Tiffany didn’t greet her, just “Did you pre-stock the oat milk? I’m not doing it again.” “It’s done.” “It better be.”
Then, like flipping a switch, Tiffany became a different person. A young white couple walked in. She lit up. “Hey guys, have you tried the autumn maple cortado? Literally the best thing we’ve ever made.”
Harold blinked. The autumn maple cortado, Iron Brew’s number three seller last quarter. He didn’t know who created it.
A middle-aged woman in a cleaning uniform approached next. Tiffany’s smile vanished. Flat voice. “What do you want?” Made the drink without a word, set it down. No name, no have a nice day.
Harold opened the register drawer to get change. Inside, wedged between the receipt paper in the bill tray, a folded index card. Two columns, one with hearts, one with X’s.
Day two. The index card. Harold waited until Tiffany went on break, pulled the card out. Hearts: Tech guy Jake, always tips $5. Instagram girl at Molly Brew, tags us, free extra shot. Blond couple, good vibe.
X’s: Old guy Walter, just sits, nurses one drink. Lady with three kids, messy, don’t encourage. Flannel man, doesn’t fit.
Flannel man. That was him. The day he walked in as a customer. They’d written him down, put an X next to his existence.
On the back, in Tiffany’s handwriting: if they’re not brand fit, slow service. They’ll leave on their own. Don’t make a scene, just make it clear they’re not welcome.
Harold put the card back exactly where he found it. Hands steady, jaw not. This wasn’t two young women having a bad day, this was a system.
Day two, break room. Harold sat with Emma during the afternoon break. She pulled out a small notebook and started flipping through it. Pages of recipes, seasonal drinks, pastry twists, flavor notes in the margins. Needs more cinnamon. Try with brown sugar syrup.
She stopped on a page. The Autumn Maple Cortado. “You created this?” She nodded. Gave it to Ron last fall. He said he’d submit it through regional. And went on the menu, sold like crazy.
