Moving Forward
A New York Times Travel article that hung by the bathroom put Alcove in the heard of “Los Feliz Village”. Like the designation of the surrounding neighborhood, this cafe and bakery full of eponymous nooks and spaces is best described as self-consciously quaint. Platters and tea kettles from your grandmother’s silver stand next to wooden cherubs on a shelf below the ceiling. Angular, sun-starved characters peer out from Soviet pastoral scenes painted on the walls. Upbeat indy rock competes with Edith Piaf in the invisible brain of speakers mounted in the ceiling. A chalkboard menu—like an operator’s license for coffee shops in this part of LA—plays host to a smattering of multi-flavored lattes and alliterative smoothies. Two antique cash registers sit on the counter flaunting their obsolescence.
Sasha had called me earlier in the day to schedule an interview months after I’d filled out my application and put Alcove out of my head. ”Let me check my availability,” she’d said. ”How about 3:15?”
At about 3:14, I wheeled sweaty and shirtless onto the sidewalk in my chronic posture of hurried punctuality. I put in word that I was there for an interview before taking a seat in an alcove by the register. It took forty minutes for Sasha to emerge from the kitchen, interviewers of all stripes running as reliably behind schedule as any respectable family doctor.
While I waited, a well-inked British guy dressed for sport came by to get red velvet cupcakes to-go and chatted about the new Arctic Monkeys release with the chap behind the counter. “Real psychedelic!” was his verdict. A young woman bearing half her scalp walked by with a piece of cake and said she’d hate herself for eating it only to recant in the next breath as she rummaged for a fork . The employees cracked jokes and gave each other massages between customers. They made it seem like all of the defiantly cheerful decor of the place was symptomatic of something bigger: this just might be a nice place to work.
Alcove is housed in a remodeled Spanish-style villa whose well-pruned gardens, one can only imagine, must have been a parking lot when the place was still an escrow shop. Today, misters hang throughout a large brick patio doppled with large red umbrellas and periodically sprinkle the shade with dew. ”Come out here,” Sasha beckoned, striding fluidly from the kitchen to the nearest exit—“if you can bear the heat.”
“Gladly,” I countered truthfully: “We don’t have misters at my house.”
Tell me about your… barista … experience.
Tell me about your job at (glancing at resume)… Bike and Roll …
What is one thing a previous employer would say about you as a strength?
Where would a previous employer—or even you, as a critique—say there’s room for improvement?
And so on. Answer this set of questions over and over for 100 prospective employers and still you will not break through their abiding awkwardness. The interview is a guessing game where you must posit and continually readjust the right answers to questions specifically designed to have “no right answer.”
“After two years, some of our baristas are moving forward with their acting careers, so that’s the reason we’re hiring,” Sasha said with an air of encouragement. I imagined the barista alumni who’d been propelled into the world of the day-jobless by a run of Nestle commercials or a lead in a Sundance feature. It was an LA moment.
For a second I jumped forward to the time two years hence when I too would leave Alcove behind for good, before Sasha reminded me of where we stood: “I have about two more weeks of interviews, and then the candidates that seem like the best fit for the job will be hearing from me. So,” she said sympathetically, ”I hope you’ll hear from me soon!”
