evaluating. Both hands. Full grip. Both predictions.

“Both,” Mr. Bae said. The one-word assessment. Applied to the doljabi. The first time Mr. Bae had used his assessment system outside the cortado context. “Both” being, in Mr. Bae’s vocabulary, the equivalent of “good”—the compressed, complete, everything-contained evaluation.

“Both,” the chairman agreed. Looking at Hana. The one-year-old holding the silver spoon and the steel ladle. The granddaughter holding the two grandparents’ predictions. “The child chose both. The child will taste and nourish. The child will evaluate and serve. The child will—” He looked at Hajin. The look that said: the child is yours and the child is mine and the child is the thing that the ladle and the spoon and the two families and the two worlds produced together. “The child will bloom.”

“The child will bloom,” Hajin’s mother agreed. “Eventually. Same as everyone.”

“Everyone blooms. Eventually.”

“The fourth line,” the professor noted. The academic observation of the chalkboard’s fourth truth applied to the doljabi. “Everyone blooms. Including one-year-olds. Including granddaughters of chairmen. Including children who hold ladles and cupping spoons simultaneously.”

Hana banged the ladle on the floor. The one-year-old’s rhythmic expression—the ladle producing a satisfying metallic sound on the apartment floor, the cupping spoon producing a lighter, silver sound. Two instruments. Two sounds. One rhythm. The one-year-old’s first composition—performed with the tools of nourishment and attention, conducted by a fourteen-month-old whose musical theory was: bang things that make sounds.

The adults watched. The watching being—the bloom. The communal bloom. The shared attention of twelve people (the community that had gathered for the one-year-old’s birthday) directed at one person (the one-year-old banging a ladle and a spoon on a floor) and producing—the silence. The Bloom silence. The attention silence. The specific, everyone-is-present, no-one-is-elsewhere silence that the cafe produced and that the cupping produced and that the doljabi, today, produced.

The silence was—Hana’s bloom. The thirty-two seconds (approximately—the one-year-old’s rhythm lasted about forty seconds before the banging lost interest and the ladle and spoon were discarded in favor of the rice cake, which was, after all, edible). The bloom that preceded the cup. The cup being—the rest of Hana’s life. The cup that the doljabi predicted and that the ladle and the spoon symbolized and that the daily practice would fill.

Every day.

Like this.

For a one-year-old who chose both.

Both hands. Both predictions. Both worlds.

Same everything.

Always.