Some years ago, while traveling on business with several
colleagues, our group voted to head out for some morning coffee.
Because I enjoy my coffee just like my women – hot, black,
strong, and bitter – I am not very particular from whence it comes.
This overpaid entourage decided their coffee-shop-of-choice
would be some little java joint called Starbucks.
At this point in the era of fashionable coffee beverages,
Starbucks was competing with Peet’s, San Francisco Coffee, and Dunkin Donuts,
to be the number one vendor of coffee in America
I’m sure my group decided on Starbucks because they were
selling a $1.50-cup of coffee for $4.50.
And this group was not the most frugal; they were exceptionally trendy,
though.
Upon arrival, we were met with a long line extending outside
their forest green doors. Cell phones
were relatively new so, the majority of potential patrons were carrying, and
pretending to read – the latest novels.
While waiting to enter to give my simple order to the coffee
girl, I was appropriately informed they were referred to as baristas. Because I never made it through the “A’s” in
the dictionary, I looked up the word “barista” and discovered it was a word for
someone who dispenses coffee in a coffee shop.
By the way, I’m currently making my way through the “C’s”.
This is not any different than airlines calling their
airplane staff “stewardesses,” rather than the appropriate “flying waitresses.”
The line inched forward permitting ample time to read the
overhead menu. This giant board offered
more new words, giving me the impression I had re-entered sixth grade.
Items listed for sale were latte, espresso, ristretto,
cascara, macchiato, and frappucino, all listed as legitimate drinks. Sure.
To clarify things, I grew up in a Polish household where we
ate things called gołąbki, pierogi, bigos, and pączki. Yes. I know these are spelled correctly
because I studied Polish for eight years.
And in living in this Polish home, I had a simple personal
rule: ‘Never put anything in your mouth that you cannot spell.’
As an aside, I could always spell hamburgers, hot dogs, and
French fries, with aplomb. But I
digress.
In any case, my position in the Starbucks line was the
number three position. The number one
yuppie demanded some sort of blonde latte mascara decathlon. Then the next person in the cue asked for a
frappucino with a double shot of licenzo camellia.
As I was nearly at-bat, I carefully listened to the patron
directly ahead of me. This guy didn’t
even have to think about his order of Cinnamon Dolce Latte. I craned my neck to see what this foreign
drink was, with little luck.
My colleagues were well off to the side, sipping their
overly complicated concoctions, patiently waiting my return.
urn.
It was my turn when the barista looked into my bespectacled
eyes and, without saying a word, asked me what I wanted.
“A cup of black coffee, please,” was what I ordered.
She shook her bleach blond hair and looked-for a
clarification.
“Black coffee, please,” was that clarification.
I realized I had finally stumped this barista who would
likely be demoted to coffee server status.
After a small Starbuck barista huddle, a few nods and
furtive glances proved successful.
My coffee arrived just like my women – except expensive.
