James Lavine

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.