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I spent 10 years working for Chase Bank, building a career in corporate banking. It was steady, professional, and came with a clear path forward. But when a prime lot went up for sale in my small hometown of Damascus, Oregon, I saw an opportunity that banking couldn’t give me.
The property sat right along a major highway that had no drive-thru coffee stands nearby. I pitched the idea to my parents, who had run their own excavation business for decades. Their first reaction was: “What do you know about coffee? You’re a banker.”
They weren’t wrong — but I knew I could figure it out. I had spent years helping small business clients with lending and commercial strategy. I understood balance sheets, profit and loss statements, and how to set up a business. Coffee, I figured, could be learned.
So I found a coffee roaster willing to train me like a new employee, practicing for six months by making drinks for my dad’s work crew.
By September 2019, we opened our stand, and a few months later expanded into food carts, a beer trailer, and even a small outdoor concert space. It was more than coffee — we were trying to build community in a town that didn’t have much of a gathering place.
Struggling to stay open
Even with all that work, by early 2023, the coffee side of the business was struggling. Some days, I wondered if it made more sense to close and focus on the bar, which was doing better.
I’d been posting casually on TikTok since 2021 — nothing fancy, just drink-making videos and lighthearted content. But in the spring, I stumbled on a quirky product online: oversize 34-ounce plastic buckets with handles and straws. They reminded me of fairground lemonade containers.
I ordered 15 and filmed a quick video of myself making a giant iced Americano in one. It wasn’t my best content, but the internet thought otherwise. The clip went viral overnight.
By the next morning, customers were lined up 15 to 20 cars deep, spilling onto the highway. I had only one barista scheduled. I called my boyfriend to rush in and help, even though he’d never worked behind the espresso machine. We were completely overwhelmed, but the excitement was electric.
Going viral changed everything
That one 62-second video doubled, then tripled our sales. In the months since, we’ve hired two more employees, extended our hours, and started selling “bucket refills” with a $1 discount for customers who bring them back — a sustainable perk that has built loyalty.
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People drive hours to visit. One family comes every Sunday from an hour and a half away. Others have traveled from Idaho, Texas, and beyond just to see “the viral bucket shop.”
The attention has been surreal. Local media covered us, and we’ve had partnerships with larger food companies. Strangers stop me in town to say they recognize me from TikTok. It’s strange to be called “famous” when I feel like I just had a silly idea that resonated at the right time.
From corporate banker to community builder
What’s most rewarding isn’t just the sales — it’s the way our little business has energized the town. Damascus never had a space for concerts, vendor fairs, or car shows before. Now, our lot hosts all of those, with the coffee stand at the center.
The skills I learned in banking helped me run the numbers, train my staff, and set up systems. But what I didn’t expect was how fulfilling it would be to create something joyful in my community.
I thought I was leaving behind a secure career for a gamble. And for a while, it looked like that gamble might not pay off. Then TikTok turned it all around.
Now, instead of debating whether to close the stand, I’m asking myself how to keep up with demand. They’re far better problems to have — and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
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