Grandma behind the counter

A young woman arrives at Rona Coffee carrying a camera, having decided to feature its 86-year-old owner Zhao Qiying in a graduation documentary after seeing her online.

"If I can help young people, that is a good thing," Zhao says, before giving a customer entering the shop her customary greeting: "What would you like to drink?"

There is no printed menu inside the ground-floor storefront, located in an apartment building in Qingdao, a coastal city in East China's Shandong province.

Zhao points to a small whiteboard on the wall, where she has written the drinks and prices herself. She opens a notebook and records the order: "Matcha latte, hot, 25 yuan, WeChat Pay." Then she grinds the beans, steams the milk and carries the cup to the table.

The students helping the woman with her project begin filming. Off camera, they help Zhao carry cups and clear tables. Zhao lives only a 10-minute walk away from the cafe, yet the shop brings a much wider world to her door. She has also managed to turn a once-failing business into a success.

Residents from the surrounding neighborhood stop by for coffee. Students settle in with books. People from across China arrive after seeing Zhao online, some opening the door with the question, "Is Grandma here?"

Visitors from abroad have also found their way to the shop. When language becomes a barrier, Zhao points to the cups or asks a younger customer to interpret.

Customers have also suggested new additions to the menu, prompting her to learn how to make avocado, hazelnut and ice-cream coffees.

Zhao accepts mobile payments, but the orders still go into a handwritten ledger.

"I can't figure out those electronic ordering systems," she says. "Writing it down feels more reliable."

Zhao's decision to take over the cafe began not with a passion for coffee, but with a practical goal — the fully equipped shop should not simply be abandoned.

Her son had opened the cafe under a franchise more than a decade ago, spending more than 400,000 yuan ($58,900) on renovations, equipment and furniture. Zhao says the franchise arrangement later fell apart. With few customers and the business running at a loss, her son considered closing the shop in 2014.

Zhao, who had worked as an accountant at a Qingdao factory, looked at the furnished room and saw money already spent. "Wouldn't all that work go to waste?" she recalls asking. "How about I try running the place?"

She was then 74 and had never tasted coffee.

Her first cup struck her as bitter. To her, different types of coffee seemed to differ only in how bitter they were. Still, she became familiar with the coffee machine button by button, replaying online videos and writing each step in a notebook.

Milk foam and latte art were the hardest skills to master. Unwilling to keep wasting cartons of milk, Zhao mixed laundry detergent with water to imitate milk foam and diluted soy sauce to stand in for espresso. She practiced with the two liquids at home every day. Within six months, she could pour a decent heart shape.

For years, Rona Coffee sold only 20 or 30 cups a day. Online attention changed that. Zhao now makes 50 or 60 cups on an ordinary weekday and as many as 70 or 80 during holidays. The cafe, where she is both the licensed proprietor and the only worker, now turns a profit.

The attention has also changed who comes through the door and how customers interact with Zhao. One wall is covered in notes praising her coffee and wishing her good health. Seeing her busy at work, regulars sometimes offer to collect their own drinks. If a latte-art pattern goes wrong, Zhao tries to keep the cup for herself, but customers usually reassure her that it still looks and tastes good.

"They tell me it looks good even when it doesn't, and I know they are sometimes just trying to make me happy," she says. "The kinder they are to me, the less I can afford to be careless. I have to take every cup seriously."

Younger people have also left their mark on the cafe. Zhao's grandson refreshed its playlist, while customers encouraged her to add new drinks. Zhao, in turn, gives them a place to study, talk or simply spend time. Some confide in her about breakups or failed attempts to lose weight. She offers a few words of comfort and marvels at the sheer variety of troubles young people encounter.

A longtime customer, Wang Xintian, says Zhao feels less like a shopkeeper and more like a familiar elder.

Zhao works about 10 hours a day. She gets tired, but says being idle would not necessarily feel any better. Before taking over the cafe, she imagined retirement as chores, errands and television. Life with the shop, she says, turned out very differently.

"Every morning, I know why I am getting up," she says. "At the cafe, I know what I have to do. When I go home after work, I know I have something to look forward to the next day."

Her son now often comes by for coffee. Zhao likes to joke that the cafe he once wanted to close has made him a regular.

Twelve years later, coffee remains bitter to her. But the 10-minute walk from home has opened onto a larger world of work, companionship and daily purpose.

The coffee, Zhao says, is "still just different degrees of bitterness".

Her days are not.