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by Americano Grande
Here lies the forthright words of an ex barista.
Oh those dreaded, fateful words. I can already tell just by those two words what you shall say next, “nonfat” perhaps, “I hate you” perhaps. Oh yes, “of course we can”, I say gritting my teeth into an artificial smile. If only you knew that foam is a beautiful thing, and that no, I cannot avoid creating it while steaming your 185° organic soy milk with whipped cream. *le sigh
The two words that create an unstoppable twitching under my sleep-laden eye. Oh yes, let me pour that sugar coma into your cup and add some diabetes. As I pour this caramel I feel the shooting pains of developing carpal tunnel. Oh yes, let me give you extra, extra. And I will smile at you with dismay as you stare at your iPhone vacantly ignoring me while I call your name. Only to ask five seconds later, “Is this my drink?”
“Oh dear lord, what did you just say?” I think to myself as I look at you like a scared animal. No, oh this cannot be. “If you wanted campfire coffee with an 85 percent chance of grounds why don’t you just go to 711,” I mutter with a smile.
Thou art a breath of fresh air filled with the light scent of rain and fallen leaves, I won’t even charge you for a refill. You want an add shot? I probably won’t charge you for that either.
Oh, you delicate soul you. Would you like me to pour the creamy foam of the gods into your caramelly sultry espresso shots? Oh, I will steam that milk to a perfect ratio of foam and even pull your shots ristretto for this. For here cup you say? Reading Bukowski? My number’s on the sleeve.
You hippie you, I know how you like it. No water with some thick foam. Add shot? Oh yeah you are a dirty hippie. “I like your crystal necklace,” I tell you pretty genuinely. Aahh, real smiles are to die for. “That’s why I love this job,” I think to myself as I take your 100 dollar bill that I don’t have the change for.
With these final words remember, only by tipping will you be forgiven for your ridiculous beverage.