They’re All Cups

Oh yes, another Sunday afternoon at the Ye Olde Coffee Shoppe.   A typically clumsy afternoon, for me (I’m such a klutz).  My hips seemed to be bumping into just about every available surface.  When I mentioned this to my coworker, she said: “It’s the Latin music.”

Speaking of the Latin music, one of our regulars had an issue with it today.  As she waited for me to fetch her daily small coffee, she turned to my coworker and said: “Is that music?”

Coworker looked perplexed (wouldn’t you?)

After a moment, she recovered herself and replied: “That’s what we’re calling it.”  I love her.

I’ve mentioned before how annoying Sundays are for the food service industry.  I won’t bore you with it again.

. . .

Wait, you thought I wasn’t going to rant about at least one person today?  Oh, poor, naive soul.

I would like to begin by saying that whether you want your drink “to stay” or “to go”, you will be receiving said beverage in a cup. I will not steam milk and pour into a paper bag, milk carton, or shoe.  Nor will I serve your coffee in a necktie, lightbulb, or flower pot.  All receptacles for your drink are lovingly referred to as “cups”.

So, when someone approaches the register and adamantly insists that their ‘medium, nonfat, decaf, sugar-free coconut, extra hot, white mocha with an extra shot and whipped cream’ be served in a cup, I have no bloody clue how they thought I was going to serve it to them.  When I give them a quizical stare and ask for clarification, one of two things happens.  Half of the time, the customer flounces over to the paper cups and gesticulates wildly that “this is in fact a cup, you dumba**”.  The other possibility is that the customer shakes their finger at our ceramic cups to indicate that “this, clearly, is the cup that I mean”.

There might be a problem here beyond how complicated that drink sounds.  Maybe?

Sadly, the most frustrating piece of all this is how long it takes me to explain that they’re all cups.  Once the order has been placed, customers generally lose interest in whatever is issuing from the barista’s face (unless it’s projectile vomit).  Oh well, I guess it’s just the eternal burden of the baristas.



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