Starbucks Drama: Call 1-900-Frappucino Meltdown

The late-nights at Starbucks are always a recipe for high drama. Late nights at fast food places are always a recipe for drama in general, because the staff wants to be able to close up the second the clock hits whatever magic hour is closing time, while the customers expect a full menu available at whatever time they walk in the door.

Starbucks is no different. The delivery truck apparently didn't run Saturday morning - so there were few pastries, no sandwiches, no signature hot chocolate mix for the espresso truffle and worst of all - NO FRAPPUCCINO BASE.

They ran out at approximately 10:45 p.m. - I know, because I was sitting there typing and the shift supervisor was on the phone with someone confirming that the truck was due first thing in the morning.

The action was pretty dead by then - most of the downtown action in this city rolls up by 11 p.m. anyway - so it wasn't like denying people their frappuccinos for 75 minutes was going to kill anyone. Except, apparently, it was.

The downtown Starbucks closes at midnight on Fridays and Saturdays. At 11:42 p.m., a wide-eyed and frantic twentysomething flew in wearing pajama pants and a dirty T-shirt that had seen better days during the Clinton presidency. She had a faux Louis Vuitton pocketbook and one of those keychains that was nothing but a bunch of memento keyrings chained together and looked like it weighed about three pounds.

Fake Louis tore into the Starbucks and starts gasping for breath, because at a her size, walking a few feet is a chore.

Fake Louis Vuitton: "Ohmigod. Please tell me you guys are still open."
Barista: "You're here. The door's open. The lights are on. What do you want?" The shift supervisor of this Starbucks is young, sort of ghetto and very cool.

Fake Louis Vuitton: "OHMYGODIMSOGLADIMADEIT." Breathe honey, breathe.
Barista: "What can I get for you ma'am?"

Fake Louis Vuitton: "I need two chocolate chip frappuccinos and two black and white frappuccinos." Yes, yes, yes. Someone actually ordered a black and white frappuccino.
Barista: "I'm sorry. We're out of frappuccino."

Fake Louis Vuitton: "Oh hell no." I really did not think people said this in real life. She went from pathetically grateful they were open to bitch in about two seconds.
Barista: "I'm really sorry. We didn't get a delivery today. Can we make you an iced coffee or an iced mocha? We can do just about anything else, but we don't have frappuccinos."

Fake Louis Vuitton: "Well, we want frappuccinos. Make it with something else."
Barista: "We don't have the special mix used in frappuccinos."

Fake Louis Vuitton: "Can you blend up some ice cubes and coffee?"
Barista: "That is iced coffee. It won't taste like frappuccino."

Fake Louis Vuitton: "Well why not? It is all coffee isn't it?"
Barista: "Not really. Frappuccino is a special drink."

Fake Louis Vuitton: "Well, where's a Starbucks that's open? I need a frappuccino."
Barista: "Uhhhh."

Fake Louis Vuitton: "What about the drive-through on Pine Ridge?"
ME (because I jump in): "They closed at 11 p.m."

Fake Louis Vuitton: "Well, where is a Starbucks where I can get a frappuccino?"
ME (because I know more than the barista): "There's only one 24-hour Starbucks in two counties." And I tell her where it is. It is 31 miles north, in another county.

Fake Louis Vuitton: "Are you SERIOUS?"
ME: "YEP."

Fake Louis Vuitton: Calls up her friend on the phone and starts screaming. "HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE ME? BECAUSE I'M NOT DRIVING UP TO FORT MYERS FOR SOME DAMN F****** FRAPPUCCINOS."
Barista: "I'm really sorry ma'am."

Fake Louis Vuitton: "What the hell kind of Starbucks is this that runs out of coffee?"

Fake Louis Vuitton: (on the phone, to her friends) "I TOLD YOU THEY SAID THEY'RE OUT!"
Fake Louis Vuitton: "Well, I don't know. There is nowhere else I can go. You're just going to have to wait."

Fake Louis Vuitton: "I'm never coming back to this Starbucks."

Starbucks Drama: You don't have to have espresso to make espresso

I *really* needed to do real work tonight, but the conversation between the two baristas working tonight is just a stunning illustration of the failures of the American education system.

I was only half paying attention - and trying to do real work - and thus missed most of the thread of the conversation, but these choice bon mots floated through. I was trying to do research and took these down, roughly in the order they happened.

1. "If you work hard you'll get raises."

2. "When I go out with my girlfriend, I feel bad because I can't hit on other girls and have a good time. My girlfriend, she's gone now." I wonder why?

3. "People with GEDs and holding down two jobs are lazy. They should be in college."

4. "I'm not quitting, I'm just leaving this Starbucks. And every Starbucks."

5. "You don't have to have espresso to make espresso." This was absolutely the most puzzling statement of the night. I *think* he was talking about the fact that in truth, any coffee bean can be ground into the super-fine blend used for espresso roast, although coffee purists (and Italians) prefer darker roast beans.

6. "Where's Haiti? Isn't it that island? Where that thing happened?" *there are no words*

7. "Why aren't you the shift supervisor? I'm an irresponsible, forgetful screwup." At least he was honest about why an 18-year old with a popped collar was in charge.

8. From a customer: "Currently, what I'm writing on requires a black pen. Do you have a black pen by any chance?" Those were his exact words. Currently, I'm wondering who uses "currently" in casual conversation.

9. "My favorite band isn't my favorite band anymore because the drummer got kicked out. Now, it is like he is standing on the side of the music road waiting for someone to pick him up. He's a good drummer, someone will stop and pick him up because he sells lots of records."

10. In reference to #9: "They weren't better than A-HA." Whoa. Just. Whoa.

11. Also in reference to #9: "They had a lot of old lady band-aids." Band Depends?

12. "Don't put the toasted sandwiches in the toaster. Put them in the microwave. They taste better." Oh. My. GOD. WHY DON'T THEY TELL THE CUSTOMERS THIS!

Starbucks Drama: How to make the perfect espresso

NOTE: If I did not make this clear, this is not me making the espresso! The video was shot at Intelligentsia Coffee and Tea in Venice, California. I'm on the other coast.

I ran across this today. How to make the perfect espresso. Part two is also available. This is fascinating - and it really demonstrates the difference between "espresso," which is what I drink, and "coffee," which is the nasty brewed crap that comes out of an urn.


Espresso, Intelligentsia from Department of the 4th Dimension on Vimeo.

It’s the first part of an ongoing series of videos from The Department of the 4th Dimension

Starbucks Drama: Skinny Drinks for Skinny Boys with Skinny Brains

The contradictions and mental issues of Starbucks customers will forever baffle me. For starters, there are the types that order black coffee but then grab a 500 calorie muffin and load the coffee with milk, cream, sugar and chocolate powder. Others are far, far worse. To wit.

This one rolled in Saturday night, one of the urban hipsters who flock to Starbucks like moths to a flame, frat boys to a sorority kegger or snowbirds to a 4 p.m. "Early Bird" special at Red Lobster.

A skeletal white boy, wearing skinny jeans, with that stone-wash denim look and baby blue American Eagle T-shirt comes to the counter and orders a tall skinny cinnamon dolce latte. These only have 90 calories (grande goes to 130, venti to 160), and are "allegedly" complete with all the flavor of the regular, full-calorie cinnamon dolce lattes, but sans all the calories.

The skinny cinnamon dolce latte comes with sugar-free Cinnamon Dolce syrup and non-fat milk. By contrast, a regular tall cinnamon dolce latte has 290 calories, 14 grams of fat and 30 grams of sugar. Having had one, I can also attest to the fact that they taste like dishwater - rancid dishwater that has been sitting in the sink for three weeks. If you're going down to the the skinny drinks after drinking the good stuff, it tastes like weak smack.

Anyway. Our pretty boy, in the distressed skinny jeans and distressed baby blue American Eagle tee that looks like it may have been cropped to show off a sliver of his toned stomach, wants a skinny cinnamon dolce latte. It doesn't come with whipped cream, although he confirms this with the barista. He looks like like the type to get manorexia.

Pretty Boy Blue, who I noticed is wearing mandals, hovers over the barista as she makes it. He asks her "Can you make that with soy milk?" Maybe he's a milk freak? I dunno.

He gets the drink and goes over to the condiment bar. Where he proceeds to take off the lid and sprinkle the drink with heretofore "skinny" drink with chocolate powder.

He tastes it, grimaces and then goes to sit outside to talk with other bright young things.  Not for long though. He's back inside after two sips.

Pretty Boy Blue comes to the handoff bar and asks the barista making drinks "Can you put whip cream on this?"

She gives him one of "those" looks, like "THAT IS A SKINNY DRINK. WHIPPED CREAM DEFEATS THE PURPOSE!"

Nevertheless, she snatches the cup off the bar with a fierce, almost angry motion, reaches out a taloned claw for the silver aerosal can of whipped cream, gives it an angry shake and unfurls a mountain of whipped cream of prodigious proportions onto the drink.

Pretty Boy Blue's eyes goggle at the mound of sugary goodness now floating serenely atop his previously low-calorie drink. The enormous load of whipped cream on there probably doubled, if not tripled the calorie load.

For a prissy calorie-counter like this Pretty Boy Blue, who eats protein in lieu of carbohydrates, eschews beer for martinis and probably shaves his chest, this was a problem. Of his on making, no less.

He opened his mouth to complain - gets a dirty look from the barista, who is still holding the can of whipped cream and just might clock him across the head with it. Plus, I'd put money on her in a fight. He might break a nail or muss up his hair or something. She'd just claw his eyes out.

Pretty Boy Blue promptly shuts his mouth, grabs a stirrer and makes a production of breaking up the mountain of whipped cream and melting and stirring it into his drink. He does all of this at the handoff bar instead of back at his table.

The taloned barista is unmoved by this display of potion-making talent. She must have a bit of the Severus Snape in her.

Thirty seconds later, the whipped cream has been disseminated into the hot and no longer skinny cinnamon dolce latte. Pretty Boy Blue snaps the lid back on the drink and heads out the door to rejoin the bright young things with which he's conversing, to talk of life, of love, of mandals and face creams and undoubtedly of cranky Starbucks baristas.

Starbucks Drama: These kids are howling mad

Princesses. And not the Disney kind. These are what I call the bored packs of chronological adults but psychological feotuses who roam downtowns on Saturday nights looking for a solution to their own stupidity that doesn't involve gnawing off their own limbs out of boredom.

A pack of principessas walks in. The melting pot is in full effect, with hues in all colors of the rainbow. The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. would be so proud. I say that with zero snark. If Crayola tried to make "flesh" color based on one of this lot, they'd have to pick a hue ranging from dark chocolate to ivory. 

He would quail in shame at their utter lack of respect for anything and anyone else in the coffee shop. Who would imagine that this deck of dunces - all under five-and-a-half-feet tall could make enough racket to drive everyone within a two-block radius running for the next Virgin Galactic flight to Alpha Centauri?

Specimen One - who could probably play linebacker for a Division II football team - parks her denim-clad hips and the rest of herself in front of the pastry case and starts to peruse. And apparently this is a royal pastry progress, with the cupcakes carrying pennons and the cookies being drawn on a coach and four - for she intends to stay awhile. Hurricanes will topple trees in Canada before she moves. She puts a finger in the air, cocks her head to the side, rolls the neck, flips the lips and squawks with all the grace of a garbage disposal eating a plastic spoon "Ya'll, whadda I want up in hurrrr? Whadda they be havin?" The language of Shakespeare is such a thing of beauty, of poetry, of precision and wit. It has been broken beyond the borders of all known repair.

Specimen Two - skinny jeans and turquoise ballet flats (what IS IT with those things?) gets her black coffee (diet, natch) and goes to the condiment bar. Where she proceeds to doctor it to the point it no longer resembles coffee. While hollering to her friends - "I CAYNT BELIEVE HE SAID THAT!" "NO HE DIDN'T" "I KNOW THAT AIN'T RIGHT" "I'MA SMACK HER ACROST DE FACE WHEN I GET UP IN THAT HOUSE." Again. Language. Are they learning to speak it at all? I want to SEE their text messages. It must be written in what would be the equivalent of Minoan to you or me.


Specimens Three, Four and Five - with five being a male who joined late - conquered the comfy chairs in the corner and dragged more chairs over to join them. Three triple chocolate chocolate chip frappuccinos for them, with whipped cream and they specifically asked for extra chocolate syrup. They're young. They won't get diabetes for another two years.

Specimen Three has on skinny jeans, a Banana Republic Oxford and lime green canvas shoes. They're cute, but lime? Really? Her feet look like they're searching for a Jimmy Buffet song and honey you are not old enough to drink.

Specimen Four has on dark, dark, dark blue denim high-water jeans. I don't think she shaved her legs for this. And something pink. It is very bizarre. I never thought that pink and whatever color of dark-wash denim this is really went together. It sort of looks like a half-melted Starlight mint that's stuck on the upholstery of somebody's grandpa's Oldsmobile 88.

Her hair is also crying out for a hot oil treatment. CRYING. Girls. Ya'll *need* to take good care of your hair. No man will love you if you do the Britney Spears bald look. The Sinead O'Connor Bald might be OK. She is shod in something black and clunky that looks like hooves. I had a pair of mules similar to that in college. I wore them to a club one night and lost one of them on the dance floor. That was fun.

Specimen Five, the male, is wearing brown slip-on house shoes, the kind old men wear when they can't tie laces. They don't even have a back. I swear to all the dark powers of Kali, Cthulhu and Baal, these are not fashion sandals - THEY ARE HOUSE SHOES. I can see the fabric.

He also just howled.

Let me repeat that. This child just howled, like Benicio del Toro in "Wolfman," HOWLED. I also question whether he is interested in those girls as "friends" or "girlfriends," because I saw a suspiciously limp wrist, but that's a discussion for another time.

Specimen Five's boyfriend (or "bro") just showed up. They seem to share cell phones like adults share child-care responsibilities. Five is making assurances to someone on the phone "YEAH, YEAH, I'LL BE THERE TOMORROW. I GET OUT AT THREE. I PROMISE I'LL BE THERE. I SAID I'LL BE THERE. DAMN. DO YOU WANT TO CALL ME OR DON'T YOU TRUST ME?" I don't think they trust you. What do ya'll think?

He has spread his legs in the chair, is flapping his arms and talking to the ladies. About marriage, as it seems. The plot thins.

This was specimen number five's description of his future marriage ceremony. You make the call. "I'm going to get married on an island. The waves are going to beat against the rocks. The clouds are going to part, the birds are going to cry and you're going to see a rainbow, nothing but color." Gentlemen, ladies, at least he's got a romantic side - whichever side it is buttered on!