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Marisol came to roasting sideways, after a decade on restaurant lines and one very persuasive bag of Ethiopian naturals a friend brought back from a wedding. She runs the drum by smell as much as by the curve on the screen, and has stopped batches mid-development on hunches she can't explain afterward and doesn't try to. Every roast gets named for the weather it happened in, which makes her production spreadsheet unusable to anyone but her. She'll spend forty minutes talking a first-time customer out of a bag that's wrong for their setup, and consider it a good use of the morning. Ask her about the best cup she's ever had and she'll say gas-station coffee in Nevada at four in the morning, and she'll mean it.

Sourcin' beans all around the world!

James started pulling shots at nineteen to pay for a photography degree he never quite finished, and fifteen years later he'll tell you the espresso machine was the better teacher. He has a reputation for remembering not just your order but the argument you were having on the phone last Tuesday, and for refusing, politely but immovably, to put syrup in a cortado. He keeps a notebook behind the counter where he logs grind settings, humidity, and the occasional overheard line of dialogue he thinks might be worth something someday. On slow mornings he'll teach anyone who asks how to pour a decent rosetta. He insists he's not a "coffee person," which nobody believes.