Ihave cleaned thiscounter four times.
Not because it needs it… oh no, it is already spotless. You could perform surgery on it if you really wanted to. But because I have nothing else to do.
I glance at the clock. 3:42 PM.
It has been eight hours and forty-two minutes since I officially opened The Kaiser’s Mug, and so far, my grand entrance into the Shoreditch coffee scene has been… underwhelming.
Jasper, my younger brother and part-time professional wind-up merchant, is perched on a bar stool at the end of the counter, sipping his second free coffee of the day and scrolling through his phone like he hasn’t got a care in the world. He has been here since opening, doing absolutely nothing except watching me have a slow-burn existential crisis.
“Would you stop glaring at the door like it owes you money?” he says, not even looking up.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You are. You look like a Victorian widow staring out to sea, waiting for her husband’s ship to come home.”
I let out a heavy sigh and toss the cloth into the sink. I could wipe down the counter a fifth time, but even I have my limits. Instead, I lean against it and stare at the beautifully arranged pastries in the glass display.Linzer Torte.Apfelstrudel.Sachertorte. Each one made fresh at five o’clock this morning by my Austrian pastry chef Klaus, each one tragically uneaten.
Jasper finally puts his phone down. “Theo. It’s day one.”
“Day one should have been busier.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe you should give it more than eight hours before spiralling into a meltdown.”
I groan, running a hand through my hair. He’s got a point, but still—I spent months planning this place. I wanted it to be perfect. And it is perfect, objectively speaking. The café is exactly how I imagined it, all dark wood panelling, velvet seating, and shelves lined with antique coffee tins. The espresso machine is a thing of beauty, the pastries are flawless, and the coffee? Easily the best in Shoreditch.
And yet.
The door remains firmly shut, the world outside indifferent to my carefully crafted vision. Me and my two waiters got all dressed up in shirt, waistcoat and tie for nothing.
“Maybe the concept is too niche,” I say finally.
Jasper raises an eyebrow. “Theo, you’re acting like you opened a café that only serves soup in wine glasses. It’s a Viennese coffeehouse. It’s not that weird.”
“No, but maybe people don’t want old-school charm. Maybe they want oat milk matcha lattes and rainbow bagels.”
Jasper sighs, setting down his cup. “Listen. People in London will queue for two hours to eat a pancake the size of a two-pi coin if the place looks good on Instagram. You just need time. And marketing. Have you actually done any?”
I shift slightly. “I made an Instagram account.”
He waits.
“I posted a photo of a coffee cup this morning.”
His eyes narrow. “And?”
“…That’s it.”
He groans. “Theo.”
“What? It was a very nice coffee cup.”
Jasper pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is why Geoff and I are silent partners.”
I sigh, drumming my fingers on the counter. Geoff, our eldest brother, is only involved in this café in the sense that he transferred me money, told me to “go live my dream,” and then promptly disappeared to whichever glamorous location he’s currently photographing impossibly beautiful people. Last I heard, he was in the Maldives, shooting a Vogue spread with a supermodel. He doesn’t exactly relate to my struggle.
Jasper, on the other hand, made a fortune developing some computer component that now exists in nearly every machine on the planet. He could be running a tech empire, but instead, he’s semi-retired and spends his time floating between expensive hobbies and annoying me.
“If it makes you feel better,” Jasper says, “Mum just texted me to say she’s proud of you.”
