Barista, Shmarista

Buffoonery at its boldest.

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Barista, Shmarista

 

 

            We sat in a booth at a restaurant, awaiting with baited breath our stupendous meals at stupendous prices. We had recently emerged from the unforgivable sanctuary of reckless dialogue and tyrannically cold air-conditioning known as the movie theater. And after the god-awful stinker of a movie we had just subjected ourselves to, we needed something to distract our poor, darling heads. A Philly cheese steak, delicately crafted by a short order cook most definitely NOT from Philadelphia, was just the thing to drown out some good old-fashioned Hollywood jabberclabber.

            We sat in that booth, Gulliver(that's me), Romeo, Hercules, and Judas, and waited like slouching slugs for our succulent banquet. I unscrewed the top of the salt shaker, and gently rested it back on top. I admired its patience in waiting to pounce in its next unsuspecting victim, like a jungle cat fashioned from salt.

            Somewhat sentient, I noticed that Romeo had been blathering on about something. Apparently he thought it was important. We all knew when Romeo considered something significant because he put on his serious face which he thought made him look like a devilishly handsome Hugh Grant, who is, of course, already devilishly handsome. He usually talked with his mouth full, but since the food hadn't come yet we had little to fear. Good thing, too. Romeo had ordered chicken mushroom soup and a mouthful of soup is not an appealing sight, which is something you'll just have to trust me on.

            In the midst of transferring my slightly puerile assault on the salt shaker to the pepper, I listened blandly to what my friend Romeo was saying. I tried to act interested, like the way I do for my grandmother's sleep-inducing stories of old-times and hard ways. She always saw through my feigned interest but I'm pretty confident that for awhile, I had given Romeo the slip.

            I surrendered my lethargic attention span before Romeo had a chance to discover my heartbreaking inattentiveness to his story.

            Romeo was saying, "Ok, just listen to how WEIRD this is.  So I went to get some coffee on my break this morning, no, not the place with that Armenian girl that looks like Carlos Santana, but the other one. The one where Galileo's ex-girlfriend use to work."

            (I should quickly interject to tell you that Galileo would have been with us if not for a sensational case of mononucleosis he had recently contracted. Thank god it wasn't monomania which I hear is running rampant these days. And it is difficult to say whether the girl was ever actually Galileo's legitimate girlfriend. Galileo thought writing her dirty limericks about her skinny knees, staring at her, quote, "hydrostatic" breasts, and sipping on caramel macchiatos while doing his cousin's high-school algebra homework was the equivalent to a real-live courtship. Either way she apparently grew weary of him and his couplets of love and one day went right up to Galileo, bit him fiercely on the back of his right hand, and walked out of the coffee shop and out of Galileo's life.)      

            Back to Romeo though. "So, anyway, I go in, and there's maybe three, or four people ahead of me. There was one lady who smelled really WEIRD, too, like fruit-flavored marshmallows. I don't know but it was definitely WEIRD. But anyway. So, while I'm waiting I notice this coffee making person I've never seen there before when--"

            Judas finally spoke up and butted in. " Wait. Coffee making person? Haha. What is that? Do you mean barista?"

            Romeo shook his head. "No, I don't mean "barista," you a*s. You know I detest that detestable word. Barista! Ha!"

             Romeo did his best impression of sarcasm and condescension during the following segment of his dissertation concerning the ridiculous practice of calling coffee making people baristas. I believe he pulled it off but I could tell by the way Hercules fingered a scab on his arm that he found Romeo's performance a bit hammy.

            Picture Romeo with his arrogant, oddly British voice of pomp and circumstance and dramatic gestures of hand:  "Oh, look at me, I make a special drink from coffee beans just like the rest of the ever-loving planet but oh, am I special! They should call me something neat and important sounding, a word that will demand respect from all the swill-drinking infidels of the world, like, I know, a barista! Why shouldn't I, who slaves so passionately over my exquisite pot of coffee, or café as they say in my favorite language, Mexican, be given a title fit for the gods!? I speak to coffee and it speaks to me! Oh,--"

            Now it was Judas' turn to shake his head. He had a rather large head so it took a little longer than it did when Romeo shook his. "So is the long and the short of your tirade just that you don't want to call these individuals baristas or that you simply don't like the word itself?"

            "Oh, I love the word. Sounds funny when you say it twice, really fast. I just don't like the smug jackaninnies who feel they are entitled to such a title. Just look now. What's our waitress doing?  She's pouring that old man over there some coffee. Do you suggest we call her barista? Doth she not serveth the masses the caffeine-fueled beverage they so madly craveth?! Not only does she serve me the coffee, if I want it, but gets me ketchup if I need it, refills when I want them and my au jus if I've ordered the roast beef. She does the job of a so-called barista and then some my friend. And yet, we've deemed it only fair that she be given the lowly, unadorned title of waitress. Our gloomy comrade William Shakespeare himself could not have composed a more harrowing tragedy, I tell you."

            I wondered if our old pal William really COULD compose a more harrowing tragedy, as Romeo had put it. I must admit the man did make a sad sonnet out of practically anything. One time, after leaving a pet store, William stayed up for seven Gregorian calendar days and nights to whip up a whopper of a play ridden with heartrending drama about the plight of the pitiful cockatiels and smelly chinchillas trapped inside. Another time William left his apartment with no pants on and wearing two different socks with two different shoes and was so embarrassed that he passed out on the subway when he realized his folly. We didn't see him for almost a month after that, and to be quite honest, we figured he was dead. One day, out of the blue, he comes over to my place and produces a new dramatic masterpiece based entirely on the overwhelming humiliation he felt that day on the subway. I didn't tell him we thought he was dead.  

            Hercules had sat quietly by for some time now. He always listened more than he talked but since he didn't talk that much we never had a reliable gauge on how much he listened. The good thing was that Hercules had extremely large ears and I had a theory that even when he wasn't listening, his ears were still catching everything, like a bug collector with one of those mesh nets.

            Hercules cleared his throat. "Barista, shmarista."

            We took it that he agreed with Romeo on the matter at hand.

            Romeo smiled like a man with no teeth and Judas scowled like a man with no brow. Needless to say it was not pretty sight.

            I knew if Romeo didn't get to disclose the rest of his story to us he'd  implode or explode, depending on his mood. At least, that's what he constantly threatened us with. As I've never seen a human being implode OR explode I wouldn't mind to see it happen just once. Sure, I'd miss Romeo, but I'd have a terrific story to tell my grandchildren.

            I subtly prompted him. "What about this, "employee"? This might sound odd, but did she happen to look anything like Marlene Dietrich?"

            Marlene Dietrich was my second favorite German American actress from Germany.

            Romeo, recalling his unfinished tale of swash-buckling, high-sea adventures, looked at me as if in deliberation about what this "employee" looked like and if she did indeed look anything like Ms. Dietrich.

            "Well, actually Gulliver, yes, he did a little bit. Now that you mention it anyway."

            I replied. "HE looked like Marlene Dietrich, did he?"

            Romeo replied. "Oh, yeah. He was blonde and big boned like a healthy German woman ought to be."

            Judas rolled his eyes in exasperation. I rubbed mine because I was sleepy. Hercules picked his nose because he felt like he couldn't breathe properly.

            I said, "Oh forget it and just tell us what happened. Take it easy on the details though. I'm much too hungry for that nonsense."       

            Romeo looked at me and shrugged. My crankiness from lack of food was infamous among my circle of friends, but to be quite frank, I've always considered the rectangle to be more my style.

            '"Ok, ok. So by the time the fruity-marshmallow smelling lady was up to the counter I noticed that this big-boned Teutonic fellow had been giving me the eye the whole time. I mean, he would not quit staring at me. I finally considered the fact that he was probably blind and my head just so happened to occupy the empty space his face was aimed toward. But then he winked at me! Winked! Isn't that WEIRD? Well, I put two and two together and realized that he wasn't blind at all! I looked away but every time I looked back up, there he was, winking away like it was his second job. It was definitely WEIRD. I was going to leave, but the fruity-marshmallow smelling lady finally left, so then it was my turn, I couldn't leave. I looked back to see who else was behind me, but there wasn't anyone! Just at the moment I need the support of the masses, the fiends abandon me to my fate! So I kept my head down and  approached the counter."

            (I've been advised, at this junction, to report this portion of Romeo's story in dialogue format for clarity's sake. I've also been advised to look both ways before crossing the street, eat five servings of fruit and vegetables a day and to quit using plastic grocery bags unless I want the whole world to die out from global warming. To appease Romeo let's use CMP, which means coffee-making person, i.e. barista, i.e. shmarista) 

 

CMP:        Hey there mister. What can I do for YOU?

Romeo:    Uh, there's not much you can DO for me, buddy. You can GET me,                            however, a coffee, black, with a little cream and sugar. {Romeo never could drink black coffee but he thought it at least made him sound very mature if he ordered it black initially.}

CMP:                 Hmmm. I'll see what I can DO for you. {He winked at Romeo, again!} You come in here often, stranger? I'm new but I know a local yokel when I see one. {chuckles}

Romeo:   Well, I use to. Probably not anymore though.

CMP:        Oh, really? That's too bad. I thought I was going to have something to look forward to while I'm working here when I saw you come in the door. (winks again!)

Romeo:    Too bad, so sad pal. {Romeo was now growing anxious. His coffee was     still MIA. He smelled tomfoolery.}

CMP:        You sure you wouldn't mind showing little ol' me around sometime? I haven't

really made any friends yet.

Romeo:    Can I get my black coffee with a little cream and sugar now?

CMP:        Oh, I'm working on it.

Romeo:    Really? Cuz’ It doesn't look like it, wise guy.

CMP:         Look, here's my number. Call me sometime. I'm sure you could show me

a thing or two about painting this town red. {He passed him the number on a crumpled receipt and tickled Romeo's hands as he slid the paper into Romeo's palm.}

Romeo:     Didn't your mother teach you to never tickle a man's hand. You could get hurt.

CMP:         I wouldn't mind getting "hurt." As long as you did the hurting. {another wink!}

Romeo:     I'll pass. My coffee?

 

We could tell Romeo was working toward a big finish. Our minds had drifted off a little, and I myself wondered where the cook making my Philly cheese steak was actually from. Hercules and Judas were no doubt contemplating the same thing, but even so, we felt the big finish coming and zoomed back in to his story accordingly.

            Romeo continues: "So finally, FINALLY, this peculiar blonde-haired German fellow gets my coffee for me. He sat it down, and I was as ready as a race horse at the gate to escape his Nazi lair. But before I could grab it myself, he picks it back up and says, 'you've been very rude to me mister. But I think you'll come around.' Then he flipped off the lid and licked the rim of the coffee cup ALL the way around. A full revolution I tell you! My coffee!"

            Romeo banged the table to pronounce emphasis at his outrage and indignation but it was unnecessary. At the exact same time a waitress nearby dropped one of those big round plates that hold several smaller plates of food, the sound of which eclipsed his emphatic gesture by a cubic mile. I couldn’t tell if the waitress was hurt as I was much too concerned about whether the ruined food had been ours. A small sliver of pasta had flown across the restaurant and plopped itself down in the middle of our table. Hercules shamelessly picked it up and tossed it in his mouth. He was practically didactic in his devotion to the five-second rule. "A little dry," Hercules critiqued.

            The recent events had drained my attention again, but Judas was still on the ball. He asked in obvious disbelief, "He licked it? Literally, he licked it? Whatever! Who licks the rim of a coffee cup? A barista? Yeah, right! No dice amigo, no dice. You're lying through your teeth!"

            It was true that Romeo had laid down a few whoppers in his time. There was the time that he told us his evil Uncle Scar had killed his father, Mufasa, and Romeo had recounted how he had won back control of his family by defeating his uncle in battle. We had thought it feasible until he said he also had a girlfriend named Nala, and since Romeo was notoriously horrible with women, we begin to question the story's authenticity. There was another time when he told us about starting some underground, top-secret fighting club for ordinary guys like him to relieve the stress of everyday life. We had believed that, too, until we realized that Romeo had once told us he was a Buddhist monk. There was also another time when he had told us that diabetes ran in his family, but we easily saw through such a licentious lie.

            But I think I believed him this time. "So he licked it. What did you do? Ask for another one? Ask to speak to the manager?"

            Romeo sputtered. "What'd I do? What could I do? I picked up the coffee and threw it in his asinine Aryan face and ran out of there like I had wings for feet!"

            It seemed that Romeo's shocking conclusion had startled Hercules and he began to choke on a sugar cube he had been nursing since he had finished his sliver of free-flying pasta. Judas smacked him on the back and out came the remnants of the cube, landing near the same terminus of the pasta's earlier trajectory. Undaunted, Hercules picked up what was left and put it back in his mouth.

            I was glad that Judas had been quick-witted enough to save our dear friend Hercules as I had been pre-occupied with other things. Namely, was the coffee that Romeo had thrown in his would-be suitor's unsuspecting face the normal house blend or one of the more expensive but decadently exotic varieties, like French vanilla or hazelnut? My money was on the house blend. I knew that Romeo had said he was frightened of hazelnuts because he had a cousin named Filbert that use to tell him scary stories, and ever since a high-school girlfriend had written him a break up letter during French class, he had devoutly boycotted anything associated with the French culture. It was definitely house.

            Judas spoke up first. "Are you out of your gourd, throwing hot coffee in some poor shmuck's face? He's probably scarred for life now! Mentally and physically!"

            Being much more sensible than Judas I proposed another question. " Look, it's been awhile since my one semester of college so my intellectual reservoirs might be slightly rusty, but I'm pretty sure there has to be some kind of legal ramifications for that. Don't you work just a building or two over from that particular coffee shop? Don't you think someone will be looking for you?"

               "Oh, most definitely."

            "So….what are you going to do about that?"

            "Oh, I quit."

            Hercules snorted. He had not found a good job in three years, mainly because he had not looked for a job in three years, and therefore could not fathom anyone giving up a good, steady paycheck. Certainly, Hercules now wondered if he could possibly fill the vacant position from which Romeo had so recently retired from, but then thought about having to fill out paperwork and actually interviewing for the job. Besides, he did not want to pigeonhole himself into a particular career at such a critical juncture in his life, so he would continue to hold out for a more suitable opportunity.

            When Hercules didn't say anything Judas decided too. "Good god man, what are you going to do for money? Food? Health insurance?  You heard the president. We're in the midst of a ferocious recession. How are you going to support your drinking habit?"

            Romeo smiled like a newborn ephemeron. You could tell he had put a lot of thought into this.

            "I've put a lot of thought into this. I'm going to start selling maps to the stars."

            Judas couldn't disbelieve his ears. "What stars? Movie stars? You live in a dumpy city in middle-America. There aren't any stars around here you ignoramus. "

            I disapproved of Judas' negative commentary. I myself wanted to be more helpful in Romeo's endeavors. "I don’t know. There could be a market for it. You remember that kid that played Data from the Goonies?"

            Judas looked at me and asked incredulously, "Data lives around here?"

            "Well, no. But his sister does. So Romeo could sell maps to her house and have her draw maps to his house. A most excellent business model, if I do say so myself." I smiled wide, revealing my breathtaking set of molars, bicuspids and canines. An old man sporting false teeth in a booth next ours glowered at me enviously.

            Apparently, we had misunderstood Romeo.

            "No, no, no. Not maps to MOVIE stars. Maps to the real stars. You know, like Ursa Major and Ursa Minor and the Dippers and the Bears and whatnot. Real astrological kind of stuff."

            Hercules briefly mulled over Romeo's new plan, silently debating the pros and cons, I'm sure. For once Hercules said more than three words. "I'd like a map."

            Romeo was so happy that even though he didn't believe in heaven he felt like he had died and gone there. "See Judas. First customer already lined up. Hercules, you are a true friend indeed."

            Beaming, Hercules nodded a nod that meant he needed no thanks. His support was always non-gratis.

            Rolling his eyes, Judas asked Hercules, "Ok smart guy. How are YOU going to BUY one of HIS maps? I had to buy your ticket to the movie, AND your chicken cordon bleu you ordered, which cost 9.95$ plus tax BUT NOT including tip, by the way."

            I got the feeling that Hercules did not appreciate Judas' commentary on the precarious nature of his pecuniary difficulties. But since he was generally fair-minded, he admitted by shrugging his shoulders and opening and gulping down a packet of Sweet N Low that Judas was, ipso facto, correct in his pessimistic homily.

            I could see that Romeo was beginning to concede Judas's point. He rubbed pensively on his jaw line and tapped even more so on the pouch of his cheek.

            "All right, all right.  Geez Louise Judas, I can see you're not one for following your dreams and reaching for the stars."
            I was glad to see our waitress finally appear with our food. My Philly cheese steak tasted more like Pittsburgh than Philadelphia. Our suspicions had been correct. The cook was definitely NOT from Philadelphia. At least it gave us something else to talk about.

            My french fries lacked a definitive panache. I reached for the salt shaker.