I Was Not Selling Espresso Machines. I Was Selling Trust.
After a few months at FAEMA, I began to understand that my work involved far more than simply installing espresso machines. Almost anyone could learn to install a machine. But helping a café owner serve a perfect espresso day after day was an entirely different matter. I quickly discovered that many problems had nothing to do with the machine itself. Sometimes the coffee was ground too coarsely.
At other times, the grind was too fine. A grinder perfectly adjusted on a cold winter day might need a completely different setting during a humid Belgian summer. So I began experimenting. I observed. I tasted. I adjusted the setting. And I kept searching until the espresso tasted exactly as it should. More and more often, I saw the same reaction. The café owner took a sip. Looked at me. Smiled.
And simply said:
"Now it is perfect."
That moment gave me more satisfaction than installing a brand-new machine ever could. Because I was not selling metal. I was helping someone offer their customers a small moment of pleasure every day. That was probably when I truly understood what service meant. Your work is not finished when the machine is installed. It is finished when the customer is satisfied. Not when the invoice is paid. That way of working did not go unnoticed for long.
When a particularly difficult problem had to be solved, I was often sent to the site. Not because I knew everything. But because I kept searching until I found the true cause. Even then, I possessed a quality that would accompany me throughout my life. I did not give up easily.
When someone said:
"It is impossible."
My first thought was always:
"Why should it be impossible?"
That way of thinking sometimes caused me difficulties. But far more often, it opened new doors. I also began to see cafés differently. Not only as places where coffee was served. But as places where people came together. Every counter had its regulars. Every café owner knew their habits. One always drank his espresso without sugar. Another always added two cubes. Some stayed five minutes. Others an hour. I loved that little world.
A good café owner did not only know his customers by name. He knew their stories. Their worries. Their joys. That was when I began to understand that a cup of coffee is far more than a drink. Very often, it is a moment of rest. A conversation. A friendship. Sometimes even a little comfort.
Perhaps that is why I felt so naturally at home in the hospitality world. I loved people. I loved listening to them. And I was always grateful when someone taught me something new. Without realizing it, I was also becoming increasingly fascinated by coffee itself. Where did it come from? Why did one bean taste different from another? Why could the slightest change in the grind alter the flavor?
Why did espresso machines respond differently in humid weather? Questions like these continued to fascinate me. Many of my colleagues did their jobs well. But I wanted to understand why something worked. That difference would help determine my entire career. Whether I was working with coffee. With ceramic tiles. Or with software. I never wanted only to know how something worked. I wanted to understand why. Many years later, I often thought back to those beginnings at FAEMA.
Only then did I understand that the company had given me far more than a profession. It had taught me a way of thinking. First observe. Then listen. Understand the problem. And only then look for the solution. That simple order became one of the guiding principles of my life. Years later, people sometimes asked me what the secret of my success had been. I could only smile. There was no secret.
Only curiosity. Perseverance. And a sincere interest in the person standing before me. Perhaps that is the most important lesson the world of espresso ever taught me. A machine makes coffee. But the human being makes the difference.