"I'll have a small, extra hot, nonfat latte with NO FOAM."
Okay, now she was definitely looking at me. And possibly threatening me? I had never heard somebody say "no foam" with such fervor. It was not a request but an ultimatum. I turned to face the espresso machine, glancing over my shoulder to check if I was being watched. Affirmative.
Nervously I fumbled with the espresso wand. I always seemed to mess up when people were watching me like this. Ten...nine...eight...I pressed my palm against the milk caraffe to ensure that the milk was "extra hot." It was. One of the few benefits of working in a cafe for over five years is that I've developed a kind of heat resistance in my hands. It is as if all the nerves there had agreed that enough is enough. We're not going to fuss over the small stuff any more. If I wanted, I could probably reach into a pot of boiling water and feel little more than a pinch, a trait that comes in handy more than you would think. Carefully scooping off a thin layer of froth with a large spoon, I handed the woman her drink.
Nervously I fumbled with the espresso wand. I always seemed to mess up when people were watching me like this. Ten...nine...eight...I pressed my palm against the milk caraffe to ensure that the milk was "extra hot." It was. One of the few benefits of working in a cafe for over five years is that I've developed a kind of heat resistance in my hands. It is as if all the nerves there had agreed that enough is enough. We're not going to fuss over the small stuff any more. If I wanted, I could probably reach into a pot of boiling water and feel little more than a pinch, a trait that comes in handy more than you would think. Carefully scooping off a thin layer of froth with a large spoon, I handed the woman her drink.
"Here you go. Small nonfat, no fun latte. Er...I mean, no foam."
The woman took a long, manicured fingernail and swiped the surface of the drink. A look of revulsion swept over her face. Her countenance, aged by years of negativity, appeared perfectly tailored to this expression. The wrinkles around her eyes merely deepened as she squinted, giving the impression that they'd been formed much the same way one forms carpal tunnel, though excessive, repetitive motion. "There is. FOAM. On this latte."
While steaming her new drink I pondered the possible causes for such a neurosis. Perhaps this lady had suffered some kind of traumatic experience involving foam. Perhaps she had had her mouth washed out with soap for cursing as a child. Perhaps she had accidentally stumbled into an enormous bubble bath filled with poisonous spiders. Whatever the reason, I was sure that this next drink would garner a more pleasant reception, or at least not trigger any repressed memories of the villainous, loathsome foams of her past.
"This should be better." What was I saying? Of course it was better. There was no way that this latte could by any means be considered even remotely dry. Yet to my utter astonishment, I was notified that it still contained foam. At this point I was livid.
"Look lady, any latte is going to contain some portion of foam, even if it negligible. That is just the nature of steamed milk. It is a liquid that must undergo a specified process of aeration in order to even be categorized as "steamed." Which is, in fact, my long winded way of saying that you're crazy. You're asking for something that DOES NOT EXIST. If you really can't stand foam for whatever reason, perhaps I could offer you something else. A nice microwaved beverage, perhaps?"
Heads turned as she carefully extracted a retractable lightsaber from her Gucci purse. Luckily, I had hidden mine just under the counter, for use in emergencies only. We battled until the cafe was nothing more than a pile of ash in a remote desert, the Earth itself teetering on the brink of an explosive and painful oblivion. I watched as a bead of sweat fell from my blackened forehead and sizzled onto the hot ground.
Then I handed her a refund.
