The Life of a Barista Soldier

A barista deployed to serve in the U.S. Army in Bahrain finds comfort in brewing coffee for his peers

Editor’s note: Barista Magazine contributor Diana Mnatsakanyan, who is  head barista trainer at Amelie’s French Bakery  in Charlotte, N.C., operates a beautiful blog called Bloom CLT ”you should check it out. Diana was so inspired by the community of coffee pros and enthusiasts alike with whom she works and spends her days that she started a blog to document and promote gatherings in the Southeast, and share  personal stories from coffee people who have touched her heart. Diana asked  her friend Charlie Nguyen, whom she got to know when he worked as a barista at Not Just Coffee in Charlotte until he was deployed to Bahrain a few months ago, to share his coffee story on Bloom CLT  in a story called, “The Life of a Barista Soldier.”

Charlie is one of the most dedicated baristas I know,” Diana wrote when she emailed me about a story she’d just posted to Bloom CLT. “He loves coffee and people  deeply  and that’s  something  that’s  evident in both his words and actions. A few months into his deployment, he shipped  his pour-over equipment  to himself at camp and began making pour-overs for the soldiers. I asked him to write a guest post for my blog and personally I think he knocked it out of the park.”

I agreed wholeheartedly with Diana. I loved Charlie’s story so much that I asked Diana if I could reprint it here on Barista Magazine’s blog as a Christmas Day gift to our wonderful readers. Thank you, Diana, for letting us share the story, but most of all thank you, Charlie, for letting us in on your epic tale.

Article  by  Charles Nguyen
Cover photo  by  Noah Williams
Reprinted with permission from Bloom CLT

I was told eight months prior that I was to be mobilized and deployed. In the time frame of  only six months, I had to say good-bye to everything  I was doing and everyone I loved and cared for, for an entire year. For six months I attempted to put on my tough face. My time felt as if it was actual currency, steadily being withdrawn from a bank account I couldn’t control. I would find time passing faster  when I worked bar at  Not Just Coffee  and passing ever so slowly as I laid at night counting the popcorn on the ceiling of  my not-so-cool  apartment. Every night as my head fell upon my flat pillow, I thought to myself œI need a new pillow.  And the next thought would immediately be,   œAm I spending my time efficiently? Am I with who I love? Am I doing what I love?  Being 22  years old, these were daunting thoughts to ponder. Before I knew it, five-and-a-half months had passed.

Two weeks until I was scheduled to leave, and anxiety was building  within.

I became nervous for reasons that I could not make out at the time. People came out of the woodwork: my co-workers wanted to hang out with me, my long-time friends  wanted me to party with them. It felt like a tug-of-war during  my final days in the States and, ironically, I was the least responsive to everyone then. People texted me and I’d pretend that I didn’t see it. They couldn’t believe that I was leaving. The hard truth was that I couldn’t believe it either. I couldn’t bring myself to tell everyone goodbye and as the clock drew closer to my departure date, my  anxiety pumped harder. I wanted to eradicate  it. The only way I could do that was  to simply say œno. 

Then came the day. My bags were packed, my boot laces tucked, my face clean-shaven, my hair within regulation, and my patrol cap pressed against my head. That was the day when I put down everything I had in Charlotte and left for duty.  I stepped on the plane and took my seat. Lift off: not just the plane but the relief, the weight, within me. The anxiety was over. A feeling too good to be real  made its way into my veins. My attention shifted elsewhere: to the new responsibility that was given to  me. I was given  the honor of putting on the Army uniform to fulfill my tasks overseas.


As soon as the plane landed, I felt time begin to stutter, slow down, and eventually come  to a halt.  Something was not right. Something was not the way it should be. I was not home. I was not seeing my dearly beloved family and friends. I wasn’t making pourovers. I wasn’t dialing in espresso. I wasn’t pouring cappuccinos and lattes. I wasn’t making  visits to  The Daily Press  and  Central Coffee  Company. I wasn’t grabbing a beer from Assorted Table or devouring  a slice at Pure Pizza or enjoying fresh  sashimi from Bonsai Sushi. I was supposed to be  telling the  Joke of the Day  to everyone in the market.  I felt my duty was to be behind the coffee bar, slinging drinks,  bringing joy to customers, and sharing in that joy myself.  It wasn’t right to be anywhere else, to be doing anything else. In every possible  way of thinking about it,  I wasn’t home. The reality of it all came crashing down on me until I finally managed to fall asleep at the end of my first day overseas.

One day I received a package. Jenny Smith, Barista Mama of  Central Coffee Company sent me a box  filled with coffee goodies. It was like Christmas, except WAY better! I’m pretty sure I shed a tear when I opened up that box and saw everything inside. I was in complete awe. There was a letter from all the baristas there ”people that I had met, people that I didn’t know, and people I had  served as a barista. Only gentle words were written. I couldn’t fathom the kindness that I had received.  It’s those acts of kindness  that make you question your humanity ”do I really deserve  all of this?


Immediately, I began brewing  the Ethiopian Kochere coffee that they had sent me. I tried to keep my hand steady but the anticipation I was feeling and the salt water welling  in  my eyes kept me from pouring my kettle accurately. The last drop finally hit at 3 minutes  and 26 seconds. I poured the fruitful, balanced justice into my mug and wafted in the aromas. I sat for a long moment to savor and thank everyone in  my thoughts. I drew a sip  and nostalgia began crawling out of my heart. I slurped and I swigged and I drank until  I couldn’t anymore. Before I knew it, the 400ml of coffee I had so cherished was gone. But the warmth it had given  me was felt deep within  my core. I couldn’t tell if that  was a product of the fresh pour over or if it was  simply love.


I couldn’t be selfish and hold it all to myself. I brewed one cup after another every morning from 0500-0700 for the soldiers. I don’t charge but I do ask for donations so I can purchase more equipment. This also gives people in the States a chance to give to the troops: supporting our military, one cup at a time. The soldiers are loving it! It’s a lot better than the Army coffee, which we have a marching cadence about: œThey say that in the ARMY the coffee’s mighty fine (who said that)! It looks like murky water and tastes like turpentine! 

It feels good to be able to serve again, both as a barista and a soldier. And to think that I’m able to do both! I find myself telling my fellow soldiers  about the science behind coffee and they are always surprised about how much care we put into our craft. œIt’s just coffee,  some may say. But to me, its a transcendental fruit. Can you imagine what it would feel  like to look up mountains of green and see the cherry-red coffee fruits  growing? A beautiful sight, I’m sure. The hard work the farmers go  through to grow, pick, and process those beans ¦ The roasters perfecting their crop  in those absurdly warm warehouses moving coffee 80 pounds at a time ¦ The barista’s job is to make sure that all that hard work is not put to waste.


I don’t care what anyone else says. To me, it’s NOT JUST COFFEE.


If you’d like to send Charlie a letter or a care package (of coffee perhaps?), please feel free to send it to:

PSC 903 BOX 70015
FPO AE 09859

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  1. Very good article , I was also a soldier . Soldiers love coffee . All the better if you are a barista has as comrades .

    Kind regards Marko

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