The bell above the café door rings twice—once for Nancy’s regulars and once for the news they haven’t seen yet. On the chalkboard, she’s erased the price of a small drip coffee. In its place: Prices change every Friday.
She rewrites it slowly. Not because she needs the time, but because the act delays the decision. Round up or round down. Absorb or pass on. She hears the grinder spit and hiss behind her. James is prepping cold brew early again—trying to get ahead of the afternoon rush. They’ve started shifting prep earlier to save power, to stretch the beans, to avoid waste. “I’ll run the ratios tighter,” he says. He means: we’re in this together. She nods and lies: “It’ll balance out.”
In the storeroom, sacks of West African cocoa and Brazilian arabica sit like unpaid bills. The smell of raw beans hasn’t changed—earthy, humid, a little bitter—but now it carries a hint of dread. Her supplier’s note, still taped to the shelf, reads: “New FX rate applied August 14.” The euro is up again. The dollar’s down. She’s read the email five times. The math hasn’t changed.
Out front, Pete finishes his crossword without ordering. Third time this week. He glances at the menu, then at his wallet, then back at the crossword. She wants to comp his refill. She doesn’t. The drip price already has no margin. Nancy reaches under the counter for a fresh chalk marker, then stops. It’s the last one in the box. She closes the drawer slowly.
“The first is a tax,” she mutters. “The second is a leak.”
That second hit—the quiet one—is what economists call pass-through: when a weaker dollar inflates the price of every imported good. It’s not a headline. It’s just the math changing on the invoice, and then in your cart, and then in your day.
The smell of roasted beans doesn’t lie. But the cost? The cost sneaks up in waves.
Daniel Coronell knows that feeling. He runs a pizza counter in Cleveland where a six-pound can of crushed tomatoes jumped from $25 to over $30 in a week. No warning. Just a line item and a shrug.