Running a Coffee Shop Is Not Romantic
But I love it, with every inch of my soul.
During my elementary school graduation ceremony, each student shared what they wanted to be when they grew up. It was a sea of future teachers, astronauts, doctors, firefighters, and singers. Eyes twinkling, I strutted up to the podium—and declared that I wanted to become an interior designer. I heard parents chuckling in the audience. How does this girl know what an interior designer even is?
As a child, my favorite pastime wasn’t playing with Barbies or miniature pots and pans. It was selling art to my parents. I would doodle on sketchbook paper, price each piece between $10 and $20, set up my toy cash register, and open the gallery for business. I learned to be a creative entrepreneur quite early on, if I must say so myself.
Two years ago, I opened a coffee shop in Philadelphia. It was one of the most difficult periods of my life. On the weekdays, I was trudging through a stressful startup environment and working overtime more often than not. I would return home with takeout in hand (or skip dinner entirely) and immediately turn on my laptop, often calling my business partners late into the night to navigate the shop buildout. I barely slept. Barely met up with anyone. Any hour I could spare, I spent napping, walking in circles around my neighborhood, or simply lying in bed and doing nothing to give my brain and body some room to breathe. I ended up in the emergency room twice within this period—once after unwise alcohol consumption with COVID, a second time due to appendicitis.
A close friend stopped by our shop just a couple of days prior to grand opening. Having known each other since we were 12-years-old, it was thrilling to be based in the same city on the opposite side of the country together. We reminisced in the seating area, sipping our coffees. Whilst absorbing the new surroundings, she reminded me: my dream as a teenager had been to run a café one day.
I had completely forgotten this somehow. I felt goosebumps rise up on my arms as I recalled that, yes, it truly had been a dream of mine. In high school, I dreaded answering questions about what I hoped to major in or what career I planned to pursue. Because honestly, I really didn’t know. I had quickly given up on the interior designer route, bogged down by the academic expectations and pressures of aiming to be a high-performing student. I enjoyed painting and filmmaking, but voices around me recommended that I keep them as hobbies. You don’t make money as an artist. Be more practical. My engineer dad desired for me to follow his steps. I politely refused. My mom encouraged me to do anything, as long as I stayed diligent.
So, instead of providing direct answers to the typical questions, I instead expressed that my life goal was to become a café owner. Maybe in my 40s? Maybe after retiring? Though I’m not sure when or how exactly the dream solidified, I do remember watching Kiki’s Delivery Service and marveling at Osono’s cozy bakery. I also remember heading to The Roost to chat with Brewster over a cup of coffee whenever I found the chance and setting an alarm to listen to K.K. Slider strum his guitar on Saturday nights.
I can replay that surreal moment again and again—the moment I realized I had fulfilled my dream as a youth at the tender age of 24, my childhood pal right beside me to witness and recount the entire journey. Sitting side by side inside the very shop I had created through blood, sweat, and tears. I was overwhelmed, awe and gratitude filling my heart to the brim.
At the beginning of 2024 (and by beginning, I mean the first week of January), my pipe dream of writing regularly here instantly went down the drain. Amidst what was already another intense season of juggling a new 9 to 5 with grad school, on top of continued background digital work for the coffee venture, our business hit an unexpected roadblock.
For context, I had slowly transitioned from the daily grind of promoting pop-ups and designing the retail space to printing monthly bag labels and posting on Instagram once in a while. My partners and I unanimously agreed on this smaller role for me last year before I relocated to Los Angeles. At the time, moving back home to California for family and keeping my personal career on track were both non-negotiable, so it made sense. The possibility of exiting was on the table. I tried to reassure myself—for me, this was more of a side hustle that I had the option to let go of. For the other two, this was their livelihood.
I couldn’t help it, though. A little part of me died on the inside, recognizing that an end was potentially imminent.
It’s still tough for me to articulate what happened earlier this year. It was traumatic, bewildering, and exhausting all at once. I’m still in the middle of processing, and the business is still recuperating. I can say this: in late January, I booked a last-minute flight to Philadelphia to deal with an issue that was putting our coffee shop’s existence on the line. My responsibilities tripled. One of my partners ultimately left. I visited Philly again in May. More than ever before, my brain was overloaded, my dark circles felt heavy, and my days whizzed by in front of the computer screen from dawn to midnight.
And now, more than ever before, I know how important Persimmon is to me.
Persimmon was originally an idea scribbled on a napkin, in the throws of the pandemic. I had quit my job as a barista and just begun a new job as a designer. My partners and I met while working in coffee, each of us having dreamt of building something on our own. Stars aligned for us as we were developing Persimmon—so beautifully, it felt like a gift from the heavens. Maybe it actually was. One of us was a professional roaster with access to a Probat, one of us was a creative with experience in marketing, and one of us was deeply passionate about the hospitality industry. We were the perfect trio to establish a coffee biz together.
We launched our e-commerce website on Christmas Day in 2020 with a limited batch of whole bean coffee. As the new year rolled in, the next miracle arrived: a local hair salon asked if we’d be interested in popping up in front of their store. I remember that first pop-up as clear as day. We were standing outside in 20°F weather, double masking, defrosting our feet with space heaters and selling 8-ounce cups of drip coffee dispensed from two Zojirushi carafes for two dollars each. It was small, it was humble, and it was so incredibly fun.
Our pop-ups went from once a month to every other Saturday, to every weekend, to every single day over the course of six months. We were popping up across the city, from Spruce Hill to Northern Liberties. Then, another miracle landed in our laps: an ice cream parlor in Fishtown reached out to us and asked if we’d be interested in exploring a brick-and-mortar. The spot right next to them was going on the market soon. It was under their landlord, and they ideally wanted a café as a neighbor.
We initially refused. We can’t afford to open one right now. But, they persistently nudged us, so we went ahead and met with the landlord out of curiosity—only to discover that the rent was way below anything we had imagined. The landlord, whom we now call our angel, offered to give us a rent break while we built out the shop and to cover all costs behind plumbing, electricity, painting, and flooring. After some quick calculations, it dawned on us. Our dream wasn’t farfetched. We could afford it with a few loans from family members and the totality of our meager savings. It was too good to be true.
The miracles continued. We had friends in woodworking who managed the bulk of the actual buildout. We consulted the Philly coffee community for deals on used machinery, surplus resources, and tips on formatting city plan reviews. We received pro bono legal services from my alma mater. The path was laid out before us, and I admit that I still get teary-eyed whenever I reflect on our scrappy, unconventional journey.
Transparently, I haven’t been paying myself for the sake of operational budgets, and I’m riddled with anxiety and self-doubt in regards to my remote day-to-day for Persimmon. Am I correctly filing monthly sales tax? Running payroll? Renewing licenses? Sending out W-4s and W-9s? Answering inbox inquiries? Budgeting and bookkeeping? Why were the past week’s sales awfully slow? What happened to the trademark apps we filed last year? Will the new order of labels arrive on time? Do we need nicer labels? Can we handle next year’s rent increase? Should we add more merchandise? Is our ice machine holding up okay? When do we finish paying off our espresso machine? Do I need to re-order more hand soap? My business partner has his respective set of daily in-person tasks and concerns revolving around everything from Synesso and shop upkeep to Zipcar and USPS fiascos.
I know that running a coffee shop is viewed as a romantic thing—and to a certain degree, I think it is. I’ve come to understand that it’s also far from romantic in innumerable ways. A Reddit comment that sums it up quite eloquently:
Having been presented the opportunity to realize my dream this early in my life and career is something that I do not take for granted. We would not have been able to open our own storefront without the grace and support of many, many people. We found strength through the friends and family who incessantly cheered us on and believed in us despite our shortcomings and naivety. We’re indebted to our local community and customers who gave us a chance—and a second, and a third. We know that not every small business venture is allowed these chances. Persimmon is our miracle child, a testament to the sincere care and thought that were poured into us first.
We still have a long way to go. We’re young. We recently celebrated our shop’s two-year anniversary. My partner and I, along with our new barista teammates, are still finding our footing and learning how to better communicate and work together. More roadblocks will appear, more mistakes will be made. I’m burnt out, and I need to schedule a proper break sooner than later.
Yet, can you believe it? We made it this far. We’re here. Persimmon is living and breathing. I’ve remained a part of it, and it’s now an even bigger portion of me. Despite the never-ending hurdles and worries, I love it so much. I really do. I love to see our customers savoring their drinks and befriending other customers. We have regulars who sometimes pop in twice a day, which warms my soul like no other. Regulars who call Persimmon their second home. Their safe space. The space that I designed. The space that I can call mine. The space that my friend insisted, was like literally stepping inside Chaereen’s brain.
Persimmon, I treasure you. More than words can say. I pray, with cautious hope, for a brighter future ahead.
Beautiful reflection … been in awe watching this journey in real time. You are so strong and admirable and have a gift of creativity and resilience, Persimmon forever!!!
P.S. K.K. Slider shoutout is toooo good.