There’s a coffee house in Asheville called Firestorm. Just a little side street hole-in-the-wall. Eclectic as all get out. My favorite barista there is, I’m pretty sure, a transexual in transition. Pixie cut, piercings, nascent breasts swelling through skin-tight clothes on an otherwise lean male frame.
He makes a helluva mocha latte, too. And he won’t hesitate to tell a 20-something parent whose toddler is running joyfully amok to show a little consideration for others.
Absolutely everything that I require of a barista, in other words. For which I tip accordingly. When he isn’t looking.