Coffee used to be an adult thing, you had to be a certain age before could go into a coffee house and order. Until then, you had to go to a Perkins and get their sorry excuse for coffee. But, more frequently I see these young kids, who never tip, come in and spend hours and hours in the confines of the store. They are loud, obnoxious and overly mean to each other. If they are in a disagreement they are sure to make the whole store aware of it. Sometimes they are there all night, and I find myself wondering, “Don’t these kids have homes? Don’t their parents want to eat dinner with them?” Resoundingly, the answer appears to be no, and if they were my kids I wouldn’t want them around either. The coffee shop is usually filled with two types of people, older couples just having a cup of Earl Grey or college kids trying to study. Conversations with other patrons leads me to believe that not only are these kids spoiling my work day, but the entire coffee shop environment. Caught at a weird age, when one has a foot in childhood and another in adulthood, behavior becomes erratic. Not only do these little shits annoy everyone, they work hard to befriend the employees in an effort to get free things? I honestly was in shock the day one asked for a free drink and I had to explain to him that someone has to pay for this drink, and he ended up with a nice glass of crystal clear water, complete with a lemon. As Confucious said… “There is no free lunch”
While working, I usually consume vast amounts of coffee. Cup after cup I suck down the brown liquid, and once I am done, I walk back to my place and quickly follow all my caffeine binge up with a lengthy nap. I suppose my caffeine junkiness has caused me to be immune to its effects. Now I just need it to feel normal. I see the same trait in myself, as I see in countless others who pass through my place of work.
Fiends, junkies, addicts…They all come together at the coffee shop. People anxiously, or sometimes way too happy approach the register and slip me some cash, and say “Triple espresso con pana” and then quickly they find a place to sit and fidget to no end while you craft their beverage. The average coffee addict is a litter bug by nature. A guy comes in and has some sort of homework with him, he sets up his laptop and lays out his books at one of the booths. He then reaches into the pocket of his jeans, and pulls out some change. Pennies fly loose as he quickly removes his hand, he hand me a neat stack of quarters. “Small dark roast, please?” His eyes are stuck into his darkened sockets, his blonde hair still suffering from weeks of not combing and his shirt buttons don’t match up. I had him the cup of coffee and he twitters away. He isn’t content in just creating a neat pile of trash and disposing it by themselves. The table resembles a disaster area after they have left the premises. One can see the signs that a coffee addict was there, by the inability to get all the sugar in the cup, as one can see how they missed the cup, frequently, by the amount of sugar on the table. More than not, there are often shredded pieces of napkin spread everywhere, and broken stir sticks, or straw wrappers ripped apart. Never is any of this mess picked up or orchestrated in a way that would make it easy to clean up. The mess is spread all across the table, and coffee is spilt everywhere because they were jittering so much just to bring the cup to their lips.
These people, flawed as they may be, are my livelihood. The rewards are there, you just have to wait from them, amongst the weird behavior and non-tippers. Look past the demanding nature and extravagant orders. The benefits do come and when they come they make you feel like an artist of sorts. A master of the espresso machine, who composes beautiful orchestras of milk, sugar, and coffee. It will occur on some particularly frustrating day after a long rush. Some guy will come up and get your attention and just as you expect him to ask for a glass of water, he’ll say “Hey, that Espresso con pana you made me the other day, was so damn good.” What can I say to that? I usually give him a small nod, and just say “Thanks”
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Culture of Coffee
This is the first of a two part blog. The second part should be up later this week. Thanks for reading feel free to leave comments.
Americans are real ball busters, man. They throw fits when they can’t get what they want. They claim to be the most giving nation on the planet, but getting one of them to actually tip someone is like pulling teeth. I’ve never seen a group of people take so much pleasure in treating people in the food service so shabbily. Working at a coffee house one can see arrogance at it’s worst. Not all patrons are arrogant, some are quite hip. But it only takes a few bad apples to spoil the bunch. The arrogance of these people come in many forms.
Most people, unless they have worked in a coffee shop, have no clue about how to make good espresso. Other than taste, the procedure for pulling good shots is far from the minds of most. People who know how to pour good shots themselves, instantly become the boss when they enter any coffee shop. Since they can watch what I do as I pack and pour shots, they will do so, and very closely. They listen to every word I say to my co-workers, they watch my every move. Most of the time, its some pseudo-posh couple at the end of a long line, striking a pose every time they move forward in line. Usually, you can spot these people a mile away, both dressed all in black, and have some sort of pretentious set of thick rimmed eyeglasses, that weren’t prescribed. The lady usually has really long black hair and the guy, not to be out done, has black hair with enough gel in it that he probably can go without a helmet for any extreme sport. More than likely, they will be ordering just straight espresso. Its one of those drinks that says, “Hey, I’m chic and don’t need steamed milk in my espresso! Normal brewed coffee is for the weak! I’m tough and fashionable!” Really, I think they just like the little cup it comes in.
So they watch you make several drinks, every time interrupting what I am doing, saying, “That’s not how you make a Macchiato.” I turn and have to explain that I am working on another order, but his should be up, and tailored to their exact specifications. Being analyzed under a microscope while working is no fun. Especially if one is just working with the knowledge they are given. My boss isn’t even as strict as some of these people that come in. “Yes, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help but notice that you used 29 lbs PSI when you packed the shot. You’re suppose to use 30, right?” Then they have to look at the person they are with, “It’s thirty, right? I’m pretty sure it’s thirty! Go ahead and try it again using thirty.” His friend and I are dumbfounded as to the demanding pretentiousness of the person in question. Some people aren’t arrogant, they’ve just been inundated with the snobbiness that is known as “The Starbucks.”
If you go to Starbucks and order a Macchiato, you will get something dramatically different from what a true macchiato is. What you receive is a large amount of sugary caffeinated fluid. Which is quite different from the traditional beverage. A macchiato is composed of just espresso and a tiny amount of foam from steamed milk. That’s it. People who frequent at Starbucks, do not know this. Often some bleach blonde, orange skinned, twenty-something girl comes in, creating the illusion she just went to the gym by wearing a wife beater and mesh pink short-shorts. Gaudy huge white sunglasses decorated with stick-on rhinestones cover her face. She has an oversized purse under one arm, which her little Chihuahua dwells in. She’s obnoxiously talking on the phone about the latest celebrity gossip or the last episode “The Hills” she happened to catch. She tells who ever she’s talking to on the phone, to hold on, and then she gives the menu a long squinty stare, and says “Can I get a macchiato?” Before I can ask her to specify she reaches into her purse, pushes the little dog out of the way grabbing her credit card and thrusts into my hand. The look of shock and wonder is great as they look at the tiny drink that they unknowingly ordered. Even better is the reaction of their first taste.
Frappucino, what the hell is that? People order them all the time, and I always have to say that we don’t have them. I don’t even know what they are. I just know they aren’t on the menu. Aren’t they the ones that come in the bottle at the gas station? There’s always a guy who’s morbidly obese and smells as if he hasn’t showered since the Clinton years, wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt that says “100% Stud”. He comes up to the till and takes a wadded up five out his pocket and throws it at the counter, “Twenty ounce frappucino”, I have him explain what that is, never getting a real answer, I’ve come to the conclusion that its an iced latte with whatever flavoring I feel like putting in there. That’s what I give people and rarely anyone complains, at least not to me. Starbucks has infiltrated every level of our society. You can buy Starbucks coffee without even being in a Starbucks. They have been dispersed everywhere. They create these abominations of pure sugar. Monstrosities that take traditional terms and twist them into sick, disgusting and freakish drinks. But when one isn’t asking you to be Dr. Frankenstein, another one needs you wait hand and foot on them.
A customer named Wilbur came in to the shop quite frequently. Wilbur was always very talkative and needy, but he tipped well and was friendly. It wasn’t until later that his weird quirks and demanding behavior earned him the privilege of being the first person banned permanently from the place. It started out with him needing three beverages, which isn’t weird in itself, but if I had to say a place where it started, that would be it. A glass of water, a cherry slush, and a half a glass of skim milk with ice. None of these beverages would be finished by the time he was ready to leave, but unlike other customers he wanted all these beverages to go. He would walk up with his gray hair slicked over, and head slightly cocked to the side, dragging his left leg, he’d raise an eye brow and point back to his glasses, “Can I get those to go?”, and I had to pour them into individual to-go glasses and give him a drink carrier. I often imagined Wilbur’s fridge filled with half plastic to-go cups from the shop. A plethora of watery skim milks, water, and melted slushies.
Things took a turn for the worse, when he started requesting certain things that we just could not provide. He didn’t want us to put basil in the Tomato Basil soup, as he had acid reflux and it gave him indigestion. He didn’t like the chips cause they were too crunchy and he didn’t like pickles. He often suggested that we get alternatives, “Because people like choices” as he put it. When the alternatives didn‘t arrive, he brought in his own chips and pickles too serve to him when he came in. I think the irony was lost on him, how he was in a sense paying for the chips and pickles twice. Wilbur eventually became angry when he found things he didn’t like at the coffee shop. A list had formulated in his head, and goddamn it, the staff was going to know about it. It all started one day, while an employee he didn’t recognize was working. “I don’t know you! I want Shauna to take my order!” Shauna kindly took his order, while Joel, dumbfounded, went to find other tasks. It was too early to make food, so options are limited to pastries and granola. Wilbur orders granola. Within a matter of minutes, he storms to the back of the café, knocks on the employee door, and motions for Shauna to come to the door. Shauna responds by saying,
“What’s up, Wilbur?”
Wilbur responds, “There’s cinnamon in the granola!”
Shauna, not seeing this as a problem, responds “Yeah, there is! Isn’t that great?”
“No!” Wilbur angrily says “You should tell people there is cinnamon in it! There wasn’t cinnamon in it before!”
There has always been cinnamon in the granola. The recipe has never changed. That’s the way it is. Wilbur waved his fist to some customers and calmed down, and left. That’s the way it went for a while. On and off, you either got happy Wilbur, or angry Wilbur. This was all depending if he was on his medication. Sometimes the guy would come in with a friend and yell at them the entire time.
But after this mounting pressure, the guy got to be too much. He was his normal self, kind of cranky, but not angry. He ordered his normal half a grilled cheese, special chips, special pickle, skim iced milk, water, and cherry slush. Something must have been really bothering his old gut that day. It took him four hours to finish just half of a half a grilled cheese. I waited on him the day before and it took him forever to finish half a lime slush. And he kept on wanting half another one, which became a big pain in the ass, because he kept bringing it up and wanting me to add more, and ringing it up as a special order…just for him.
But on this particular day, Wilbur had enough. He flagged Joel over and pointed to the couches, “Those kids have been here for an hour,” pointing to a group of high schoolers conversing over drinks, “They haven’t bought anything for an hour! You should kick them out!” This is coming from the guy who has taken a nap in his four hour attempt to eat half of a grilled cheese. Joel calmly states “Wilbur, its okay. They are fine”
“Isn’t this a restaurant?! I thought this was a restaurant?!”
“Wilbur, let it go. If they become a problem, I’ll take care of it.”
Wilbur takes matters into his own hands, yells at the group of kids, particularly one girl, who had accidentally taken his newspaper while he was in the bathroom. Then motions at other customers by waving his fist at them. The cops are called, Wilbur was asked to no longer return. However, he was allowed to take his fourth a grilled cheese. Even though he had been sitting with it for four hours. I’m surprised he wanted it so badly. Wilbur was on to something though, since when do high school kids hang out in coffee shops?
Americans are real ball busters, man. They throw fits when they can’t get what they want. They claim to be the most giving nation on the planet, but getting one of them to actually tip someone is like pulling teeth. I’ve never seen a group of people take so much pleasure in treating people in the food service so shabbily. Working at a coffee house one can see arrogance at it’s worst. Not all patrons are arrogant, some are quite hip. But it only takes a few bad apples to spoil the bunch. The arrogance of these people come in many forms.
Most people, unless they have worked in a coffee shop, have no clue about how to make good espresso. Other than taste, the procedure for pulling good shots is far from the minds of most. People who know how to pour good shots themselves, instantly become the boss when they enter any coffee shop. Since they can watch what I do as I pack and pour shots, they will do so, and very closely. They listen to every word I say to my co-workers, they watch my every move. Most of the time, its some pseudo-posh couple at the end of a long line, striking a pose every time they move forward in line. Usually, you can spot these people a mile away, both dressed all in black, and have some sort of pretentious set of thick rimmed eyeglasses, that weren’t prescribed. The lady usually has really long black hair and the guy, not to be out done, has black hair with enough gel in it that he probably can go without a helmet for any extreme sport. More than likely, they will be ordering just straight espresso. Its one of those drinks that says, “Hey, I’m chic and don’t need steamed milk in my espresso! Normal brewed coffee is for the weak! I’m tough and fashionable!” Really, I think they just like the little cup it comes in.
So they watch you make several drinks, every time interrupting what I am doing, saying, “That’s not how you make a Macchiato.” I turn and have to explain that I am working on another order, but his should be up, and tailored to their exact specifications. Being analyzed under a microscope while working is no fun. Especially if one is just working with the knowledge they are given. My boss isn’t even as strict as some of these people that come in. “Yes, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help but notice that you used 29 lbs PSI when you packed the shot. You’re suppose to use 30, right?” Then they have to look at the person they are with, “It’s thirty, right? I’m pretty sure it’s thirty! Go ahead and try it again using thirty.” His friend and I are dumbfounded as to the demanding pretentiousness of the person in question. Some people aren’t arrogant, they’ve just been inundated with the snobbiness that is known as “The Starbucks.”
If you go to Starbucks and order a Macchiato, you will get something dramatically different from what a true macchiato is. What you receive is a large amount of sugary caffeinated fluid. Which is quite different from the traditional beverage. A macchiato is composed of just espresso and a tiny amount of foam from steamed milk. That’s it. People who frequent at Starbucks, do not know this. Often some bleach blonde, orange skinned, twenty-something girl comes in, creating the illusion she just went to the gym by wearing a wife beater and mesh pink short-shorts. Gaudy huge white sunglasses decorated with stick-on rhinestones cover her face. She has an oversized purse under one arm, which her little Chihuahua dwells in. She’s obnoxiously talking on the phone about the latest celebrity gossip or the last episode “The Hills” she happened to catch. She tells who ever she’s talking to on the phone, to hold on, and then she gives the menu a long squinty stare, and says “Can I get a macchiato?” Before I can ask her to specify she reaches into her purse, pushes the little dog out of the way grabbing her credit card and thrusts into my hand. The look of shock and wonder is great as they look at the tiny drink that they unknowingly ordered. Even better is the reaction of their first taste.
Frappucino, what the hell is that? People order them all the time, and I always have to say that we don’t have them. I don’t even know what they are. I just know they aren’t on the menu. Aren’t they the ones that come in the bottle at the gas station? There’s always a guy who’s morbidly obese and smells as if he hasn’t showered since the Clinton years, wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt that says “100% Stud”. He comes up to the till and takes a wadded up five out his pocket and throws it at the counter, “Twenty ounce frappucino”, I have him explain what that is, never getting a real answer, I’ve come to the conclusion that its an iced latte with whatever flavoring I feel like putting in there. That’s what I give people and rarely anyone complains, at least not to me. Starbucks has infiltrated every level of our society. You can buy Starbucks coffee without even being in a Starbucks. They have been dispersed everywhere. They create these abominations of pure sugar. Monstrosities that take traditional terms and twist them into sick, disgusting and freakish drinks. But when one isn’t asking you to be Dr. Frankenstein, another one needs you wait hand and foot on them.
A customer named Wilbur came in to the shop quite frequently. Wilbur was always very talkative and needy, but he tipped well and was friendly. It wasn’t until later that his weird quirks and demanding behavior earned him the privilege of being the first person banned permanently from the place. It started out with him needing three beverages, which isn’t weird in itself, but if I had to say a place where it started, that would be it. A glass of water, a cherry slush, and a half a glass of skim milk with ice. None of these beverages would be finished by the time he was ready to leave, but unlike other customers he wanted all these beverages to go. He would walk up with his gray hair slicked over, and head slightly cocked to the side, dragging his left leg, he’d raise an eye brow and point back to his glasses, “Can I get those to go?”, and I had to pour them into individual to-go glasses and give him a drink carrier. I often imagined Wilbur’s fridge filled with half plastic to-go cups from the shop. A plethora of watery skim milks, water, and melted slushies.
Things took a turn for the worse, when he started requesting certain things that we just could not provide. He didn’t want us to put basil in the Tomato Basil soup, as he had acid reflux and it gave him indigestion. He didn’t like the chips cause they were too crunchy and he didn’t like pickles. He often suggested that we get alternatives, “Because people like choices” as he put it. When the alternatives didn‘t arrive, he brought in his own chips and pickles too serve to him when he came in. I think the irony was lost on him, how he was in a sense paying for the chips and pickles twice. Wilbur eventually became angry when he found things he didn’t like at the coffee shop. A list had formulated in his head, and goddamn it, the staff was going to know about it. It all started one day, while an employee he didn’t recognize was working. “I don’t know you! I want Shauna to take my order!” Shauna kindly took his order, while Joel, dumbfounded, went to find other tasks. It was too early to make food, so options are limited to pastries and granola. Wilbur orders granola. Within a matter of minutes, he storms to the back of the café, knocks on the employee door, and motions for Shauna to come to the door. Shauna responds by saying,
“What’s up, Wilbur?”
Wilbur responds, “There’s cinnamon in the granola!”
Shauna, not seeing this as a problem, responds “Yeah, there is! Isn’t that great?”
“No!” Wilbur angrily says “You should tell people there is cinnamon in it! There wasn’t cinnamon in it before!”
There has always been cinnamon in the granola. The recipe has never changed. That’s the way it is. Wilbur waved his fist to some customers and calmed down, and left. That’s the way it went for a while. On and off, you either got happy Wilbur, or angry Wilbur. This was all depending if he was on his medication. Sometimes the guy would come in with a friend and yell at them the entire time.
But after this mounting pressure, the guy got to be too much. He was his normal self, kind of cranky, but not angry. He ordered his normal half a grilled cheese, special chips, special pickle, skim iced milk, water, and cherry slush. Something must have been really bothering his old gut that day. It took him four hours to finish just half of a half a grilled cheese. I waited on him the day before and it took him forever to finish half a lime slush. And he kept on wanting half another one, which became a big pain in the ass, because he kept bringing it up and wanting me to add more, and ringing it up as a special order…just for him.
But on this particular day, Wilbur had enough. He flagged Joel over and pointed to the couches, “Those kids have been here for an hour,” pointing to a group of high schoolers conversing over drinks, “They haven’t bought anything for an hour! You should kick them out!” This is coming from the guy who has taken a nap in his four hour attempt to eat half of a grilled cheese. Joel calmly states “Wilbur, its okay. They are fine”
“Isn’t this a restaurant?! I thought this was a restaurant?!”
“Wilbur, let it go. If they become a problem, I’ll take care of it.”
Wilbur takes matters into his own hands, yells at the group of kids, particularly one girl, who had accidentally taken his newspaper while he was in the bathroom. Then motions at other customers by waving his fist at them. The cops are called, Wilbur was asked to no longer return. However, he was allowed to take his fourth a grilled cheese. Even though he had been sitting with it for four hours. I’m surprised he wanted it so badly. Wilbur was on to something though, since when do high school kids hang out in coffee shops?
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