Café Addendum Errata

by John Christmann

I have a confession to make: I am addicted to caffeine. Oh sure, this is a pretty wimpy confession given that the world is filled with habitual coffee drinkers, but it does have serious consequences for people like me who are not always able to grab a cup at home. Because at some point in our desperation, whether we like it or not, we will enter a Starbucks.

Learning to be a Starbucks customer is not easy. When I first walked into one of their stores many years ago I was quite bewildered.
“Is someone burning tires in here?” I asked out loud, reacting to the acrid aroma of roasted coffee beans which permeated the place like musk. I was greeted by a bunch of condescending stares from young patrons who were draped casually about lounge chairs as if they were in somebody’s living room. It was in the middle of winter. They were all wearing scarves and rectangular glasses, and I was clearly disrupting the atmosphere.

I took my place in line and stared at a menu board posted behind the counter. It was full of concoctions that appeared to be written in Latin. I didn’t understand any of them. The line moved very slowly, which was a problem because I was double parked just outside: after all, I just wanted a quick cup of coffee. But as I inched my way forward, I could hear people placing very lengthy orders. I assumed they didn’t know Latin either; there was a large staff of Starbuck employees behind the counter that kept repeating the orders. They had to yell pretty loudly because next to the register was a large machine that made a sucking noise like Darth Vader with a nasty head cold.

“Half caveat emptor,” they shouted to one another across the store. Or something like that.

Then the customers would congregate around the big machine and wait. At first I thought it might be because it was the only place in the store where you could get a break from the sleepy folk music that was playing, but it turns out this was where their coffee orders were delivered.

After a while I made it to the register where I was greeted politely by a young woman dressed in black, save for a green Starbucks apron slung around her neck and tied neatly around her waist. Her hair was spiked with blue streaks. She had thirteen rings in her ear and evidently ran out of real estate because there was one additional ring in her eyebrow. I looked at the girl’s name tag. It said Ramona Barista, so I greeted her by name. She told me that Barista was her position, not her last name. From the sound of her voice I guessed that a Barista was somewhere between a Baritone and a Contralto. But she quickly informed me that a Barista was someone with expertise in making espresso.
“Express is good,” I said, “because my car is double parked.”

Fortunately for me Ramona was very polite and understanding. She laughed and welcomed me to Starbucks, then asked me what I would like.
“A small cup to go, please.” I said.
“A Latté?” she asked.
“No, just a little,” I said. “Black.”
“Got it,” she said. “A Tall coffee.”
“No, a small coffee.” I repeated it slowly so she could understand.
“A Tall is small,” she said.
“Tall is small?” I repeated, confused.
“More or less,” she said, smiling.
“Then I guess I want a less Tall.”
“What blend?” she asked, sweeping her hand to a small chalk board behind her with what looked to be a listing of United Nations members. “African, Amerasian, Antarctican, Arabian, Aruban . . .”
Just then the woman behind me broke in. She was understandably impatient. Unlike the rest of the store patrons, she clearly had someplace to be in fifteen minutes.
“Just place your order” she snapped, looking at her watch.
I was completely befuddled, so I blurted out my order as best I could in Pig Latin.
“Offeecay Ackblay” I said authoritatively, and then threw in “E Pluribus Unim!” for good measure.
The other clerks yelled out “Venti Offeecay Ackblay” and then the big Darth Vader machine started sucking wind and I could no longer hear what they were saying.

I waited patiently for my coffee, glancing outside occasionally to make sure my car hadn’t been towed. After a minute or two a young man made an announcement, which I think was part of a soliloquy from the second act of Julius Caesar, and my cup of coffee appeared on the counter. It was as big as a two story house. “Et tu Brutus.” I said, thanking him.
I reached for my paper cup and immediately burned my fingers. “Owww!” I yelled. The young man handed me a lopsided ring of cardboard.
“Put this sleeve on, man,” he said.
“How long before I can drink it?” I asked, taking off the domed sipping lid so it would cool. He didn’t answer.

The cup was filled to the brim, and so as not to spill it I dumped half of it—about $2 worth—in the garbage and quickly ran out to the car. It was now raining outside. It didn’t matter. I finally had my cup of coffee. I got in, turned on the radio, and took a big slug of Starbucks coffee. The coffee scalded my tongue, and as I jerked the cup away from my mouth the remainder sloshed out into my lap. That’s when I noticed the ticket under my windshield wipers. I screamed from a place inside of me that I did not know existed: “Mei pantaloni sunt flagrante!”
I think I said my pants were on fire.

This was my first Starbucks experience. It stayed with me for days afterward, because even after only one sip, that’s how long I was awake.

That was over ten years ago. Since then, I have gradually been indoctrinated into the Starbucks way. I have learned how to delicately maneuver in the stores without offending the faithful. I know what to order and how to order without sounding like a half caf nit wit. I know that skinny has nothing to do with the shape of the cup, that hot spot has nothing to do with the temperature of the coffee, that ordering a double espresso does not make my coffee arrive twice as fast, that a house blend is just as likely to refer to the music on sale, and that drinking anything more than a half of a cup makes my hair stand on end. But more importantly, I have given in to the unrelenting notion that at Starbucks I am not just buying a cup of coffee, I am opening up my wallet to a coffee experience.

So you can imagine how shocked I was to learn that Howard Shultz, the founder and CEO of Starbucks, is planning to retrain the Baristas in over 7,000 stores in order to renew focus on the customer. Apparently, this is part of a larger initiative to transform the customer experience.

To be honest, I just don’t know how much more of the Starbucks experience I can handle.

So I am hoping that I can ease in slowly to Starbuck’s reinvigorated efforts to create an experience for me. For unless they announce that I can download a one dollar high speed jolt of caffeine from a Wi Fi enabled coffee bar, I fear I am in for some more humiliation in Latin.

On the other hand, if they care to serve me coffee at six o’clock in the morning in my home while I am fumbling around half asleep in nothing more than morning hair and boxer shorts, I can guarantee we all will have a real customer experience.

Coffee anyone?

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