It's Not Asking Too Much

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The Barista. An often maligned creature: too hipster, too snotty, too cool, a fashion victim at a fashion show, inattentive, rude, slow, money grubbing, plays the music too loud, gets the order wrong, forgets the order altogether, gossips loudly about other customers, looks pained when you ask for extra foam, tells you "this is what a cappuccino looks like" as if you don't know what a cappuccino looks like which you do and what s/he has just handed you is not it, sneers at Starbucks and lectures you about going vegan, handles food without gloves, sneezes in your coffee and does not say thank you when you leave a perfectly reasonable tip.

Hating baristas, for some people, is a sport. Luckily for me and the legions of college-educated, broke twenty and now thirty-somethings who meant to follow their passions and somehow ended up working in a coffee shop, there are more people who love their local baristas. I would like to put in a kind word for the barista, and a few nasty ones for the cafe customers who suck at being customers as much as any barista has ever sucked at being a servant. Pardon me, I mean "a member of the service industry."

If you work the morning shift in a small cafe, that means you get up between 4 and 5 am so you can travel to work, and you work hard. Don't let anyone tell you different. It's not highly skilled labor- except the actual espresso making part, but even that, once you get the hang of it, becomes routine- but it is definitely labor. Usually your customers are what make the day fun, and a good number of my friends are former cafe customers.

The deluge begins with a dribble around dawn: one or two perky, early risers in their gym gear, pulling out an ear bud to talk to you about the prospective weather; other members of the service industry- city workers, construction workers, home healthcare aides- come in the first hour as well. I called the hour between 6:30 and 7:30 the blue collar hour. Mostly pleasant folks, tired and god fearing. They don't tip more than a nickle, but I never blamed them: they're a hard working lot with families to support on meager incomes. Coffee is one of those rare items that gets classified as a luxury (because of such things as frappuccinos and caramel ventis) and financial planners always tell people to cut expensive coffee drinks out of their routines, but I think that's unfair. The combination of coffee, sugar and froth really is a necessity for most of the people who keep things running smoothly for the rest of us.

At about 7:45 the flood begins with the teachers. They arrive bitching about every goddamn thing under the sun. The principal is a cunt, the math department thinks the english department doesn't need books more than the math department needs calculators, the board of ed is out of touch and totally corrupt, and the kids... well, those teachers are no racists, but it's hard not to be when x, y or z just happened... and have you heard how they talk? They're like animals! Just kidding! And, oh my god, did you hear that student accused that teacher of misconduct?! Unbelievable! I mean, it's probably true, but, well, the kid probably deserved to be punched in the face. Ha ha. They don't acknowledge the existence of the people around them and even worse, they never know what they want, even though they all get the same thing every day. This one is paying for both, no, all three of those guys... oh. Wait. She forgot her wallet, can I ring them all separately? Did I get the order for the bagel with cream cheese? No? Sheesh. What kind of bagel? What kind do you have? Well, do you have blueberry bagels? No? Wait, what kind of bagels do you have again? I'll have an everything. Not cream cheese! Butter! I said butter! Yes I did. You should get blueberry bagels. Toasted. Is the coffee ready yet? No? What are you guys doing back there? Sleeping? Ha ha. And so on.

On the heels of the teachers come the business people. Folks who stick out like a sore thumb in a neighborhood full of hipsters and Teach for America do-gooders-turned-bitter. But I like these people as customers: on the weekends they will happily lounge around talking about Blade Runner and paintball before going to the office for some overtime. They tip well, are pleasant and brusque and never think to use a reusable cup. They just don't have time for such things.

Behind the yuppies, in the line that is now snaking out the door, are the art yuppies: designers, architects, commercial artists, game developers, animators, tv and film producers. These are the worst of what hipsterism has to offer: they make lots of money and come from lots of money, but claim to be broke all the time which explains jeans that cost $160, artfully worn sweaters worth $200, shoes in the neighborhood of $500, a $4 iced latte and a tip of 25 cents. They are obsessed with "professionalism" having recently discovered it, and constantly say things like "that client was sounprofessional!" They drop the names of their alma maters- RISD, Parsons, SVA, the New School- as often as they do celebrity designers and arty-farty design magazines that have a circulation of exactly three people and cost $25 per issue. And these people are so passive agressive it's hard to believe Jane Austen didn't model her characters on a bunch of Williamsburg art yuppies. They want to be gritty and they think the people behind the counter are just like them, but even though we're usually white (if more than one of us wasn't they probably wouldn't come in) and mostly artists of one kind or another, we are nothing alike...at least not as a labor force. A barista makes between $2-9 an hour, they make between $20-90 an hour. Baristas do not get overtime, sick days, vacation days or benefits of any kind. They do. Most baristas are paid off the books and are lead to believe this is for our own benefit so we won't have taxes taken out of our paychecks, but we are left without recourse if we get laid off, hurt on the job, or treated unfairly. They have private accountants to handle their paperwork and taxes. Baristas regularly work 12 hour shifts on our feet. Art yuppies work long hours too, but in ergonomic chairs in carefully calibrated temperatures. And they have onsite yoga classes. Baristas haul trash, boxes, and slop-filled buckets, we wash dishes, clean bathrooms, cook food, clean spills, get scalded, do laundry, sweep and mop floors, hose the encrusted dirt and food off heavy rubber mats even in the middle of winter, empty the humane (if I'm working there) and inhumane (if I'm not) mouse traps of bodies, lug back stock up and down basement steps, scrub refrigerators, scrape grills, wash windows, unclog drains, scrub coffee stained urns, handle unruly customers, and, oh yeah, make fancy coffee drinks. Of course a barista does way more than that but that's just the stuff that requires a bit of muscle and a strong stomach. Art yuppies... don't do any of that. And a barista must be friendly and cheerful all the time. Irritability in an art yuppie is considered an asset.

I hate art yuppies as much as I sometimes aspire to be one.

So these are my sweeping generalizations of a typical Brooklyn coffee shop. Of course there are exceptions to every case listed above- and I haven't mentioned the young parents, the burlesque dancers, the bank tellers, the art tourists, the students, the homeless junkies, the parents of students grateful for a normal looking coffee shop in the midst of the 99 cent stores and botanicas, the owners of those stores, and the old timers who look absolutely shell shocked by the yuppie diaspora that has settled in their once poverty stricken neighborhood- but I'm setting a scene. Imagine- against the backdrop of little sleep, many customers- each with their own sigh and caffeine headache, complaints about clients, students, boyfriends, weather, the hour- and a seething class war that no one acknowledges, the following scene unfolds.

Two black women who seem friendly enough, walk in and try, at first to cut the line by asking, "this the line for coffee?" No, it's the line for my book signing. One looks like a bank teller, chubby and wearing the cheap black slacks and chunky jewelry of TJ Maxx. The other is short and built. She has long salt and pepper dreads and she is dressed in a linen suit, tailored like a Don Johnson special. She has sunglasses perched on her head and she's a pretty good looking woman. When they're turn finally comes, Miami Vice comes up to the counter, pushes her sport coat back and puts her hands in her pockets. Very suave.
"Hiya! What can I get you?" I ask, all smiles.
Bank Teller asks for a caramel latte. I nod and look at Miami Vice, ready to take her order. She smiles all cool like and says "It's okay. Go ahead and make her drink, I'm gonna decide." So I make the latte. I do latte art, and I make a little rosetta leaf in the foam. This makes Bank Teller giggle and Miami Vice looks impressed. All is going swimmingly.
"Let me ask you something," she says. "You got a bacon and egg sandwhich?"
She had been studying the menu the whole time I'd been making the latte and somehow had not noticed that there is no bacon and egg sandwich listed. No, I apologize, we do not have any bacon and egg sandwiches.
"Can't you just make me one? With the ingredients you have?"
The line is long, people are restless and my coworker is frantically making cappuccinos.
"We don't have bacon or eggs," I say getting annoyed in double time.
"You don't have bacon and eggs?! What kind of place serves breakfast but doesn't have eggs?" She speaks in an even tone, more like she is reciting a set up for a joke.
"This place," I snap with a smile. "Can I get you something else. Something that's on the menu, perhaps?"
"Hmmm..." she says. "How about you make me a ham and cheese on the health bread."
"The prosciutto sandwich comes on the ciabatta-"
"I know, but I just want the ham and some cheddar cheese on the health bread. How about you just make that for me. With mayo on one side. Butter on the other. And lettuce. And tomato." She's leaning against the counter and has assumed the air of a person casually waiting.
"No. I can't make that for you. I have a line out the door, and no time to make you a sandwich we don't have pre-made. But I do have a ham and cheese croissant. Would you like me to heat one of those up for you?"
"Naw, just go ahead and make the sandwhich. Thanks."
Is my mouth not saying what I think it is saying?
"I can't make you a sandwhich right now. The place next door makes breakfast sandwhiches. You can get what you want there. Is there anything else I can get you?"
"I don't want anything else-"
"Okay, then," I cut her off. "Next!"
The people behind her are about to revolt and my coworker is in a state of abject fury.
"Now hold on!" She says, and her suave calm cracking.
"What?" I glare at her as I began an iced americano for the next person.
"Why did you take his order over mine?"
"Because you weren't ordering and he had been waiting a long time while you didn't order."
"But I did order."
"You didn't order anything we have or are able to make at this moment. I offered you an alternative and you- $4.25 please, thanks Mike- said no. Next!"
"It'll take you two seconds! It's just a couple slices of ham, a couple slices of cheese, mayo, butter, lettuce, tomato. Done!"
"Medium coffee, black" huffs the next person in line, an unfriendly fellow who comes in every day.
"Medium coffee, black" I hand him his cup, take his dollar and quarter and note that he doesn't leave a tip like he usually does.
"It won't take two seconds, I don't have meat, cheese or tomatos sliced. And we don't have lettuce at all. Go next door to get what you want or come back in two hours when this line has disappeared. Next, please!"
"I have been waiting forever!" sneers Designer Bitch, as though this were my fault and an act of insubordination on my part. "Oh, I know it's not your fault, hon, it's just that this is so unprofessional. I'll have cappuccino, extra foam. And please make sure it's hot. Last time it was, like, only luke warm. Tha-anks!" she singsongs. I want to leap across the counter and smack her head into Miami Vice's face, but I make a cappucino instead. I burn the milk, but that's what Designer Bitch wants, what can I do? The customer is always right, no matter how wrong they are.
She too, does not leave a tip. And Miami Vice is still standing there.
"Next, please!"
"I'll have a ham and cheese on health bread, mayo on one side, butter on the other. And lettuce. And tomato. Toasted." That's new.
"Sir, what can I get for you sir?" The tall kid in the Ramones shirt looks baffled.
"Uh, she was here before me," he says, apparently oblivious to everything that isn't on his iPhone.
"Don't worry about, what would you like?" I say.
"Um," he looks terribly uncomfortable and hesitates, as if I'm pressuring him to swipe a pack of cigarettes from sweet old lady Stinson's pharmacy. What is going on? I briefly fantasize that maybe this is some kind of performance art designed to make a barista's head explode? I imagine this exact same scenario playing out at coffee shops all across the city at this exact same moment. I indulge in a small hope that, in the next moment, everyone might suddenly burst into song and we can all have a good laugh. Alas.
"I'll have an iced mocha?" says Ramones, hesitantly. Iced mochas are my specialty. I make them super sweet (which some people don't like as much as they should) but they always look beautiful and I take care to make them just right. His order comes as a minor relief.
"And when you're done with that, I'll just have a ham and cheese sandwhich on health bread. Mayo on one side-"
"Get out," my co-worker says and I smile. Why hadn't I thought of that?
"Excuse me?" Miami Vice says with a dangerous note in her voice.
"Get out," he says it so casually he actually shrugs as he says it. "We can't help you. Leave."
All this time, Bank Teller has been happily dissociating, sipping her caramel latte, snorting and chortling in a sugary, milky joy trance. But when she hears my co-worker tell Miami Vice to get out, a switch is flipped.
"Excuse me? Are you telling us to get out?"
My co-worker rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. "Yes, we don't have time for this. We have people waiting and your friend is causing trouble after my co-worker has been polite and honest."
"What do you mean by 'you people'? You mean black people?" says Miami Vice.
Oh no she did not.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I say, astounded at this intentional mis-hearing.
"And now you're cussin at me?" she sputters. Hell is a curse word? On what planet?
"Just get out" I say.
"You heard what this white boy said to me?" Miami Vice appeals to Ramones.
"Uh, I don't think he-"
"He said 'you people' and then she cussed me out."
That's it. I've had it. I lean across the counter and look Miami Vice in the eye.
"I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but let me just tell you, you're talking to a gay white boy and a Jewish white girl and you're surrounded by our regular customers who know us and know we don't even think that way. I don't think you want to play this game because once you get that ball rolling, you do not know where it will stop. So shut your mouth, and get the fuck out of this cafe, since you clearly hate it so much." I'm shaking and my co-worker's jaw is on the floor. But Miami Vice just smiles.
"You know what I do?" She asks.
"Get. Out."
"I'm a detective."
"Fantastic. Get out."
"You can't talk to me like that."
"You don't get special privleges because you're a detective, Detective." That last word is an expletive as far as I am concerned.
"Just make me the sandwich."
"You're batshit."
"Make me the sandwich."
"I heard what you said," Bank Teller chimes in.
Our regulars, the fucking cowards that they are, remain silent. No one stands up for us. No one says, "he didn't say any such thing." No one says anything. No one wants to touch this with a ten foot pole.
"It's not asking too much. Just make me a sandwich. No one here minds waiting, do you?" She looks around at the cowed and guilty gentrifyers. No one says a word.
What can I do? I cave. I have to. It's a test of wills with potentially nasty repercussions. My co-worker makes all the drinks while I make the fucking sandwich. And goddamn if she doesn't watch me the whole time and when I put on the butter say "could you put a little more on please? Thanks, sweetie." I leave off the lettuce, because we don't have any, but she doesn't complain. All the customers are curiously calm, no impatiently craning necks. I hate every one of them as I hand the greasy wrapper to Miami Vice.
"How much do I owe you," she asks.
"Ten, no, make it twelve dollars" I say. The most expensive item on our menu is $7.25.
"Okay then." She hands me a $20. I gave her back four singles and 16 quarters. She stuffs $2 in the tip jar. I pull it back out and throw it on the counter.
"I want you to know that neither I or my co-worker is a racist. But I'll tell you something: I fucking hate cops, and you are exactly the reason why. Keep your fucking tip and don't come back here."

.....

But of course she comes back. She comes back to complain to our bosses. And you know what happens? They throw her out too.