Jakob had two floors on the edge of the southern street. On the ground floor, he had all the equipment: a spice roaster, a coffee roaster, packaging machines, fine and medium grinding machines. It was the engine of the place, the heart. 

On the ground floor, there was a meeting room. The locals called this place a coffee shop, but it was at least a magic salon.

— What can I get you today? — Jacob asked, — though do not answer, I can see that.

His assistant would take out the spices without further clarification, place them neatly on the table, and Jacob's hands would begin a magical dance.

The spices and coffee fell in thin streams into the golden glass. First one, then the other. They danced like a fountain. They were stirred, glowing in the sun. They shone like ground valuable metals.

— Here you go, your order. 

The person would take the drink, order a spiced bun, and three hours later would notice that their dreams were coming true. Sometimes big, sometimes small.

For our gentleman today, everything was simple: the girl he secretly loved smiled at him. At that moment, it seemed he could smell cardamom and cinnamon in the air — that's how it smelled in Jacob's house.