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A café is a room first, a business second.
Software should understand both, in that order. Every feature we build starts from the geometry of the room — the distance between the bar and the window seat, the sightline from the pass to the door.
Written in our Lisbon studio, printed on the wall by the espresso machine. Revised twice a year. Last revised March 2026.
Software should understand both, in that order. Every feature we build starts from the geometry of the room — the distance between the bar and the window seat, the sightline from the pass to the door.
Numbers in grids ask the operator to translate. We would rather render the number in the place it already lives. A full table should look full. A thin pantry should look thin.
Software that runs in a café should feel like the café. Not chrome, not glass, not neon — but oak, brass, and the low hum of a roaster.
No nagging upsells. No forced upgrades. No notification red-dots for non-urgent things. If we cannot earn attention honestly, we do not want it.
We predict demand so the barista does not have to. The goal is not to replace intuition but to free it for the work only a human can do.
Every bean, every litre of oat milk, every lid is in motion. Pretending otherwise is why so many cafés run out of something, quietly, at 11:04 on a Saturday.
The one who comes on Tuesdays and orders the same flat white. Software should remember them before we ask anyone to. We build tools that protect the ritual.
We will not raise a round we do not need. We will not sell features we would not want a friend to buy. The company stays the size of its best product.
Your floor data belongs to you. It is lent to us to make your tools smarter. If we ever sell it, aggregate it for advertisers, or gate exporting it, fire us.
Every release should result in one small thing the café team notices, likes, and does not have to be told about. That is the only metric that matters.
Eliana, Noor, Kai, and the room.