The Old Coot learns the ropes.
By Merlin Lessler
I was in a Starbucks in Ormond Beach, Florida the other
morning, watching a serpentine line of people inch along from outside the front
door to the counter. I was in old coot heaven: people to watch, a cup of coffee
on the table in front of me, pen and paper at the ready and an eclectic mix of
characters parading by.
It made me realize what a fussy bunch we are, us Americans,
when it comes to our morning elixirs. It used to be simple. You saddled up to
the counter in a diner and nodded your head, “Yes,” when the waitress asked if
you wanted coffee. Now, you face a team of specially trained mixologists who
scurry back and forth behind a laboratory counter fumbling with a collection of
machines and product dispensers that hiss, grown and clatter. “How may I help
you,” is responded to with, “I’d like a hazelnut espresso with non-fat milk,
sugar free syrup, organic soy milk and hold the whip cream.” - or -
“Give me a mocha light coffee frapuccino.” There I sat with my simple
container of coffee, far out of touch with the rest of the world.
I’d had all I could handle when I was at the counter and
said, “I’d like a coffee to go.” -
“What size? Tall, Grande or Venti?” I only recognized one of the three
choices so I went with it, “Tall,” thinking I’d get a big one. Tall, as it
turns out, is the small size. I didn’t care; I just wanted to get my coffee and
get out of line. But, it was not to be. “What kind of coffee, sir?” the chemist
asked, as the impatient line behind me shuffled from one foot to the other in
unison. “Just regular coffee,” I meekly replied. Not good enough. The
technician rolled her eyes and asked, “Do you want dark roast, medium (pike
place), vanilla blonde or caffe’ misto?” My cheek twitched and my words came
out in a stutter, “The medium will be fine.” It sounded safe. But, my ordeal
wasn’t finished, not yet. “Do you want room, Hon?” she asked, while filling my
cup from a spigot on a space age machine on the back counter. “Pardon,” I
responded. “Do you want room for cream?” she answered, rolling her eyes for a
second time. That, I understood, I nodded a
“Yes,” took my order and did the walk of shame over to the cream and
sugar station.
Even that, wasn’t simple. I had to paw through a collection
of thermos bottles to find what I wanted: whole milk, 1% milk, half and half,
soymilk. I grabbed the half and half, poured some in my cup (even more on the
counter) and moved to a table off to the side. I was exhausted. It felt like
I’d just endured an oral exam for a doctorate degree. So, I sat for a minute to
recuperate and then started moving my pen around on a piece of blank paper.
When I finished, I stood up and prepared to leave. The last thing I heard was
someone ordering an iced caramel macchiato espresso with an extra shot. I was
shocked! It was me!
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