My...precioussssss

Not even like ‘Oh, that crazy woman has mocha sauce on her neck and is begging the espresso machine to hurry up’ type staring. More like ‘If I kidnapped you and stole your clothes I could probably wring them out and get a hit by drinking that’ kinda staring.

That's what I'm talking about. Gah.

Please stop, it’s creepy. If I am making eye-contact with you, it is because I am LISTENING TO WHAT YOU ARE TELLING ME. It is not because I want your babies. When this is the case, you’ll never know.

Similarly, if you have been into the store every week for the last year, and if you have been an ARSEHOLE, I am going to remember your drink. Even if you haven’t been in for three weeks. Because THAT’S MY JOB. You don’t need to blink at me and go ‘Oh. Creepy’. Also, if it’s that easy for someone who neither knows nor likes you to figure out your schedule, maybe you should shake it up with a little spontaneity. Not that ‘go to work-get coffee-go to the gym- get coffee’ isn’t massively exciting. Every day. But…well, if you were in a movie where you got mixed up with the mob, you’d be really easy to find and kill. That’s all I’m saying. Luckily, you don’t do anything interesting enough to get involved with the mob. You know how I know this? Because you’re ALWAYS HERE, looking at me like I’m nuts because I can remember you’re that rude guy who always throws his money at me and demands a double espresso.

Also, whilst we’re on this subject, please do not ‘congratulate’ me on being able to remember your drink/name/the topic of conversation the last time we talked. If you’re pleased you can say ‘Oh it’s so nice that you remembered!’ That’ll do fine. Do NOT call me a ‘good girl’ (try and pat me on the head and I will go fucking apeshit. I am not a dog. I do not work for treats or respond to reinforcing good behaviour. Fuck you.) tell me ‘Oh look, you have a memory!’ (Yes, I am, as we have established, a HUMAN BEING. When you’ve got a robotic barista asking how your kid is doing at uni, maybe THEN is the time to freak out).

I am providing a service. I am providing a personalised beverage and/or food whilst letting you know that you are a special little snowflake, just as individual as every other fucking moron that comes in here and pretends I’m a stalker. I’m NOT. I’m just fairly OKAY at my job, which requires REMEMBERING things.

Please do not stalk your barista

But back to uncomfortable eye-contact. Sometimes it happens accidentally. You’re making a latte, milk gets in your eye, you squint, and Robby McRandom thinks you’re hitting on him. You ask how someone’s day is, and they ask you what time you get off work. You ask if they want whipped cream on their hot chocolate and they look at you like you just pulled a leather whip out of your apron pocket. What the fuck is wrong with everyone?

Eye-contact is a necessary part of human interaction. Otherwise, it doesn’t seem like we’re listening to you. So then you SHOUT IN MY FACE. Or, alternately, your eye-contact is so dead-and-creepy that I look away, and then you think I’m being coy. Read back this post. Do I seem at ALL like a person who is capable of acting coy? If so, then you’re still not using your eyes the way they need to be used. Which is to SEE when you are making minimum wage coffee monkeys uncomfortable.

This is the CORRECT way to write a love letter to a barista. Jus' sayin'

If you don’t want me to remember who you are, consider this list of people we DO remember:

-The arsehole customers who are always rude

-The arsehole customers who always make you remake their drink at least twice

-The arsehole customers who have ridiculously complicated drinks orders

-The nice customers who come in every day and have a slightly unique drink (read: ridiculously complicated but we don’t mind)

-The nice customers who have had a distinct conversation with you about something you’re interested in (travel/ interesting job/festivals/local news/coffee)

-The nice customers with hilarious/cute children

-The nice customers who have previously bought us a gift at Christmas (I know, right?!)

-Anyone with a specific signifier (the Raspy Voice Lady, the South African Music Teacher, The GingerBread Family, That Woman Who Keeps Trying to Get Free Stuff etc)

-Anyone who at first seemed cute, and then turned out to be an arsehole customer

-Anyone who at first looked like an arsehole customer, but then turned out to be a sweetheart.

-Anyone who comes in more than once a day.

The rest of you: Be more interesting.

Also, perhaps consider drinking something other than a latte, and changing your name to something with more than one syllable. Or possibly cultivate an accent, or a hobby that you’re comfortable talking about in public. Trying to convince your wife to sleep with you, and asking for pointers does NOT count as ‘Acceptable waiting-for-coffee conversation’ FYI.

No, my latte art is not a subconscious way of expressing my feelings. I just can't make good leaves.

You remember how people interact in the Real World? They remember people who have shown interest in them. You know, like conversation? If you ask me how I am, I’m not automatically going to assume you’re chatting me up. I’m going to assume that, like a decent human being, it makes more sense to have an asinine conversation about the weather for thirty seconds, than to stand there in silence. But, whatevs.

That's the creepy stare. Right there. Yup.

And if you’ve never been caught in an awkward situation with a Starer, then it’s entirely likely that YOU are the one causing these awkward situations. Stop. Staring. And drink decaf.

Extra Shot:

Here is a hilarious video about being a Starbucks Barista. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m a Starbucks Barista. It just means that all of us deal with the same shit, day in, day out. Big love to all the baristas out there, whether you’re Starsmucks, Bosta, Mero, Met a Pranger or any other coffee shop in the UK, the USA or indeed, the world. Because, for the most part, what we do is necessary (if not actually important) but it could be worse. I can think of a bunch of jobs that involve customer service, and a lot of them also involve chicken grease and burger flipping. I’ll take smelling like whipped cream any day.

Regardless, this video is awesome, and I think I should marry this man. We would have outraged, indignant babies. With caffeine addictions. Not that I’m being a stalker or anything.

Just thought I’d enlighten you there. Because this woman was a cowbag. She rocks up with her posse of screaming children, obsessive mother and what I can only assume is a suicidal nanny and does the typical ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT, MUM?’ scream from the pastry case to the sofas. Then one kid comes up, then another, then she changes her order. Then she gets aggy with a barista for serving someone else first because she hadn’t decided anything yet.

She picks a porridge, a panini and a cookie for herself. The others have nothing.

She demolishes the porridge (after sending back her drink twice. Once because it wasn’t hot enough, and once because it tasted ‘bleh’. Because that’s an adjective) then the cookie and is halfway through the panini when she notices the supervisor restocking the sandwiches. So she marches over and demands that she get a new one, because she wanted one of those, but we didn’t have any.

Meh is descriptive. Bleh isn't. Apparently.

She then tells what can only be called a baldfaced lie, and says she asked the barista at the till and he said we didn’t have any. I was there, and she didn’t ask him, because if she did, it would have been my job to run to the back to check. And I didn’t.

Her defence for the fact that we should give her an entire sandwich for free when she’d already eaten most of the other one? ‘You MADE me eat a sandwich I didn’t like!’ Oh, we MADE you? We opened your wide trap and stuck it down there? After the porridge you abhorred and cookie you despised? Well, of course, you poor dear. You’re a regular suffragette, aren’t you?

This is forcefeeding. Or death by cat food.

Now, I don’t make comments on people’s sizes, mainly because I think it’s cheap, and also because I would hate for anyone to say something similar about me. I will say this: She didn’t need another fucking sandwich. She probably also could have done without the second helping of whipped cream she demanded was free because we’d screwed her over so badly. That’s all I’m going to say about that. Honest.

At least Miss Piggy's NICE.

If there’s nothing there you want to eat, don’t eat it. If you don’t like our coffee, don’t drink it. There are multiple other coffee shops, and losing your custom means nothing to us. Actually that’s a lie, it means a lot to us. It means lower blood pressure, a dwindling sense of anxiety, both my eardrums being intact, and having much less of a desire to punch a wall. Especially considering this is all happening twenty minutes from closing time.

So fuck off and have a nice day elsewhere, where they won’t force you to buy and eat things you don’t like as much as other things.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: There are only three reasons we will remember your drink.

1- You’re in so often, and such a victim of routine that we’d have to be brain dead not to.

2- You’re a vile human being who has made our lives such hell that we recognise what drink to serve you in our sleep, when you arrive in our dreams wearing horns and a tail.

3- You’re wonderful.

Just as a horrible interaction with a mean customer can seriously fuck with your day (after being shouted at I will usually get the next six orders wrong in some way) a lovely exchange with a nice customer can keep your sanity intact for a good few hours. Especially if they’re cute

We all have them, our favourite customers. Mostly, they’re based on people we like having a chat with, who make us laugh, say please and thank you, give us a little tidbit about their day that we can talk about. Because otherwise, we have to talk about the weather. And I hate talking about the weather, it’s farcical. And overdone. And boring.

So having a little chat about your plans for the day is nice. Also, when Christmas comes around, and the painfully nice customers have sent us a card, or bought us a box of choccies, we know that we’re appreciated. So you guys become favourites too. We’ve very buyable.

And then there’s the crushes. The ones who we look forward to coming in, because they perk up our day (and always seem so surprised that we remember their drink) and yet we also dread it, because we are SO UNCOOL. It’s also painfully obvious when you’re way nicer to your favourite customer than the one before. Awkward.

I’ll get this straight- we don’t want to date you. I mean, we might, if the situation arose, but then it could go bad, and where would you go for coffee? It would send you hurtling into the ever-waiting arms of the baristas at Bosta, and that’s just not right. No, we’d much rather see your cute face, garble something that’s meant to be conversation but actually just turns out to be words that don’t string together, until you smile through the awkward silence. And then, thank goodness, your coffee is ready, and off you go.

But maybe you made a little joke, or you were wearing a particularly humorous t-shirt that day. And that is enough, in our little coffee monkey lives, to make it through the wilderness that is caffeine provision, and the inevitable abuse that comes with it.

So thank you, coffee crushes, be you young, old, male, female, witty, sullen or so, so stupid. Thanks for stopping by. And have a very nice day!

NOTE: Not quite enough anger for you? Stay tuned for an extra angry update this week!

Then they say:

‘There’s something wrong with this drink.’

‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, what’s wrong with it?’

‘Oh, it’s just a bit... INSERT RANDOM FACIAL EXPRESSION HERE’

Um. Okay. The first time this happened I just opened and closed my mouth a few times before spluttering:

‘Uhhh…um, okay, so what you’re saying is...’

They replied:

‘It’s just a bit…you know…INSERT DIFFERENT RANDOM FACIAL EXPRESSION’

‘Right…so it’s…bad?’

She then adopts a superior attitude and starts baby talking.

‘Ye-es…it’s ba-ad.’

Is the size wrong, Natalie?

Oh, well good to know you’re so comfortable with the mono-syllabic words that you can drag them out, but how about giving me a fucking vowel, here?

‘What’s exactly wrong with the drink, madam? Is it the temperature? The taste? The texture?’

See all these words I’m using? They’re ways of describing things. So if I was to say ‘this woman is really stupid’, stupid would be the adjective. See how this works?

‘It’s the taste!’

Aha, we have hit on SOMETHING. Even if it’s one of the least definitive things ever

‘It tastes a bit…RANDOM FACIAL EXPRESSION’

Too spicy?

Oh sweet lord, have mercy.

‘Would you like me to remake the drink, madam, or would you like a different beverage?’

‘I want something else, something that tastes more...GUMS MOUTH SEVERAL TIMES.’

Something that tastes more like a dog salivating over a sausage? Oh, okay, I’ll see what I can do. Would you maybe like something that tastes like half an eye-roll, three quarters of a smirk and a ding-dong noise? I could work on that for you.

Would you prefer decaf, Mr President?

For the love of baristas everywhere…USE YOUR WORDS. If it doesn’t taste right, then fine, get them to remake it. Or maybe you should have taken Food Tech at school where they made you sit around for hours exploring the use of words like bitter, sweet, savoury, spicy, strong, weak, tangy etc.

On the other end of the scale I had a woman who made that face, and then explained the drink was ‘vile. It’s just vile.’

‘What’s vile about a regular latte, madam? Is it bitter? Too strong? Did you want a sweetener in there?’

‘It’s just VILE, and I NEED you to do something about it.’

Possibly that something is only serving customers who are able to cultivate enough of a vocabulary to properly assess a situation and explain what the problem is without reverting to melodrama. I should just give up and go work with monkeys. I’m sure monkeys could tell me why the coffee was wrong. Without using any words. And I’d probably understand them perfectly.

...or squirrels?

So firstly, I’ll point out that I’m holiday in Australia, and it’s sahweet as, mate. Which means trying to find some irritability to entertain you folks with is becoming increasingly difficult. I’m on holiday! I shouldn’t be angry.

However, because I’m so very committed to you, I’ll go back to my entrance into this find country, and get pissed off about morons in airports instead. I honestly think we do not give airport staff enough credit. Because people are very very dumb. Oh yeah. Like this, for example:

At the customer service desk at Heathrow:

Man: Where do I check in?

Customer Service Person: What flight operator are you with sir?

Man: Unngh, aargh? Where do I check in? (waves ticket in her face)

Customer service person: (with saintly patience) This ticket says AMERICAN AIRLINES, sir. So if you go over to that big sign that says AMERICAN AIRLINES, I’ll think you’ll find what you’re looking for.

Man: Unngh? (looks at own ticket and shrugs) Okay. (walks in opposite direction)

Yeah. So it’s not just coffee bastards. Also, travelling by yourself really makes you irritated at how much stupid shit people talk in the airport. No-one can just friggin wait and see what’s going on. It’s all ‘ooh, I wonder if I’ll have to take my shoes off to go through security. What do you think?’

Erm, I think if you’re capable of waiting thirty fucking seconds, you could probably find that out for yourself instead of asking me things I clearly don’t know.

And then the girls. The groups of girls who spend all their time worrying about if their nailpolish is gonna be under 100mls for airport hand  luggage regulations. And the women with the massive box of makeup who thinks it’s okay to take it on, because, duh, it’s Chanel. There’s not gonna be any poison in that. Yeah. Actually overheard that.

And then the boys on their lads holidays who are so busy getting excited about the booze and the girls that they get halfway down the line before panicking about where they put their passport. And then spend the rest of the queue taking the piss out of each other for it, and shouting inane things like ‘MATE, WE ARE GONNA GET ON IT BRUV.’ Yeah. Maybe what you need to get on is an adult learning course.

The best by far was at Cairns Airport whilst I was waiting for my connection to Sydney. Above the check-in desk is a sign that reads:

Do NOT make jokes about bombs or plane crashes. It is not funny. We will be forced to arrest you.

Wonder how many Aussies made jokes before they had to put that sign up. I do like stuff that tells me what is and isn’t funny. Good guidelines for life.

So, that’s a short and sweet one. Might have more to be irritated about in Sydney if I head to a coffee shop. But it’s a bazillion degrees and I can’t force myself to drink caffeine. Even with the constant hangover. So press the ‘Subscribe’ button and you’ll be the first to hear when I start bitching about LA coffee drinkers!

I’ve had enough of being judged based on my coffee choice. 

I’ve had enough of people drawing conclusions about my personality based on my coffee choice.  For example, in this article from The Age:

THE DECAF SOY MILK DRINKER – A self-righteous eco-worrier and attention seeker with a tendency to be picky, fussy – and squeamish in the bedroom. What’s more, this faux choice implies a pretentious, high-maintenance type who wants what they can’t have and is disguising their true personality. “If caffeine gives palpitations and cow’s milk brings you out in spots there’s little hope for you in the cockroach society that is city dwelling”, James and Moore conclude.

(LOL)

I’ve had enough of that smirk I get every time I order a decaf soy latte.

I’ve had enough of being laughed at, or being asked ‘what’s the point?!?’ when I have a decaf soy latte.

…

So what???  So what if I’m lactose intolerant?!  So what if I’m caffeine sensitive and don’t like to have caffeine after midday?  Am I not human?  Do I not have feelings?!

I feel it is appropriate to borrow and adapt some famous words:

—

Hath not a decaf soy latte drinker eyes? Hath not a decaf soy latte drinker hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt  with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, heal’d by the same means, warm’d and cool’d by the same winter and summer, as a non-decaf soy latte drinker is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, do we not revenge?

— 

Yes, we revenge!!!   Watch out!!!  I am on a rampage! 

Decaf soy latte drinkers unite!  Enough of coffee snobs!  Enough of all snobbery in general!

… 

(Sniffles)

There are many things that, as a barista, I am responsible for; your drink, my attitude, your experience, the constant sense of pointlessness. But things I am not responsible for include: your bladder (it’s not my fault there’s someone in the bathroom) the weather (it’s not my fault you wanted a frappuccino and now it’s too cold) and our opening times.

I have had multiple responses when I say we’re closing. They’re usually indignant, sometimes they’re incredulous. Mostly, they can’t seem to fathom that I and my customers are in fact, human beings with lives. It’s a bit like when you’re a kid, and it’s easier to believe that teachers go into storage and plug in for the night, rather than accept that they have families and aspirations and sex lives. It’s very Cartesian, we only exist when they see us there. We only exist when we’re serving coffee. We don’t have homes to go to, or lives outside the coffee shop.

Example:

Customer: What time do you close?

Me: Five thirty.

Customer: But that’s in five minutes!

Me: Yes, that’s why we told you we’re only doing takeaway cups.

Customer: That’s outrageous, I want to speak to the manager!

Me: Why?

Customer: Because you shouldn’t close at five thirty, I have no-where else to go now!

Firstly, your lack of a life is another one of those things that is not my problem. Secondly, the reason you have nowhere else to go is because every other coffee shop closes at the same time. So go bug them about it.

Another: 

Customer: Why do you open so late on Sundays?

Me: We open at nine am, Sir, and usually no-one even comes in until ten, anyway.

Customer: Well, we were banging on the door for you to open, and you didn’t! We have to work in the MEDIA, we NEED you to be open for us! Plus, it’s really expensive, even with the discount you give us, so you should at least be open on time.

Me:We are open ON TIME, just the time that is dictated to us by our superiors.

Him: Well, I’m going to phone your head office about this!

Firstly, this is a lie. Unless he was banging on the door at seven in the morning before any of the staff were even there, in which case, I must reiterate: Get a life. Get a sense of adventure, invest in a caffetiere. Get a dog or something that can be forced to love you, regardless of what a horrible and simply stuck up media whore type person you are.

Why should we open earlier for you, when you are one person? One little person who occasionally comes in here, moans about the price, abuses the staff and generally treats everyone like they’re below you, just because you’re working on the latest series of Big Brother. Which, by the way, is now on Channel Five. So it’s basically gone to die, as I hope you do.

Other examples of opening time fuckwittery?

Me: Sorry, we’re closing now, I really need you guys to drink up.

Customers: Well, if we leave, you won’t have any customers.

Yes. That’s the point. Fuck off.

Me: Sorry, we close in a few minutes.

Customers: That’s bloody outrageous. Screw you. *storms off*

Okay. Sure. Thanks for that customer input.

Me: Hi guys! Just to let you know, we’re closing in five minutes.

Customer: Well, we’re meeting someone here in twenty minutes.

Me: Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to meet them outside.

Customer: It’s not appropriate to meet people on the street. You can just stay open.

Oh, I’m so glad that forcing a company to stay open just for you is within accepted limits of propriety.

People suck. Here endeth the rant.

Not Coffee Drinkers, but Still Twats

There are certain times when I’m convinced that I’m not actually myself anymore, but have become a very Twisted Barista. I’ll elucidate. I am NOT at work, I am at a FESTIVAL. And yet, still, I seem to attract a very certain type of irritated busy body.

Example:

Entitled mothers who expect me to clean up their shit.

I'm angelic. Honestly.

Her: Do you work here?

Me: Oh, no, I’m just taking part in thi-

Her: Because, I’ve got to tell you, I’m just here for the day, and I hate to have to say this-

Me: I don’t work here.

Her: But you really need to sort out these teenagers. They’re smoking wacky backy over there, and you know, it’s just not right.

Me: I don’t work here.

Her: I mean, I remember what it’s like, I was a teenager once, but it’s near the CHILDREN.  Think of the children! It’s hardly appropriate, is it?

Me: I don’t work here.

Her: You don’t work here?

Me: I don’t work here. I’m just…here. At the moment.

Her: Oh, well, tell somebody in charge, would you? It’s not appropriate.

Do I have some sort of BEACON? Some subwave signal boosted by the stoned festival goers that makes these people approach me? I clearly look like someone who can take the bull by the horns and sort stuff out. Or, I look like someone who cares about your problems. Neither of these is true. Why moan to me about what someone else is doing? Why not moan at them? I actually had to look down to make sure I wasn’t wearing my apron.

I’m sorry Madam, I can’t stop teenagers taking drugs in your vicinity, but I can make you a damn fine latte. One shot or two?

But the main one, the one that had nothing to do with fixing any problems, but mainly made me flash back to my ‘serving entitled busy bodies who talk about complete bollocks’ and genuinely made me question whether I had become the raging creation of my own imagination, known as Twisted Barista, was encountering this twat.

He greeted us, like this:

‘Oh, yah, so, like, hi. Do you smoke the gange?’

Erm, can anyone say ‘Gap Yah’? I believe the Ganges is a river. When did people stop calling it weed? And when did that become an appropriate opening line by a seventeen-year-old?

Seventeen-year-old (who from now on shall be called ‘Mini-Twat’) comes to join us, giving us all of his wisdom, which he feels necessary to impart. There is not one thing this guy said that did not make me insane with rage.

Examples of Mini-Twat’s Twattishness:

• ‘Oh, yah, well you totally just wasted all your time at university. I don’t believe in University. My, like, cousin, went to university and it totally fucked him up, man, like yah. I bet that even without going to university, I’ll be earning more than you in three years.’

• ‘Oh, you write. So, how much money do you make? Not a lot I’ll bet.’

• ‘Creative Writing, what is that exactly, is that a real thing?’

•   ‘I don’t believe in doing a job you don’t enjoy. So I’m going to learn to sail, and then, lol, I’ll be like, sailing a yacht around the Caribbean, and it’ll be like, lots of money, sexy women and sunshine. And booze, yah, like perfect. My Dad hates his job. He’s a stockbroker.’

•  ‘I worked at this modelling agency, do you know it? It’s like, really famous, yah? And I saw Kate Moss. She’s like, so fucking gorgeous, man. She’s like, my biggest fan.’

•  ‘Well, I went to boarding school, so I think it’s stupid to go home, ‘cause then you’ve got chores and stuff.’

•  ‘What kind of music is Asian Dub Foundation? They’ve been making music for 16 years? That’s so fucking old man, they’ll be dead soon. Lols.’

• ’Uh, that’s so gay’

• ’Uh, yeah, you’re a lucky man. Well, the years are being kind to you.’ (Any other phrase that has clearly been said by a fifty year old stock broker and he has copied and applied in the wrong context)

• ’So, the club is the place to go for the wicked dubstep, and like, heavy bass man. Yah, it’s like, totally tight. We’re not here for the folky weird music, we just come for the weed and girls.’

If this is not enough to prove that entitled, super-important-la-di-da-I’m-so-great-arseholes, shall I point out what they were shouting in the middle of the night?

‘I waaannnaaaa shaaaaaag!’ 

(There were many more crude things being said, but whilst I’ll swear and call people names, I’m not so hot on repeating the things emotionally stunted seventeen-year-old boys from boarding school say to each other regarding girls. Let’s just assume that there was a lot of weird shit going on in the dorms.)

So yes, festivals are awesome, people are lovely, and in general, I love being muddy in a field. Especially as I’m not serving coffee. But I am genuinely convinced that perhaps it’s not only the coffee drinking arseholes who seek me out. It’s now ALL of them.

Be afraid, be very, very afraid.

(Next week, we’ll return you to your regularly scheduled coffee-based programming). 

So, there were a variety of rude people I could complain about today, but I’m going to settle for the ones who don’t use their eyes. We very rarely have blind people come into the store, but if they did, I would happily read out every one of our millions of coffee options.

However. Oh yes, however.

If you are clearly capable of tilting your head a few inches upwards and staring at the board that states all of our drinks and prices, and simply choose to ask me the price of every single item, you are a moron. A lazy moron.

Unless you can’t read, in which case, my bad. But it seems unlikely that all these incredibly rich, important business people can’t read. Because they’re usually texting on their phone whilst demanding I work out the price of their beverages.

'Look around you. Look around you. What do you see?'

A few recent favourites:

Customer: I’ll have a frappuccino.

Me: Which one would you like?

Customer: What ones do you do?

Me: Well, if you refer to the board just above my head…

Customer: Why can’t you just tell me?

Me: I am able to tell you, it’s just clearly displayed on the board.

Customer: Well, just tell me, why should I have to read it when you’re here?

…yes, that’s obviously a valid point. What’s that saying, about you don’t use it, you lose it? Are you preparing for old age? Or is it that you’re too vain to wear glasses, and when you squint you get wrinkles? I am not a personal voiceover for your choices in life, my voice is not going to boom in as you stand at a cross roads…basically, I am not your coffee sat nav.

Another one?

Customer Who Clearly Needs Decaf: So-that’ll-be-a-small-semi-dry-latte-two-chocolate-muffins-a-medium-iced-caramel-latte-extra-shot-two-sandwiches-one-panini-which-I’ll-need-you-to-toast-and-a-bag-with-a-cupholder-in-it. How much is that?

Erm, seriously? At times like these I have to look down to check there isn’t a Big ‘S’ emblazoned on my t-shirt. And there isn’t. I may occasionally give off the vibe that I’m entirely competent, that I’m good at my job, but I never seem like a superhero. Trust me, I tried jumping off the cupboard as a kid to check my powers of flight. Superheroes don’t break legs jumping off wooden furniture.

The worst thing is that I’ve clearly been marking cups, putting paninis on to grill, fetching plates and cutlery, passing the drinks onto other baristas…I clearly haven’t put this all in the till. Which means they expect me to do the maths. And honey, that is not gonna happen.

And when I do type it in, you can look at the cash register, which clearly states the cost. Or if you give me thirty seconds, I’ll actually tell you, in a polite and courteous manner befitting a customer who doesn’t expect me to be a fucking psychic-multi-tasking-MENSA member.

And the worst of all these offenders?

The ‘I want that one, nooooo, that one’ people. The Pointers.

Yes, I know it’s a clear glass case full of edible yumminess, but I can’t see what you’re pointing at, because I’m on the other side of what is, essentially, a massive desk. Solid mass. So you pointing (and getting your grimy fingerprints on my lovely clean display case) does not help me. Neither does you getting annoyed when I can’t see what you’re pointing at. You know what you could do, to make the situation easier, instead of saying ‘Why can’t you see what I’m pointing at, no, not that one! NO! THE OTHER ONE!’ 

You could fucking read the label that has been put there for exactly this situation. So even if you say ‘the apple frittery donutty thing’ I will understand. Saying ‘That pastry. That. That. That.’ Not helpful.

Or pointing at the board. ‘That one. That drink.’

‘Small, medium or large?’

*points*

‘That size.’

‘The medium?’

*Points*

‘That one.’

Oh sweet lord. Really? You can’t be bothered to say the word ‘medium’? I know we generally live in a world where communication with strangers is looked upon as the equivalent of a really dodgy disease, but seriously. You want to order something without talking, order take-out online.

And if you’re not going to look at things, then when you do look at the amount of cream I’ve put on, or the pattern of caramel on top, or the particular sporadic scattering of cocoa powder and tell me I’ve got it wrong, I suggest you consider that you’re not only a massive hypocrite, but a pain in the arse.

Receipt Deceit

You can tell a lot about a person by how they respond to being offered a receipt. Some baristas just automatically hand the receipt over without asking, but when I try to do that, I end up standing there for ages in some sort of homage to a stand-off at the OK Corral.

Look down at hand holding receipt.

Look up at customer.

She looks down at hand holding receipt.

She then looks up at me.

Raised eyebrow.

‘Would you like your receipt, madam?’ I ask, making it overtly obvious that the piece of paper I am trying to thrust at you is, in fact, yours to keep. Or not. Just tell me what you want.

‘No. Why on EARTH would I want that?’ Her voice raises and she appears offended as she puts away her purse (Miu Miu) into her bag (Dolce and Gabbana). ‘Do I LOOK like I need to worry about where my money is? Do I?’

Wow. Well I suppose the stick up your arse is decorated with Swarovski crystals, too.

There are a few possible responses to this:

‘No, I don’t suppose you have to worry where your HUSBAND’s money is, you anti-feminist 1950s cliche.’

OR

‘Yes, I do. That’s clearly a fake D and G bag, I saw that in Wembley Market last weekend.’

Instead, I shake the shocked look off my face and replace it with a smile.

‘Of course not madam, I’m very sorry to have insulted you with proof of purchase. I would offer you a paper bag for your purchases, but that might infer you are incapable of holding things. I would also give you a cup holder, but that might suggest your fingertips are overly sensitive and you can’t hold your drink. So I’ll just leave you to get on with your day without providing any of the services I am obliged to provide. In fact, I could just not make your coffee at all, is that preferable?’

Of course, I don’t say this. (It’s rather disturbing just how much time I spend coming up with clever retorts in my head for customers who have already left.)

I smile, I nod, chuckle a little as if she’s making a joke, and screw up the receipt with more force than absolutely necessary. Then I tell her to have a nice day. Because that’s what good coffee monkeys do. Even to entitled people with fake designer handbags. Ooh, I do hope she paid full price for it.

Probably didn’t get a receipt, either.

But now, whenever a real arsehole appears, I feel automatically vindicated. Because he (or she) will feel the might of my pen (keyboard) and will get what’s coming to them.

So here goes…

Mr Wanker Banker 

(Or The Rudest Human I’ve ever Had the Misfortune of Meeting)

So I join the situation to find a man screaming at my colleague. (I’d taken his order a few moments before, before going to restock. He ordered a decaf extra-dry soya cappuccino, I should have known there would be trouble).

He’s yelling because we won’t accept his £20 note. Why won’t we accept it? Because it looks like a dog had a real fun time eating most of it. It’s not even that it’s ripped and taped back up, that would be fair enough. There is more of the note MISSING than there is of it in existence.

He’s insisting that it’s valid, which is, I’m assuming, why he keeps screaming the phrase ‘LEGAL TENDER’ over and over.

He may be right, the metal strip of the note is intact, it’s the only thing that is. However, I, and my fellow baristas, are not risking our necks because he refuses to pay on card.

He then comes out with this charming retort:

‘It’d be accepted in YOUR country.’

My supervisor very calmly turns around and replies ‘Which country is that, Sir?’

He seems to realise that blatant racism isn’t actually a good thing, and backtracks, ‘NO, I mean THIS country, YOURS and MINE! THIS is your country too!’

Well, thanks for that, Hitler, good to know.

And if he wasn’t talking about Britain, it wouldn’t make sense, because, duh, the pound would not be legal tender in Poland.

He then continues to rant on and on, louder and louder as I begin to fear for my blood pressure. Am slightly concerned that if I look into a mirror I will begin to turn into The Hulk.

Then:

‘And I would KNOW about all this, I work for the Bank of England!’

Aaah, THAT’S why you’re a massive wanker! Got it! Okay, I know what I’m dealing with now. Except that’s clearly a massive lie.

‘Well, in that case, Sir, I’m sure they’d be very happy to exchange that note for you.’

That’s why B of E came tumbling down, they’re accepting non-existent banknotes, illuminating! Also, don’t brag about being a banker to a minimum wage coffee monkey, yes, we know you’re a rich twat, but we’d really rather not know you’re a rich twat who may or may not be responsible for the economic state of our country. OUR country.

He’s still rabbiting on, whilst the girl on the till’s eyes are wide in terror, like she’s standing in front of a hurricane. He is shouting in her face so loudly I think I can see her hair being pushed back from the force of it.

I drown him out with my own homicidal thoughts until he ends on this lovely jewel:

‘It IS legal tender, it’s ALWAYS been legal tender, and I know all about it and if you don’t know that then you’re clearly as stupid as you look, and you’re uneducated and need to get an education’

Exit, stage right…where he continues as the poor supervisor slogs away at his drinks. I hope she gave him regular instead of decaf. Not that he needs anymore energy, he has righteous indignation to fuel him.

I take my hat off to you, Sir. So I can use it as a weapon

An education? An education. Right, it’s not like, oh, EVERYONE working here has a degree, or qualifications, or is working on a degree, or a Masters or a PhD. It’s not like any of us have any sense of competency, in ANY area, because of course, we’re foreign coffee monkeys who can just about understands the words ‘decaf soya cappuccino’ if you enunciate…really…slowly…
All I can say is they obviously didn’t EDUCATE bankers that treating other human beings like they are capable of independent thought is a good thing, and that throwing a hissy fit in a public place, over two coffees that cumulatively add up to less than five pounds is not.

Oh, right, it’s the economy, stupid…shall we perhaps reconsider that? It’s the state of the rich and entitled who think we are morons because we are not rich and entitled…stupid.

Here’s hoping that was his last note, and when he goes to the cashpoint, he finds that he’s bankrupt…well, that’s the cost of a decent education.

NOTE: I do not hate all bankers, I hope that’s clear. I only hate the ones who treat me like an uncouth moron, instead of a fellow human being. So if you’re a banker and have taken it personally, please don’t. And whilst I’m telling you not to do stuff, don’t order decaf soya extra-dry cappuccinos either, it’s now a cliche.

Similarly, if you missed our first foray into musical videos about coffee, here’s our first (and favourite) song:

Happy coffee drinking, we’ll be seeing you tomorrow with tales of woe and wickedness

It shows you how long I’ve been working as a barista, as this didn’t even seem like a strange question. 

‘Well,’ I reply cheerily, ‘this is our muffin selection, this one has this, this and this in it. This one has nuts. My personal favourite is this.’

‘What about the lemon muffin?’ The customer points to said muffin.

‘What about it?’

‘Explain it, what’s in it?’

‘Er, lemon.’

I start to suspect this is, in fact, a customer service training exercise, and she’s an undercover market researcher. Except she’s a policewoman. That level of undercover market research may be a little too committed.

‘Yes, but how lemony is it? Is it very lemony?’

What, like you want a percentage? It is 75% lemony, with 15% sugar and 10% ZING.

‘Erm, well yes, for a LEMON MUFFIN, it’s definitely the more lemony choice amongst our pastry options.’

‘Hmm, I’m not sure if I want a lemon muffin that’s very lemony. What about the peach muffin, what does that taste like?’

There is no way to reply that the peach muffin tastes like peach without sounding sarcastic.

‘It…tastes…like…a sweet nectarine-like fruit that’s been blended in with the muffin mixture.’

Okay, that sounds even more sarcastic.

‘So there’s actually pieces of peach in the peach muffin? Does that mean there are pieces of lemon in the lemon muffin? Or is it just lemon flavoured?’

This is where I start clawing at my own face asking for some kind deity to please make it stop.

You know what lemons and coffee have in common? They both make me bitter

You’re the police, shouldn’t you be off fighting crime instead of worrying about exactly how much a muffin tastes like the thing it’s named after?

She thankfully takes the damn lemon muffin after all, and my colleague comes up to me after.

‘Hey, I wanted to ask you a question. You know orange juice…does it taste like oranges? How orange-tasting is it on a scale of one to ten? Because I don’t think I want my orange-tasting juice turned all the way up to eleven.’

On this day, I made the vow, to never eat a lemon muffin again.

And we go about our day. Except that we realise the old man isn’t just sitting nursing his tea as usual. He’s going from table to table collecting other people’s plastic bottles. He occasionally forgets where he’s put them, leaving them on the counter, by the merchandise. So we shrug our shoulders and clear them away.

He comes to the counter, visibly distressed.
‘Have you seen the plastic bottles?’
‘I’m sorry sir?’
‘The plastic bottles, I was collecting them!’
‘Oh, they were on the side so we threw them away, sir.’
‘Well, can you get them out of the bin for me?’

O…kay. Not the way I particularly want to spend a Saturday morning, but he’s watching like a hawk. I manage to save a few, and wonder if he’s trying to build a rocket from Oasis bottles and coke cans to get back to his home planet.

‘Thank you, recycling is very important to me.’ He says, little smile in place, and I kind of forgive him, seeing as he’s doing it for the good of the planet and all.
‘We could recycle it here for you?’ I offer.
‘No, it’s very important that I do it. The world’s going to end you know, it’s important to save all the vital materials people might need from me. The world will go up in flames, and there’ll be panic and chaos, but I’ll be fine,’ he grins, ‘I’ve got bottles.’

He waves them at me, and shuffles off. Since then, whenever he sits in the coffee shop, there’s always an array of plastics that he’s collected and then left somewhere. We clear them away and put them out back, because we know he’ll come looking for them as soon as he remembers.

The box out back is labelled ‘Crazy plastics man’.
Oh well, at least he didn’t ask for soya.

Torturing the environment, you say?

These are mugs, as in 'taken for a mug'. Which is what I am, a lot of the time.

Sometimes, there isn’t a story of just one irritating customer with a personality I want to publicly degrade on the internet.

Sometimes, there’s just a flurry of unending stupidity from anonymous morons who gradually wear me down until I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or cry. Here are some examples for your mocking pleasure.

A Wet Cappuccino interaction, these can never end well:

‘I want a wet cappuccino.’

‘When you say a wet cappuccino, you mean you want only a little bit of foam on top?’

‘No (insert wankerish eye-roll) I don’t want any foam. I want it WET.’

‘So you want a latte?’

‘Yes.’

Do not scream.

And then this:

‘I want a coffee, just a regular coffee, just regular.’

‘Okay, a medium coffee, would you like milk?’

‘Did I SAY I wanted medium? I want regular.’

‘Yeah…regular is medium.’

‘I don’t want medium.’

‘So you want small?’

‘Yes. Small.’

I’m sorry, did my three years studying English suddenly hit me in the face? Regular, is average, ordinary, medium. An ‘in between’ sort of size. Now, yes, our mediums are pretty damn big, but the WORDS ‘medium’ and ‘regular’ are the same. If you want small, order a fucking small.

And then this:

‘I’d like a tall latte.’

‘Is it for here or take-away?’

‘Take-away’

‘Okay, a small latte for take-away.’

‘Tall. I want tall.’

‘Tall is small.’

‘Yes, but you’re meant to say tall. That’s what you all seem to call it, in your language.’

I’m sorry, are we having some sort of tribal interaction? My people want to tell you to stop buying coffee here. In my language that sounds like ‘Thank you so much for your custom today, we have thoroughly enjoyed serving you. Now please walk into oncoming traffic and spill your latte down your Armani suit, you socially imbalanced fuckwit’.

That clear enough, or should I translate it into the language of upperclass businessmen, spell it out in pinstripes, make a collage using fifty-pound-notes? Obviously, going into a coffee shop and saying a different word for ‘small’ counts as an international transaction. I should buy him a thesaurus, it would blow his mind.

For all those of you who have been following CafeDisaster (thank you, your enjoyment of my bitterness makes my meaningless little experience a little easier to bear) you will be pleased to know that a new post will be coming every Monday from now on.

So you know when to tune in for a freshly brewed cup of rage.

I am not going to mock you if you don’t know about coffee. I am, however, going to mock you if you lead me to believe you don’t know about coffee, and then decide to blow my brains out with specifics.

Today’s example includes another visit to The Caramel Macchiato, where a woman wanted to know what one was. I explained it was rather sweet.

‘Sweeter than a caramel latte?’ she asks.

A reasonable question. It’s all subjective, but I would say yes, mostly because I find caramel macs to be disgusting, and more annoying to make.

‘Okay, I think I’ll just have my old boring drink then,’ she shrugs and smiles, and we think, ah, someone who drinks a latte, that’s just fine. We won’t judge you for a latte. Lattes are easy to make. They’re quick. We appreciate lattes and those who order them.

‘I guess I’ll just have a double-tall decaf soya latte, semi-dry.’

FIEND! VILE BETRAYER! You tricked me into believing you were one of the normal ones because you didn’t know about a complex drink. Then you order something twice as complex.

There are rules! You’re either the average coffee drinker, or you’re a coffee snob. Occasionally, there’s a middle ground, where you’re an obsessive compulsive, (or, as you consider it, ‘I just like things the way I like them’). Occasionally, there’s the ‘Well, I’m paying for a service, I should get exactly what I want.’ For these arseholes, see previous posts concerning the entitled masses.

Oh, but they come in all guises, these coffee snobs. I think they’re actually just people addicted to polysyllabic sentences. They’re poets, not coffee drinkers.

A woman today, a lovely woman who was polite and friendly, floored me by asking for a cappuccino. Not just a cappuccino, oh no. A cappuccino ‘somewhere in between semi-dry and normal’.

I’m not going to return again to the fact that semi-dry is a MADE UP term. Not by the company, or coffee people in general, but by people who want to be a pain in my arse. BETWEEN a non-existent middle-ground of foaminess, and NORMAL? We don’t have a moving scale of foam to milk ratio. We make cappuccinos the way we’re taught, and we pour them so that the foamed milk looks damn pretty. Occasionally, we can hold back some milk, or put some extra froth on. But we do NOT have some sort of measuring system for an imaginary descriptor.

What you’re basically saying is ‘I like my coffee at a foam-to-milk ratio that is completely indescribable to anyone else, so I’m going to say this, and you can take a guess, like trying not to offend someone when the only words you know in their language are swearwords.’ Needle in a fucking haystack. Bullseye on the other side of the freaking ocean. Take a guess honey, have a go. But if you get it wrong, you’re getting the firing squad, obviously.

Don't treat me like a mug

It’s a Sunday evening, and I’m eight hours into a ten-hour shift. I am not the perkiest of bunnies. Sunday afternoons are for James Bond films, and watching Come Dine with me, eating roast dinners, drinking half a bottle of wine and falling asleep at nine o’clock. That is a Sunday evening.

And then they come in. A loud, loud LOUD family, standing at the counter, all talking over each other. The mother speaks quickly and loudly in a different language, gesturing wildly at the drinks menu. The husband replies in English, arguing with what she’s chosen. The older girl is the only one who looks directly at me, demanding a hot chocolate.

‘I want a hot chocolate, HOT CHOCOLATE. DADDY, CAN I HAVE HOT CHOCOLATE? BUT I WANT IT! WITH CREAM! YES! MEDIUM SIZED. MY HOT CHOCOLATE!’

The younger girl is busy sticking anything within reach into her mouth, whether it’s an empty cup or a yoghurt pot.

The mother is still wailing, the father looks flustered and the girl is getting angry because I’m waiting for her parents to confirm the heart-attack-in-a-cup that she demands.

Eventually, after much humming and hawing, and a multitude of mind-changes, with not one apology or a penny in the tip box, they pay for their drinks. They then wander off, expecting me to bring the drinks over.

Except the girl, who is watching me with an eagle eye, saying ‘IS THAT MY HOT CHOCOLATE? I WANT HOT CHOCOLATE! IS THAT MINE? IS IT? I WANT CREAM!’

Kill. Me. Now.

I’m making four other drinks, the dreaded hot chocolate WITH CREAM, and then the mother returns.

‘I want some water.’

I get it. She returns.

‘I want two plastic cups.’

I get them, whilst making her drinks, and handing the demon-child her chocolate.

‘Do you have a microwave?’

‘No, madam, sorry.’

‘Can you heat this?’ She holds up a massive box of food.

‘No, I’m afraid we can’t.’

‘Well, can’t you place it in hot water to warm it up?’

‘I could, madam, if you hadn’t brought in the biggest tupperware box in the history of the universe. Madam.’

She makes four more requests, complains about how long it’s taken me to make the drink, the demon child returns for four refills of cream, decides to touch every piece of merchandise, ask the price of every piece of merchandise, and rearrange every piece of merchandise in store. They sit there for four hours, being loud, not buying anything else, and when I go to clean, when they finally leave, the floor is littered with food, shredded napkins and broken crayons.

The next person who asks for whipped cream gets it sprayed directly on their face.

Just another Sunday evening.

This is usually what I'm thinking when customers approach

Some explosive situations can arise from coffee consumption...

Twisted Barista’s Guide to Being a Good Barista

(It’s only fair. And I’m aware that I do not/can not do all these things)

1. Have superhuman hearing and be able to do two (or more) things at once.
2. Leave your ego at the door. Or preferably at home, or on the bus or something.
3. Have absolutely no life. Be spontaneous, because your shifts are sorted a week and a half before, and there is no changing, mate.
4. Be very willing to ask perfect strangers how their Christmas was, and act generally as if you are acquaintances, even if you have no idea who they are.
5. Don’t pick favourites (even though you totally pick favourites) because then that guy who always pisses you off will see that your smile is sincere to the guy in front.
6. Don’t ever blame another barista or a piece of machinery. Just apologise profusely until the customer says ‘Jesus, it really wasn’t that big a deal, okay?’
7. Have the ability to listen to a customer, type into the till, relay an order to a colleague, wash the milk jugs, turn off the beeping, refill the milk, change the coffee grounds, restock the soya and get that panini before it burns. At the same time. Whilst apologising to the customer for multitasking.
8. Make people feel good. And like you’re not prying when you ask them about how they are. Possibly flirt, if you’re good at this. (I can’t even do this when I’m not trying to please people who are paying me…I mean as a barista. I am not a call girl on the side. If you want that blog, please find Belle Du Jour)
9. When you massively, massively HATE a customer…they have absolutely no idea.
10. Get along with your fellow baristas, because they will make your life easier. You will depend on them to cover for you when you’re ill, help you hide the hangovers, and defend you when a customer decides you’re an arsehole.

And (lucky) 11. Never lose it, never answer back. Just take as much shit as you can bear. Because they may not complain now. But if they send in a complaint, as English people love to do, by letter, or carrier pigeon, then your ass is grass. So keep the anger in, make yourself ill. Or possibly, create a blog and let it out over the interweb to keep sane.

Just sayin’.

Bunnies are smart- they don't drink caffeine

Twisted Barista’s Guide to being a Decent Customer/Human Being.

• Say ‘hello’ back. It’s just basic courtesy.

• Do NOT rattle out your massive list of drink orders without warning me that there will be fourteen drinks, or before I’ve even uncapped my pen. Just because you’ve been rehearsing how to order your drink on the way up to the counter does not mean I have super-human speedy hearing.

• Speak UP, damn it. It’s a loud place, with the machines whirring, the customers chatting, the staff shouting orders to each other. You speaking in mouse impersonations and then getting tetchy with me, is not right.

• Don’t order your drink, and when I pass on the order to the barista making the coffee, say ‘Yes, I just told you that, can you not hear correctly?’

• Don’t, when I turn to pass the drinks order the barista making the coffee, put your money down on the counter, and then when I tell you the price, nod your head with a satisfied grin, and a roll of the eyes. So when I look down and see a ten pound note on the counter, I somehow look like an idiot. Because then you look like someone who can’t bear to almost touch hands with someone who works a minimum wage job, you snob.

• Don’t try and trick me into giving you free stuff just because someone else has done it before. Funnily enough, we’re not all the same person. If my manager gave you free whip cream once, well whoopdydoo. Not happening here, mate.

• Don’t get all shirty with me because you’re ordering in a different language. That’s not my fault.

• Say ‘thank you’ when receiving a drink, or ‘you too’ when someone says ‘have a nice day’. Again, we’re in England. This is what we’re known for, as well as having sticks up our backsides, and conquering stuff.

• When I say ‘Hello’ or ask for your order, do not step back in shock and say ‘Wow, your English is really good, where are you from?’ Because my answer will always be ‘North London’. And do not respond with ‘Then why are you working here?’

• Don’t cut in line, or shout at me when someone cuts in front of you and I don’t notice. I’m a server, not a babysitter. I am, equally, not your: Mother, Girlfriend, Financial Advisor, Tour Guide, Map Reader, Wingman, Best Friend, or Translator. I operate a magical device that when you type the special buttons, a drawer pops open so I can take your money, and give you some back. Then I talk to another person (who is also none of the above) who presses some buttons and makes some milk hot, so we can give you a beverage. And for the most part, we do this with a smile.

• (An extra special one, because it’s too ridiculous to be left out) Don’t complain to ME about the price of the coffee. You think I have a say in it? I don’t even buy drinks here. I do, indeed think it’s nuts to pay £2.30 for a small drink. Can I do anything about it? No. If I could, I’d probably lower the prices and increase my wages. Which is why I’m not in business.

Now, if I could only get them to paste these rules on the front door, I think we’d all have a much more pleasant coffee experience, don’t you?

(Also, for anyone who’s getting a bit tired of me moaning about other people’s behaviour, a list of how to be a good barista -or how not to be a bad one- is forthcoming. Can’t say I’m not a fair and balanced judge….Okay, you totally can, but I’m trying, aren’t I?)

It all started with soy milk.
Too much of my day revolves around soy milk, to be perfectly honest, and whilst I am sympathetic to those of a lactose-intolerant nature, I am fucking tired of those lactose-ambivalent types. Soya is not cool. It is not a fashion statement. It is fake milk, made from beans. And it is extra annoying to steam, and smells pretty damn bad. It’s only advantage is that if you buy it whilst living in a student house, you can guarantee it will still be in the fridge by the end of the day, even when you live with rampant tea-drinkers.
So, as you can tell, I have pretty certain feelings about milk substitutes.

The man ambles up to the counter, old and knarled like a house elf, or one of those trees that come to life from Lord of the Rings. His sour expression made him look more ugly, his skin like leather. I smiled my brightest, coffee-monkey smile, and asked how he was.

‘Do you charge for Soya?’ American. Southern drawl. A bit like when Bill Hicks did impersonations of people he thought were stupid.
‘Yes, Sir, I’m afraid we do, but it’s only thirty pence.’ I smile apologetically. Yes, it’s free if you have a loyalty card, but I’m not even going there. This guy scares me.
‘Well! Fuck y’all!’
His hobbling exit rather detracts from his statement, but I’m shocked all the same. Laugh it off, move on.

Except that he comes back two days later.

‘Do you charge for soya milk?’ he wrinkles his face in anticipation of the answer.
However many times you ask me, I am not going to change the answer.
‘I’m afraid we do, Sir.’ I don’t even bother smiling this time, waste of fake-cheeriness.
‘Even for an Americano?’
I pause, because this would mean just a splash of soya, and surely even a money-grabbing corporation like mine would charge for a splash?
‘I’ll just check for you,’ and I look down the queue of people to my Manager, who is restocking, ‘do we?’
‘Not Americanos.’ She shakes her head, raising an eyebrow at the customer for my benefit.
‘Would you like one then Sir?’
Then, he growls at me. ‘Yes. You know, you people are just ridiculous, money-grabbing fascists. You’re like those economists in history textbooks, you’re after everything you can get…trying to take my money, take my savings…’
I don’t even know what to say to this. So I say nothing. I have had experience with paranoid old people before, but like hell is this in my job description. Well, the abolishment of self-esteem and general confidence battering, yes. But crazy old people? No.
I hold my hand out for his pitiful twenty-pence pieces, which he throws onto the counter and shuffles off. Grumble grumble. Deep breath, and….smile. Next customer.
I am tempted to call over to the girl on the coffee machine, and tell her to put normal milk in. I could pray that he’s lactose intolerant, instead of barista-intolerant. Instead I just get on with serving the next customer, who seems to be trying to be extra agreeable to make up for the grouchy house elf who preceded her.
And then he comes back, cup grasped in gnarled hand. He looks at me, walks straight up to my manager, and says ‘Thank God you were here. She would have stolen my money.’
Sadly, I do let the smile slip and say ‘I checked it for you SIR.’
I will always regret that moment, because what I should have said was ‘Yes, that extra thirty pence goes straight into my pocket. In fact, I could have paid my rent for the month with my stealing ways. That’s actually how I get by here. They don’t pay me, I abuse those with dairy issues.’

On second thoughts, that would have been stupid too. Still, I blame Soya.

‘You can always call me, you know,’ he said, offhand. I was new there, maybe he was a local engineer or something.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, whenever you feel like you’re having a breakdown, feel free to call me!’

Ah, one of those jokes that you don’t get until you suddenly do get it. And then feel like an idiot.

I laughed, and gave him his drink.

The next day he came back again, asked how I was doing.

‘No mental breakdowns today!’ I proclaimed cheerfully. He did not remember our previous conversation.

‘Are you an enemy to yourself?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Have you ever had a mental breakdown?’

‘No?’

‘Do you feel constantly depressed?’ he asked again.

‘Only because of working here!’ I laugh and quickly hand off the drink.

Since then, he’s put me on edge. I don’t doubt he’s a nice guy. But he freaks me out.

Today, he beats his own record.

‘There’s a hair here, is this yours?’ he says at the ordering point.

‘Oh goodness, I hope not! I don’t think so,’ I say, going to move the hair.

‘You know, you really shouldn’t leave these things around,’ he smiles, ‘anyone could get hold of your hair, and then they could do voodoo, or tie it round things and control you, make you do things, you should be careful.’

Oh. My. God.

I move the hair, and throw it away, giggling nervously.

‘Thank you for that advice. There really are some weirdos in the world,’ I smile.

‘Yes, there are.’ He doesn’t move, just stands there, until the barista at the bar calls out his drink.

‘Have a great day!’ I chirp, and he slowly moves away.

I suddenly miss my snobby triple shot decaf-soya-semi-dry-latte customers. They probably think Voodoo is a designer range at Selfridges.

‘Do you know what a Redeye is?’

The first time I furrowed my brow. Now I just nod like I’m part of the society. This is the world of the ‘serious’ coffee drinker. None of this half-shot decaf bullshit. That’s not coffee.

This is coffee. A large cup of strong filter coffee, black, with a shot of espresso.

I falter, wanting to be sure.

‘Is it one shot of espresso or two?’ Why the hell am I whispering? Are the coffee lords on high not allowed to know about this revolution, this junkie’s delight, the answer for the caffeine freaks with stressful jobs but morals. Need a lift, but refuse to do coke? Choose a RedEye!

‘It’s one,’ he smiles, like the idea of another shot would just be madness. I’m not a junkie, not a junkie, not a junkie.

I smile and hand over the change, like some secret handshake, a deal has been made. We know what real coffee is, not like you poseurs.

‘Two shots is a BlackEye,’ he whispers as he leaves, and I can’t tell if he’s joking.

But hey, a strong filter coffee and two shots of espresso? That is the equivalent of a punch in the face, isn’t it?