The Misanthropic Barista

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Some of you wait at the designated pickup counter for your drinks. Many of you don’t. Never mind the sign above the counter. (It’s the rustic slab of faux-wood that hangs from two chains and spells out the word, “PICKUP.”) But, I dunno, maybe you’re not one to look up at anything… other than a posted menu. Or maybe you suffer from chronic neck pain. But then also never mind the cashier who directs you to said pickup counter. A number of you will, instead, grab a table (granted, they are scarce, given how busy we are) and wait there until I shout out your drink(s). This is fine. Those of you who note that the pickup counter is in close proximity to the restrooms may promptly choose to relieve yourselves. (It’s almost as if, whenever a toilet presents itself, some of you will automatically think that the time is right to drain your bladder and/or empty your bowels.) A few of you, immediately upon paying, will bolt straight for the pickup counter and stare at me with such extreme intensity that, for sure, I’ll pour decaf espresso into your quadruple-shot Americano. Otherwise, despite how clear and loud my announcements, far too many of you pick up the WRONG DRINK. Indeed, quite a few of you seemingly check your thinking caps at the door. A few too many of you fancy yourselves the only patron in the café—even when there’s a line out the door. Yesterday, in the midst of my efforts to announce each of your drinks as I finished brewing them, one of you accused me of being “rather boorish.” I plead guilty as charged.* Still, far too many of you walk off with whatever beverage I happen to set on the pickup counter. You’ll depart with a raspberry smoothie instead of the cappuccino you ordered. (I reckon the smoothie looked tastier.) Granted, there’s rarely enough room in front of the pickup counter for everybody to wait. And thank God for that. 

22 March 2001

*[While I’ve nearly been fired for being “too slow” (story of my life), I’ve never been fired for being uncouth.]

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