When Miles was first figuring out how the tea stand would work, I made it a point to come to as many popups as I could. He was doing something new, just because he wanted to, and it wasn’t clear that he would succeed. Projects like that are fragile at first, and that’s when they need support. So I came, unsure of what it would be or if I would have any role in it. At that point, the most intimidating part of the tea stand to me was the socializing. Miles would have to talk to strangers, potentially all day. Could he do that? Could I?

Months passed, and what exactly the tea stand was has become more clear. Miles uses words like “mission” and “values” a lot when talking through decisions he has to make, so it’s not surprising that the deliberation that goes into this project is clear at every popup. Throughout the past few months, we’d talk through things like the graphics and the visitors, the newsletters and the collaborations, over home-cooked meals and neighborhood walks.

“I wanna serve chai at the tea stand,” I said at one point, and Miles’s eyes widened, his head nodding. I wasn’t sure that I deserved to be joining him, that I should be the one next to him. I was neither a tea-aficionado nor a local creative. What would I tell visitors? I thought. Why was I a part of the tea stand? Two guys serving tea in a park wasn’t any less explicable than one guy serving tea in a park, I would remind myself, and Miles seemed to be getting along fine.

So we made our preparations. We talked through weather and location, timing and serving amounts. Well, Miles thought of all these things and brought them to my attention. I focused on getting the ingredients for at least 20 6 oz. servings of chai and not hampering his routine too much. I’ve read the recaps — there’s an aura of mystery and spirituality at almost every popup —and I didn’t want to diminish that.

So I set my alarm extra early, packed my backpack, and set aside my clothes the night before, like it was the first day of school. The morning was crisp but sunny when we biked to Irving Square Park, thermoses of chai in tow. I’d been to enough popups to know the general layout but I still took Miles’s notes. There were a handful of people on their morning stroll, a few dogs more awake than any of us. My mind was racing. I was trying to remember every word Miles had ever said about this, about how he behaves, and listens. About what happens on a typical day and how he sets expectations. The more I thought, the less I remembered. There really wasn’t anything left for me to do, to prepare for or worry about. I took my seat next to Miles, and let the sunlight wash over me. The tea stand — no, the chai stand — was ready for service.

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Miles informs me that he doesn’t pour himself a cup of tea until he’s served one. When in Rome, I think to myself. “Okay, I’ll wait.”

A breeze tickles our bones, both of us wondering how long it will take.

Rrrring, rrring, rrring

“Chai stand! Chai stand!”

Friend Ben bikes straight through the middle of the park on a Citi bike, narrowly missing a couple on a picnic blanket.

Rrring, rrring, rrring

I don’t even have time laugh — Ben brushes off his entrance, like that’s how he always bikes through this park.

I pour a cup and Miles stamps a lid. I inhale.

Chai is made from black tea, water, milk (or oat milk in our case), a blend of dried spices, and fresh herbs — mint, ginger, and lemongrass. The dried spices have a lot of black pepper, white pepper, and more ginger, so chai can get spicy. I put too much of the spice blend in this batch. I haven’t told anyone yet.

“Ooh, it’s got a kick” Ben says, bobbing his head with a face that looks like I just started bumping some 90’s rap from a boombox.

I exhale.

Ben takes some extra sugar in his cup and is on his way. The first cup was a success, and now all I can feel is the excitement of serving my mother’s chai to the people of Bushwick. I pour Miles and myself a cup.

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