Go into a Starbucks in the States. Order a Latte. Okay, to be a little kind, order a Grande Latte. That's it. That’s all you ask for.
I asked for a Grande Latte. The poor girl taking my order had the look of someone whose fuse had blown behind their eyes. Her response? "U-um, I'm sorry, a what?"
Me. "A Grande Latte." Slower, and maybe a little louder. I'm thinking my accent is the issue, so I drawl out the clipness of my Zimbabwean-New Zealand colonial background.
Her. "A Grande Latte." Okay, so we've established the order. But no, her Sharpie hovers hesitantly from the take away cup, and she looks up at me.
Sheepishly. "You want that, um, hot?"
Me, cracking up internally, hoping like crazy that that I can hold it together. "Hot would be nice. It's a Latte."
Her. Blinks. Writes the order on the cup. Gives it to the barista, with a wide eyed what-the-heck look on her face.
Me. Thinks. "Did I just ask for something strange? Does Grande Latte not translate at Starbucks? Do I have a booger in my nose?"
So I move over to the pick up counter and wait for my mystery beverage.
Then the dots connect, and I realise that I am probably the first guy who has come into this Starbucks and asked for a Grande Latte.
The customer behind me. "Can I have a Decaf-Lowfat-Doubleshot-Latte-Extra-Hot". Not a blink from What-The-Heck girl.
Then. "Yeah, I'll have a Frappaccino. Mocha. No Wait. Minted. Yeah, heavy on the mint. Hold the whipped cream." Service with a smile.
Next please. "Soya-cappuccino. Please. No sprinkles. No cinnamon. No chocolate. Oh, and extra fluff." What-The-Heck nods, efficiently ticks boxes on the cup, and passes said cup onto Barista Girl, who by now has delivered the Grande Latte to the weird foreigner in the black tee shirt.
Sometimes simple isn't so simple, I guess.
I asked for a Grande Latte. The poor girl taking my order had the look of someone whose fuse had blown behind their eyes. Her response? "U-um, I'm sorry, a what?"
Me. "A Grande Latte." Slower, and maybe a little louder. I'm thinking my accent is the issue, so I drawl out the clipness of my Zimbabwean-New Zealand colonial background.
Her. "A Grande Latte." Okay, so we've established the order. But no, her Sharpie hovers hesitantly from the take away cup, and she looks up at me.
Sheepishly. "You want that, um, hot?"
Me, cracking up internally, hoping like crazy that that I can hold it together. "Hot would be nice. It's a Latte."
Her. Blinks. Writes the order on the cup. Gives it to the barista, with a wide eyed what-the-heck look on her face.
Me. Thinks. "Did I just ask for something strange? Does Grande Latte not translate at Starbucks? Do I have a booger in my nose?"
So I move over to the pick up counter and wait for my mystery beverage.
Then the dots connect, and I realise that I am probably the first guy who has come into this Starbucks and asked for a Grande Latte.
The customer behind me. "Can I have a Decaf-Lowfat-Doubleshot-Latte-Extra-Hot". Not a blink from What-The-Heck girl.
Then. "Yeah, I'll have a Frappaccino. Mocha. No Wait. Minted. Yeah, heavy on the mint. Hold the whipped cream." Service with a smile.
Next please. "Soya-cappuccino. Please. No sprinkles. No cinnamon. No chocolate. Oh, and extra fluff." What-The-Heck nods, efficiently ticks boxes on the cup, and passes said cup onto Barista Girl, who by now has delivered the Grande Latte to the weird foreigner in the black tee shirt.
Sometimes simple isn't so simple, I guess.
No comments:
Post a Comment