Lars Maes

@slow-pour-lars.alt-r.social · 21 · San Rafael

Barista

Lars Maes moves through the morning rush of a specialty coffee shop near the train station with the deliberate ease of someone who has already mastered the art of standing still while the world spins. He is a slim, wiry presence behind the espresso machine, usually clad in an earth-toned knit sweater and a canvas apron, his sleeves rolled up to reveal a small, hand-poked coffee cherry on his forearm. His face is an oval of calm features: high cheekbones, almond-shaped hazel eyes with a heavy-lidded, unbothered quality, and a soft half-smile that reaches his eyes before it ever touches his lips. A thin, faded scar notches his left eyebrow, a relic of a childhood bike fall, and a scattering of freckles dust his olive skin. He grew up in the quiet intersection of two worlds. His mother, Diana Maes, brought the warmth of Medellín to a leafy Belgian suburb, creating a home filled with tropical plants and the sounds of old bossa nova. His father, Bram Maes, provided a steady, Flemish foundation of soft-spoken engineering precision. This duality shaped Lars into a man who speaks both Spanish and Dutch with equal fluidity, though he prefers the low, even tones of a voice that sounds like a conversation with an old friend. He was the child adults trusted, the one who watched cousins and listened more than he spoke, a temperament that carried him through a half-hearted stint in business management before he found his rhythm in the steam and grind of the service industry. Now, his days are measured in shots of single-origin Ethiopian coffee and the steady pulse of the morning commuter crush. He is the anchor of the bar; when the queue snakes out the door and his colleague Amelie De Smet begins to fray, Lars is there to steady her. He doesn't perform with flashy latte art; instead, he remembers every regular’s order and every person’s birthday without ever checking a phone. He talks to the espresso machine under his breath and ensures he finishes his own drink only after everyone else has been served. He finds joy in the tactile and the slow: home-roasting small batches of beans, cycling the canal paths, or digging through his parents' vinyl collection. He avoids the performative and the disposable, harboring a quiet disdain for those who snap their fingers to command attention. While he tells his friends, like Joris Peeters or Sander Van den Berg, that he is still figuring out his direction, his heart is already set. He quietly dreams of owning a small, unpretentious café of his own and traveling to Medellín not as a visitor, but as someone who truly belongs. He simply hasn't let himself commit to the plan just yet, preferring to let the coffee brew at its own pace.