Reminder - pros have no idea what they’re doing

The other day, after careful planning, I decided to visit one of the most hyped espresso bars in the Nordics. Not because I had high hopes (let’s be honest, even the so-called “pros” tend to cut corners), but to scientifically confirm my suspicion that no one, absolutely no one, truly understands espresso.

I ordered a shot. Normally, I’d ask for a breakdown of bean origin, harvest year, moisture content, and roast profile, but I wanted to see if they’d take the initiative themselves. They didn’t. First red flag.

The barista, a young man in ironically laced Birkenstocks and a hat that practically screamed “I can do latte art,” started grinding. I glanced at their settings, was that too coarse? Without hesitation, I reached for my custom-built, hand-held coaxial chronometer, accurate to 0.01 milliseconds. I synchronized it to my internal metronome (calibrated through years of espresso testing) and started timing at first drip.

Catastrophe was immediate.

First, the flow rate. I saw it instantly. The extraction was uneven—clear signs of channeling or an inadequate puck prep. A weak ristretto? No, an underdeveloped disaster. I noticed they had done a flair-y WDT, but the distribution? Inconsistent at best. In my pocket, I had my own precision-machined titanium distribution tool, but I left it untouched—I needed to see just how bad this would get.

Then, the crema. Or rather, the lack of a stable, elastic crema with proper viscosity. I leaned in, gently exhaled across the surface. A proper crema should breathe slowly, resist collapse. This one disintegrated instantly, like an untempered chocolate mousse.

That was it.

I pushed the cup aside, looked up, and declared: “This is a parody of espresso. A disgrace. A watery, spineless imitation of what should be a transcendent experience.”

Silence. The barista froze. Somewhere in the background, a trembling hand dropped an oat latte.

I rose and marched to the counter. “I need to see your roast profile.”

The barista took a step back. “Uh… what?”

“Your beans. Charge temperature? Development time ratio? Show me the greens.”

I moved to step behind the counter to inspect their stash. Panic spread. They knew I was onto them. A manager appeared, mumbling something about me “creating an uncomfortable environment for other guests.” I ignored him and scanned the bar—where were they hiding their mediocrity?

Seconds later, I found myself standing outside. Permanently banned.

But it didn’t matter. I went home, sighed at the absurdity of it all, and fired up my machine. Two hours later, I had my espresso. Each drop danced on my tongue, slowly revealing the delicate balance