RSS Feed

Category Archives: Flavoured Lattes

Mr ‘This Song is ALL About Me!’

You know those people, the ones who think the world revolves around them? Yeah, well guess what? They’re WRONG. Don’t get me wrong, if you decide half-way through a gargantuan order of fifteen items that actually, no, you didn’t want the lemon muffin, you want a granola bar, but you only want it if there’s no nuts and extra raisins in it, and by the way, that latte you ordered about an hour ago was skinny, right…then I’m going to do my best to oblige. Before committing a very public suicide and naming you in the note as a cause of death. But I will do my best to serve you. Because that is what I’m here to do.



I know we’ve been through this before, but I’ll give you a brief list of the things I’m not legally required to do:

-flirt with you

-make you feel better about the fact that your football team didn’t win

-agree with you that my life and job are shit and wasn’t university a waste of time

-write a letter to head office asking them to bring back the old sandwich bags

-be outraged about the lack of variety of gluten-free food in the UK

-agree that you clearly know more about coffee than the people who design the consistency of our lattes

There was a certain little man over the Easter weekend who decided he was very important. This was not the case. Because if you are a very important person, you a) usually have someone to fetch your coffee for you, and b) understand the importance of things running smoothly.

This man could not have made life more difficult.

You want to order two very simplistic drinks? Okay. 

You want to talk reaaalllly slloooowllly enunciating everything because you think I’m a braindead coffee automaton? Not okay. 

You want to reload your loyalty card? Okay.

You want to do this in the middle of ordering five things and talking on the phone and counting out ten pounds in change? Not okay.

You want to be a painfully ridiculous arse who takes twenty-five minutes to order two coffees and a cookie? Okay.

You want to yell at me for the fact that your coffees have been sitting, beautifully made, for twenty of those minutes, because we are very efficient and you are a massive tool? Not. Oh. Kay. Not at all okay.

I shall also neither confirm nor deny that he was clearly meeting his imported Thai bride. Good luck with that, future Mrs Pernickety. Sign a pre-nup, okay? Otherwise, you’ll be counting out that settlement in twenty pence pieces.

Oh, and he decided to inform me, with his coffee wizard knowledge, that they way we make drinks is incorrect, as when they have one shot of espresso, the milk is creamier and fluffier. Erm, I’m sorry, who taught you physics? Chemical bonding? Heat, expansion, convection and all that other crap? Also, where did you train as a barista? Or are we taking this superior knowledge from a man who has ordered TWICE THE AMOUNT OF WHIPPED CREAM on his caramel macchiato? Now, I know I am merely a coffee pleb, here to serve, but do you think it could be, oh, I don’t know, THE CREAM that makes it SO FUCKING CREAMY? Yes? So do you think maybe you could shut the hell up about how the coffee to milk ratio alters the texture of milk? Only because, you know, YOU KNOW NOTHING.


You know how I know that you know nothing? Beyond your ridiculous texture comments? Because you pronounce espresso ‘EXpreZZo’. Well done you, you’ve had a pointless twenty-five minute interaction about something you don’t know about. I’m now not only worried about being two different people; an enraged coffee monkey, and a chilled out normal-type person, but now I’m also worried I have a drinking problem. And if you tell me that an extra shot of vodka will make my orange juice more silky, I may have to bludgeon you to death with the EXpreZZo machine. Doofus.

Could you do me a favour, please, and the next time you get huffy about your triple-shot-extra-hot latte not being ninety fucking degrees, could you take a breath and get some fucking perspective? You could think about kids in third world countries, or the fact that you still have your health. Or, if it helps, you could think of a barista, who once had dreams and ambitions, slowly losing all faith in humanity because of your ridiculous fucking drink needs. Get a clue. Drink decaf. Maybe invest in an espresso machine. Because, guess what? This song is NOT about you.


VIPs: Very Irritating People (Or, Why People on Phones are Bastards)

VIPs: Very Irritating People (Or, Why People on Phones are Bastards)

Can it possibly get any ruder than someone trying to order whilst they’re still on the phone?

I miss these days...big phones, and Michael Douglas still made watchable films

Especially when they answer/call someone during the ordering process? So then I have to mime out questions (there’s a few other hand gestures I’d most certainly like to use instead) and point to different sized cups until they nod. Or usually, wave away my questions with a shrug and a fluttering manicured hand, only to complain very loudly when the drink they’ve received is incorrect.

This is dumb. And rude. People who do this, listen closely: You are not that important. You are not special, you are not ‘in demand’. Unless it’s a doctor telling you that the heart surgery you’re scheduled for is about to happen, or your university application forms haven’t gone through, or it’s your kid at home telling you someone is breaking in downstairs, I DON’T CARE.

It’s about old-fashioned consideration. Which perhaps only happens in places where there aren’t mobile talking devices. If you want to text and permanently ignore that I’m a human being and not just a coffee retrieval device akin to a talking vending machine from the future, that’s fine. As long as you can cogently get your fucking order across and let me do my job.

So there’s one customer who comes in on the phone, walks straight up to the bar and makes a desperate motion for pen and paper. Thinking perhaps that she needs to write down a helpline for people with lifelong rudeness problems, and is looking for a local support group, I oblige. She then WRITES DOWN HER ORDER and carries on talking. And of course, she forgets the ‘here or takeaway’ ‘which size’ and a bunch of other questions that customers never realise are necessary. So I again have to do the ‘Guessing The Specifics Dance of Death’. Which looks moronic.

Now this doesn't make me want to puke. This is NOM. But this is not what irish cream coffee smells like.

Now, she’s a regular, so I would probably let her off. Except for the fact that she has an Irish Cream latte. At nine in the morning. Which smells like whisky. Which makes me want to vomit. Thanks. I really needed you ignoring me, and then making me dance the coffee monkey dance, and then making me want to puke. Awesome. This has been a wonderful encounter that’s enhanced my day, and truly made me feel that minimum wage I get for being here is completely worth it. Thanks.

She’s not even the worst, though. Sure, there’s the pinched-face bitches who think they’re so important because their manicurist is on the phone, asking to change their appointment, who make more and more outlandish faces as I suggest drinks for them to shoot down, until I eventually get the right one.

Possibly the only people I would accept this behaviour from

If your daily dose of caffeine means so little to you, then stop ordering stupidly complicated things and expecting me to understand your little one-act play of ‘This is what my face looks like when I drink my drink.’

Anyway, onto the worst. I’ll start with a disclaimer: I am not a man-hater. I’m a feminist, an egalitarian, and generally, I know a lot of nice men. Some of them like football. So it’s not about that. But this guy was the biggest Big Male Response Cliche of all time. So know that when I write this, I think HE is a massive tool. But the rest of you, you’re okay. For the most part.

He wanders up to the counter on the phone, and stands there, talking away, not making eye contact, until eventually my frustration causes me to throw my arms up in the air in a ‘what the hell do you want?’ sort of gesture. (It’s okay, I was smiling my coffee-monkey smile. You know, the one that’s held up by staples, gaffer tape and self-loathing.)

He then stands there, the phone still to his ear and says:

‘Hmm…I’lllll haaaaaave…..I’llll haaaaave…..Hmm…I’lll haaaave…’

I’ll spare you the repetition, this went on for approximately seventy-five seconds, whilst I bit my tongue to stop me from screaming out ‘WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHAT?’

I’m assuming the person on the other end of the phone would be in the same position.

He orders a medium cappuccino to take away, thank goodness.

And then he LEAVES THE QUEUE. As in, he suddenly carries on his phone conversation, and walks back to the pastry case, where he briefly inspects the paninis, and then stands staring into thin air.

There are five people in the queue behind him, waiting to be charged at my till.

So in the interest of fairness (or just that I was briefly shocked into stunned silence- doesn’t happen often) I give him thirty seconds to find a panini. Except that he’s not looking for one. He’s just standing there. Talking about the BLOODY FOOTBALL.

Hardly a business call worth holding up five people, who all have equally important things to be doing.

So, after sharing a variety of incredulous stares with staff and customers alike, I call over to him.

‘Sir, if there isn’t anything else, would you mind coming back here to pay for you drink?’

He then does the single most infuriating thing I may have ever experienced. He puts his finger to his lips, makings a ‘shh’ing gesture, and tells me to wait a minute. Luckily enough, I didn’t have a rage blackout, as I thought I might, but instead erupted into hysterical giggles, which was probably safer for everyone.

Phone bastards. I hope he’s paying too much for his contract and his football team lost. There. Hah.