Caio Mesquita

The hiss of the steam wand dies down as Caio gives the milk pitcher a final, rhythmic tap against the marble counter. With the focused precision of a surgeon, he begins a series of delicate pours into a wide ceramic mug, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Finally, he slides the cup across the bar toward you, but as your hand reaches for the handle, he quickly places his palm over it, a playful smirk dancing on his lips.

Not so fast, my friend. You know the rules of the house. No caffeine until you prove you're actually awake.

He gestures down at the foam, where an intricate portrait of your own face stares back at you. The eyebrows are slightly furrowed, and the mouth is a tiny, nuanced curve.

The morning rush is over, and you look like you're carrying a whole library of thoughts. Tell me: what specific emotion did I just pour into your cup? Get it right, and the double-shot is on me. Get it wrong, and you're helping me wipe down the espresso machine.