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
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Friday, January 22, 2010
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!
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!
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Starbucks Drama: Tangerine culottes and a baleful glare
Now, we all know that I like my comfy chair. The way this Starbucks is currently configured, I can sit in the corner and view the entire store, the register and the handoff bar. And be in the comfy chair. If it is crowded, I sit wherever. But I prefer the comfy chair. Tangerine Culottes had other ideas.
I'm browsing/typing away when she walks in and nails - nay, flays - me with a look. This old bird could probably sandblast the hulls of oil tankers with her tongue and give Kal-El a run for his money in the heat vision department. I don't really have a problem with staring, so I hit her back. Because she is wearing tangerine culottes.
This isn't a skirt. It isn't pants. It doesn't hit the ankle. It isn't shorts. It lands somewhere between knee and ankle and has a balloon effect. And it is bright tangerine. BRIGHT. Day-Glo even.
Her shoes are even more interesting, because they are THE SAME shade and resemble what I can only describe as tangerine bondage gear. There's a wide sole with a web of straps in that same bright orange coming out of a central strip. It looks like an orange spider is nestling on each of her feet.
The top is ... interesting. Her shirt looks like a roll of Life-Savers, lots of rings of different colors, with a bulge in the middle just over her waist. Was that uncharitable? Don't care. Over this is YET MORE tangerine, a GAP or Old Navy sweater. This woman *lives* for tangerine. I would seriously hate to see her bathroom. Probably looks like a Minute Maid factory blew up.
I really do not know what I did to upset her. Probably sat in her favorite chair. Either way, I get a look that would melt lesser mortals into the purple upholstery. It bounces. I tweet. She moves on.
She and her friend, who's wearing some dumpy denim and a ratty color-block shirt that Martha Stewart's gardener's gardener's housekeeper doesn't do the dishes in sit down and proceed to slice their way through four slices of pound cake (two apiece) and two caramel macchiatos while carrying on in a high whine about grandkids, traveling to Greece and some Italian restaurant Tangerine Culottes and her friend Susan visited last week. Poor Susan.
Dumpy Denim just screeched "THAT WAS A VISUAL WASN'T IT?" in response to something. It sure as hell was Denim. It sure as hell was.
This isn't a skirt. It isn't pants. It doesn't hit the ankle. It isn't shorts. It lands somewhere between knee and ankle and has a balloon effect. And it is bright tangerine. BRIGHT. Day-Glo even.
Her shoes are even more interesting, because they are THE SAME shade and resemble what I can only describe as tangerine bondage gear. There's a wide sole with a web of straps in that same bright orange coming out of a central strip. It looks like an orange spider is nestling on each of her feet.
The top is ... interesting. Her shirt looks like a roll of Life-Savers, lots of rings of different colors, with a bulge in the middle just over her waist. Was that uncharitable? Don't care. Over this is YET MORE tangerine, a GAP or Old Navy sweater. This woman *lives* for tangerine. I would seriously hate to see her bathroom. Probably looks like a Minute Maid factory blew up.
I really do not know what I did to upset her. Probably sat in her favorite chair. Either way, I get a look that would melt lesser mortals into the purple upholstery. It bounces. I tweet. She moves on.
She and her friend, who's wearing some dumpy denim and a ratty color-block shirt that Martha Stewart's gardener's gardener's housekeeper doesn't do the dishes in sit down and proceed to slice their way through four slices of pound cake (two apiece) and two caramel macchiatos while carrying on in a high whine about grandkids, traveling to Greece and some Italian restaurant Tangerine Culottes and her friend Susan visited last week. Poor Susan.
Dumpy Denim just screeched "THAT WAS A VISUAL WASN'T IT?" in response to something. It sure as hell was Denim. It sure as hell was.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Starbucks Drama: That door ain't gonna open
The bathroom at one of my regular Starbucks has been known to have "problematic" plumbing. At least three times in the past few months there's been a an amateurish "OUT OF ORDER" sign slapped on the door. Once it was even slapped up with Starbucks Via stickers (see photo at right).The cake was taken tonight.
It was not just taken. It was thrown, nay, HURLED spitefully, with much venom and invective, to the French peasantry by a beribboned and bewigged Marie Antoinette who gleefully shouted "You shall not have cake! You shall have sparkle donuts and cupcakes and you shall weep in shame of glorious pastry." Granted, that doesn't make much sense, but it was pretty to write.
The downtown Starbucks put up yet another "OUT OF ORDER" sign on the bathroom tonight. The store was full when I came in, and I got one of the last tables facing right down the hall to the bathroom. The drama was incredible.
First one off the bat was a princess, who swanned in with slacks, three inch heels and enough floral perfume to mask a skunk. It was a veritable cloud of musk. There was a look down her pert little nose at the uncooperative door. Followed by a scrunching of the nose and a scowl. HOW DARE IT! And thus the door handle was jiggled. Because time, space and the very curvature of space-time shall bend to her will. Not this door though. It weren't gonna budge. So she jiggled the handle again - harder. And flounced out. After a quick glance at me to see if I'd seen her little performance. I looked away - and fought the urge to laugh - loudly.
She was followed in quick succession by a hipster with a laptop and a fortysomething blonde with black slacks and some sparkly shoes. Rhinestone cowgirl ... Riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo ...
Number four is interesting. Geezerific. Six-foot plus, turquoise slacks and a sweater Bill Cosby wouldn't touch even if little Rudy gave it to him. He walks up, stares at the sign as if not quite comprehending it, then grabs the door and yanks violently. Entitlement syndrome. Lots of money, no taste and no manners. Then he reads the sign, sighs in disgust and stomps out with great clomping sounds. I've heard cows produce cowflops on concrete with less noise.
Number five is a trio of well-dressed thirtysomething men, who move en masse toward the restroom - to what end I don't know - unless they were planning to smoke dope or snort some blow. They refrain from jiggling the handle but do let out a big "Aww man," thereby revealing their probable frat-boy origins. Maybe they just had to go.
Number six was an old lady, who stared at the door with disgust and stomped out. She was wearing black tights and ballet flats and pushing one of those carts like old ladies in New York use to carry the shopping home with.
Number seven was a Hispanic couple, out on the town. She was wearing what I thought was a chocolate brown sequined jumpsuit with orange and red rhinestones on the front. It turned out to be separates - but was still ugly. Upon her toilet denial, she flipped the door the bird and turned on a cork-wedge heel and spun out, curls bobbing and some Latin invective hanging in the air.
And so it went, on through the night.
The cops were particularly interesting. It was a matched set, his and hers policemen, who came in. The blonde male cop - who could have easily doubled for Dolph Lundgren - stared at the door for a while and decided to jiggle the handle. He comes out into the main area of the Starbucks and asks "What's wrong with the bathroom?" Does it really matter what's wrong? You're still not getting in there!
One of the baristas goes over and unlocks what I always thought was a storage closet, but apparently has another toilet and a sink in it. Nice to know the baristas have a backup loo.
A pack of teenage girls comes in - and heads to the bathroom in a clump. The hive mind is in effect, only to be thwarted by three simple words - "OUT OF ORDER." It takes a while to process this, because they have to hold up a finger to the sign and go over the words. I wonder if they can read things not written in text-message speak? "Well." And they flounce out. One of them is wearing knee-high black-and-white striped socks with red Chuck Taylor All-Stars. It's a lot of look.
That was my night.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Starbucks Drama now available on Amazon Kindle!
I am very pleased to announce that Starbucks Drama is now available on the Amazon Kindle.
If you have a Kindle - and feel so inclined - you can chip in $1.99 per month and get Starbucks Drama wherever you are!
Of course, you can continue to read it for free right here - and leave comments!
Thank you!
If you have a Kindle - and feel so inclined - you can chip in $1.99 per month and get Starbucks Drama wherever you are!
Of course, you can continue to read it for free right here - and leave comments!
Thank you!
We're out of that - a tale of denial at Starbucks
Can I get a grande espresso chocolate truffle?
We're out of that.
Can I get a grande white mocha?
We're out of that.
Can I get a cinnamon dolce latte?
We're out of that.
Can I get an old-fashioned donut?
We're out of those.
Can I get a chocolate cupcake?
We're out of those.
What do you have?
Pretty much just coffee and some milk.
So, coffee and milk? Anything else is out of the question? Pretty much.
At least she was honest about it - although I didn't get a discount or free pastry. WHICH I WOULD HAVE TAKEN FOR MY INCONVENIENCE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!
This is two hours before closing at one of the busiest Starbucks in the county. There had to have been 20 people on the patio and another half-dozen (counting us) going back and forth indoors. Yet, all they could make was drip coffee, cappuccino and what I finally got, an iced mocha. My friend got an iced caramel macchiato, which the barista laced with enough caramel to coat an apple because she felt bad at going "We're out of that" five times.
Seriously Starbucks. Supply chain management. Look into it. How is this going to play on Monday morning when the hordes hit?
PS: I tried one of those McDonalds McCafe coffees last week. Blech. Tastes like they threw some chocolate syrup into some coffee and mixed it around on some ice cubes and sprinkled it with sugar. It tastes awful. AW-FUL! If you're truly desperate, the Burger King iced mocha isn't bad. Although Micky D's does have that free WiFi now.
SIDEBAR: When I worked at Wal-Mart - a terrible, horrible, no-good experience I hope never to have to repeat - we ran out of things with predictable regularity. Namely, BAGS and receipt tape.
You would absolutely NOT believe the speed with which you can go through those plastic shopping bags at a Super Wal-mart. And they come in on trucks with the rest of the merchandise - only some idiot assistant manager has to remember to "order" the bags. If they don't remember to place the order, we had to go begging to other stores for bags or worse, go to Sam's to BUY bags.
At least you could *get* bags if you needed them.
Receipt tape was worse. We went through receipt tape like there was no tomorrow - and they were stingy with it. Once, the managers forgot to order receipt tape and everyone was down to one roll and told "don't waste it." Um. OK.
After that, the management started accusing the cashiers of changing the tape too early, or printing out too many draft receipts for customers. So they locked up all the receipt paper and made us request it from a customer service manager. I worked at the service desk - and we had a few drawers and cubby holes - so we started stashing receipt tape wherever we could.
Whenever we were cleaning, we'd always find rolls of tape someone had stashed. It was embarassing - being in the middle of a huge line and ZIPPPPP - out of receipt tape and you're screaming for someone to bring you some receipt tape and no one is coming. If Wal-mart were properly managed, it would truly be a force to be reckoned with. Until then, we really don't have anything to worry about.
We're out of that.
Can I get a grande white mocha?
We're out of that.
Can I get a cinnamon dolce latte?
We're out of that.
Can I get an old-fashioned donut?
We're out of those.
Can I get a chocolate cupcake?
We're out of those.
What do you have?
Pretty much just coffee and some milk.
So, coffee and milk? Anything else is out of the question? Pretty much.
This is two hours before closing at one of the busiest Starbucks in the county. There had to have been 20 people on the patio and another half-dozen (counting us) going back and forth indoors. Yet, all they could make was drip coffee, cappuccino and what I finally got, an iced mocha. My friend got an iced caramel macchiato, which the barista laced with enough caramel to coat an apple because she felt bad at going "We're out of that" five times.
Seriously Starbucks. Supply chain management. Look into it. How is this going to play on Monday morning when the hordes hit?
PS: I tried one of those McDonalds McCafe coffees last week. Blech. Tastes like they threw some chocolate syrup into some coffee and mixed it around on some ice cubes and sprinkled it with sugar. It tastes awful. AW-FUL! If you're truly desperate, the Burger King iced mocha isn't bad. Although Micky D's does have that free WiFi now.
SIDEBAR: When I worked at Wal-Mart - a terrible, horrible, no-good experience I hope never to have to repeat - we ran out of things with predictable regularity. Namely, BAGS and receipt tape.
You would absolutely NOT believe the speed with which you can go through those plastic shopping bags at a Super Wal-mart. And they come in on trucks with the rest of the merchandise - only some idiot assistant manager has to remember to "order" the bags. If they don't remember to place the order, we had to go begging to other stores for bags or worse, go to Sam's to BUY bags.
At least you could *get* bags if you needed them.
Receipt tape was worse. We went through receipt tape like there was no tomorrow - and they were stingy with it. Once, the managers forgot to order receipt tape and everyone was down to one roll and told "don't waste it." Um. OK.
After that, the management started accusing the cashiers of changing the tape too early, or printing out too many draft receipts for customers. So they locked up all the receipt paper and made us request it from a customer service manager. I worked at the service desk - and we had a few drawers and cubby holes - so we started stashing receipt tape wherever we could.
Whenever we were cleaning, we'd always find rolls of tape someone had stashed. It was embarassing - being in the middle of a huge line and ZIPPPPP - out of receipt tape and you're screaming for someone to bring you some receipt tape and no one is coming. If Wal-mart were properly managed, it would truly be a force to be reckoned with. Until then, we really don't have anything to worry about.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
American Gothic Starbucks - a portrait of mocha in motion
Is there an "expectant relationship" that customers have with their barista? I need to start making a study of how people wait for their drinks.
Right now, there's a vaguely Midwesternish couple at the bar. They must have ordered something espresso-based, although it is usually the yuppies who abandon the simple drip coffee in favor of the frou-frou.
The espresso-based drinks take time - because espresso has to brew. That's pretty much a fact of life - and that's why Starbucks sometimes gets backed up. There's a maximum through-put, no matter how fast the barista moves.
Anyway. These people probably just wanted a mocha or something. But they didn't understand that it might take more than 30 seconds.
So now, they're standing at the end of the handoff bar, glaring at the girl trying to make the drinks, and giving her a stare that would drive nails through steel. Heck, they could probably drive a straw through steel.
It is the classic "defensive" pose. There's a dumpy, middle-aged housefrau from some flyover state, either visiting or retired to Florida. She has on blue jeans and a worn and faded blue pullover that's seen some washings. It is past the point of beginning to pill; drug dealers have long since claimed this shirt as a crack den.
This husband has that "worn" look, like his face has seen a thousand disappointments from life, the weather, crops beaten into the soil by wind, rain, hail and a plague of grasshoppers. Dreams were broken and lives that started with such hope were driven back into the dust of sorrow. Blue jeans and a orange T-shirt that likely comes in a four-pack at Wal-mart are his attire, along with boots still caked with the mud of the Midwest. Or else his wife's insistence on maintaining a "nice lawn." Either way, they're dirty.
And they're taking it all out on some poor girl who's slinging coffee on a Saturday night.
Ma and Pa Disaffected are standing, staring at the handoff bar, with their arms crossed and a slight curl of disapproval spreading across their face. They are silent, utterly silent as Kate Hudson's "Cinema Italiano" blares across the sound system.
They've never been to Rome. They don't think in terms of culture or the cinema. This coffee may be the closest they ever come to culture - and this girl dares to deny them the pleasure of getting their liquid caffeine 90 seconds earlier.
The barista subtly shifts into another gear, as if willing the stubborn machines to heat and brew faster. She slides the drinks across the bar and gives them a huge smile. She's rewarded with a glum grin as they take the coffees and trudge quietly, slowly, unhappily out the door.
The espresso-based drinks take time - because espresso has to brew. That's pretty much a fact of life - and that's why Starbucks sometimes gets backed up. There's a maximum through-put, no matter how fast the barista moves.
Anyway. These people probably just wanted a mocha or something. But they didn't understand that it might take more than 30 seconds.
So now, they're standing at the end of the handoff bar, glaring at the girl trying to make the drinks, and giving her a stare that would drive nails through steel. Heck, they could probably drive a straw through steel.
It is the classic "defensive" pose. There's a dumpy, middle-aged housefrau from some flyover state, either visiting or retired to Florida. She has on blue jeans and a worn and faded blue pullover that's seen some washings. It is past the point of beginning to pill; drug dealers have long since claimed this shirt as a crack den.
This husband has that "worn" look, like his face has seen a thousand disappointments from life, the weather, crops beaten into the soil by wind, rain, hail and a plague of grasshoppers. Dreams were broken and lives that started with such hope were driven back into the dust of sorrow. Blue jeans and a orange T-shirt that likely comes in a four-pack at Wal-mart are his attire, along with boots still caked with the mud of the Midwest. Or else his wife's insistence on maintaining a "nice lawn." Either way, they're dirty.
And they're taking it all out on some poor girl who's slinging coffee on a Saturday night.
Ma and Pa Disaffected are standing, staring at the handoff bar, with their arms crossed and a slight curl of disapproval spreading across their face. They are silent, utterly silent as Kate Hudson's "Cinema Italiano" blares across the sound system.
They've never been to Rome. They don't think in terms of culture or the cinema. This coffee may be the closest they ever come to culture - and this girl dares to deny them the pleasure of getting their liquid caffeine 90 seconds earlier.
The barista subtly shifts into another gear, as if willing the stubborn machines to heat and brew faster. She slides the drinks across the bar and gives them a huge smile. She's rewarded with a glum grin as they take the coffees and trudge quietly, slowly, unhappily out the door.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Starbucks mommies have to pinch their pennies too
Possibly because I was trained as a journalist, possibly because I blog about Starbucks and I'm always looking for material for a post - and most likely because I'm just nosy as hell, I stare at people every time I enter a Starbucks. (jeez, I've been staring at Twitter for waaaay too long all day - I almost put a #hashtag in front of that #Starbucks just then).
So it was natural when this little drama happened right in front of me. Please keep in mind that I use the term "drama" to cover "all human interaction and dramatic potential." I really haven't had a good, screaming, hollering, throwing, eating a frappuccino with a spoon drama in a few months. Then again, I haven't had *time* to spend three hours sitting in a Starbucks for that long in about three months.
Whatever. They need to be open all night. Seriously. Then I could chronicle the craziness. Anyway.
I'm in line this morning - taking a mid-morning sanity break because otherwise I will stand up, scream and start throwing things. And I don't even have a good primal scream.
This slatternly coulda-beena-yuppie but was reallya-white-trash mother was in line ahead of me. She had a howler monkey slung over her shoulder. Now, we *all* know how I feel about babies, howler monkeys and children in general. I lump them in with chimpanzees in general - who fling poo as a matter of habit.
This baby is cute, blowing spit bubbles and wearing a flowered atrocity which will undoubtedly be the source of years of therapy upon adulthood and the cause for which the mother will be banished to a nursing home that ties the old people to beds. Parents, let that be a lesson - your children choose where YOU spend your golden years. Sunset Acres? Or Forgotten Sunset Acres? You decide.
Anyway. Mummy Spit Bubbles - despite the fact that she's rolling a raggedy pair of jeans and a faded gray warm-up top - grabs a grande caramel macchiatto and some pastry. Which the baby gets. She pays in cash - and gives me my peek of drama. Because, you know, we love the drama here at Starbucks Drama.
Mummy Spit Bubbles - with the howler monkey in one arm - gets the cash. And proceeds to shiff the baby around on her arm until she can get both hands on the cash.
Whereupon she proceeds to hold her hand out, palm up, over the tip jar.
Whereupon she proceeds to count out all the silver in her palm.
Whereupon she proceeds to push the three pennies she received as change into the tip jar.
And then she shoves the assorted silver back into her grungy jeans and goes over to the handoff bar to wait. With her little bundle of joy still slung over her shoulder and blowing spit bubbles at me.
I watched two baristas giver her one of those eye-rolling *looks* while this little performance was going on. It was quite the production for three cents. I don't *DARE* touch the tip jar, especially after the horror stories and screaming fits I read on starbucksgossip.com. If I need change, I ask the barista to make change out of the register or get them make it out of the tip jar.
DO NOT - ON PAIN OF DEATH - GET BETWEEN A BARISTA AND THE TIP JAR. YOU WILL DRAW BACK A NUB.
Seriously. After watching that, I'm starting to understand why the Old Lady Barista always has such a sour look on her face and forgets my personal tumbler discount. She's just in a craptacular Starbucks.
Whatever. They need to be open all night. Seriously. Then I could chronicle the craziness. Anyway.
I'm in line this morning - taking a mid-morning sanity break because otherwise I will stand up, scream and start throwing things. And I don't even have a good primal scream.
This slatternly coulda-beena-yuppie but was reallya-white-trash mother was in line ahead of me. She had a howler monkey slung over her shoulder. Now, we *all* know how I feel about babies, howler monkeys and children in general. I lump them in with chimpanzees in general - who fling poo as a matter of habit.
This baby is cute, blowing spit bubbles and wearing a flowered atrocity which will undoubtedly be the source of years of therapy upon adulthood and the cause for which the mother will be banished to a nursing home that ties the old people to beds. Parents, let that be a lesson - your children choose where YOU spend your golden years. Sunset Acres? Or Forgotten Sunset Acres? You decide.
Anyway. Mummy Spit Bubbles - despite the fact that she's rolling a raggedy pair of jeans and a faded gray warm-up top - grabs a grande caramel macchiatto and some pastry. Which the baby gets. She pays in cash - and gives me my peek of drama. Because, you know, we love the drama here at Starbucks Drama.
Mummy Spit Bubbles - with the howler monkey in one arm - gets the cash. And proceeds to shiff the baby around on her arm until she can get both hands on the cash.
Whereupon she proceeds to hold her hand out, palm up, over the tip jar.
Whereupon she proceeds to count out all the silver in her palm.
Whereupon she proceeds to push the three pennies she received as change into the tip jar.
And then she shoves the assorted silver back into her grungy jeans and goes over to the handoff bar to wait. With her little bundle of joy still slung over her shoulder and blowing spit bubbles at me.
I watched two baristas giver her one of those eye-rolling *looks* while this little performance was going on. It was quite the production for three cents. I don't *DARE* touch the tip jar, especially after the horror stories and screaming fits I read on starbucksgossip.com. If I need change, I ask the barista to make change out of the register or get them make it out of the tip jar.
DO NOT - ON PAIN OF DEATH - GET BETWEEN A BARISTA AND THE TIP JAR. YOU WILL DRAW BACK A NUB.
Seriously. After watching that, I'm starting to understand why the Old Lady Barista always has such a sour look on her face and forgets my personal tumbler discount. She's just in a craptacular Starbucks.
Friday, January 8, 2010
I love you. Let's get married, go to Starbucks and text!
I'm sitting here watching the most surreal thing. I'm going to call this the Text Message Marriage.
And they've apparently birthed a 140-character child.
One, traffic was frelling horrendous. (Google it. You'll like it.)
I roll into the Starbucks and find this couple sitting and staring at each other. What I can only assume was their offspring was sitting in the corner, slamming away on her Nintendo DS with a pen-powered intensity that will carry her far in the bureaucratic ranks. Her magic stylus powers make her a born pencil pusher.
But back to the main event. I run to the ladies room because I need to "freshen up" and powder my nose. I come back and they're still staring at each other.
Only they're not staring AT each other. They're staring at their iPhones. Thumbs and fingers are whipping across the pad with lightning speed. They're less than two feet apart and they're not making a sound, except for the various squeaks and beeps of the phones.
I get my mocha, not a sound. The child has turned around, propped her back against the wall and is oblivious to the entire world. So are her parents.
Mommy has on one of those silly knit caps with the hanging bobtails on the ends. It is white wool and covers a head of Felicity-esque hair. Daddy is wearing an orange long-sleeve shirt and a brown puffy vest. He's so tough that he doesn't need sleeves on his jacket. And a Miami cap.
She has on quilted mules, he has on something that people use to muck out stables. And despite all appearances to the contrary, they're playing footsie under the table. I wonder if they're sexting?
The foot action is interesting here now. I haven't hear a word in the past 20 minutes, despite the skinny cow at the handoff bar yammering on for what seems like forever about her "ski trip to Vail" and how "these people totally don't know how lift tickets work." She sniffs and goes "I've been to France." And I've been to Mexico. Congratulations.
I really do think the couple is sexting. She's got her foot out of her shoes now. Eww. Eww. Toes. Ewww. Wrong. Even though they're not talking, I can only imagine what they're texting.
And they're leaving. Hmmm. I wonder where this is going? A little sister or brother perhaps?
And they've apparently birthed a 140-character child.
One, traffic was frelling horrendous. (Google it. You'll like it.)
But back to the main event. I run to the ladies room because I need to "freshen up" and powder my nose. I come back and they're still staring at each other.
Only they're not staring AT each other. They're staring at their iPhones. Thumbs and fingers are whipping across the pad with lightning speed. They're less than two feet apart and they're not making a sound, except for the various squeaks and beeps of the phones.
I get my mocha, not a sound. The child has turned around, propped her back against the wall and is oblivious to the entire world. So are her parents.
Mommy has on one of those silly knit caps with the hanging bobtails on the ends. It is white wool and covers a head of Felicity-esque hair. Daddy is wearing an orange long-sleeve shirt and a brown puffy vest. He's so tough that he doesn't need sleeves on his jacket. And a Miami cap.
She has on quilted mules, he has on something that people use to muck out stables. And despite all appearances to the contrary, they're playing footsie under the table. I wonder if they're sexting?
The foot action is interesting here now. I haven't hear a word in the past 20 minutes, despite the skinny cow at the handoff bar yammering on for what seems like forever about her "ski trip to Vail" and how "these people totally don't know how lift tickets work." She sniffs and goes "I've been to France." And I've been to Mexico. Congratulations.
I really do think the couple is sexting. She's got her foot out of her shoes now. Eww. Eww. Toes. Ewww. Wrong. Even though they're not talking, I can only imagine what they're texting.
And they're leaving. Hmmm. I wonder where this is going? A little sister or brother perhaps?
Monday, January 4, 2010
The anatomy of a Starbucks fashion disaster
There's a walking fashion disaster happening right in front of me.
This is what happens when country comes to town.
First, the purse is plenty enough of a *statement* on its own. Enormous fake zebra stripes - real zebras would kill for this kind of pattern definition. Red faux leather bottom. Hmm. Maybe even real. This thing is *gorgeous* - the combination of red, black and white doesn't look at all like "Murder in the Rue Ze-braaa" - it is striking. Probably a first-rate European knockoff - or maybe even a top-quality store brand. All downhill from there.
This fabulous handbag is swinging from the arm of a dowdy twentysomething in black tights and a satin floral miniskirt that looks like it should be on the walls of an English country house. An English country house in 1724. Pale blue, ice blue in fact, with a scene of trees and roses and hounds. Are we ill yet? Send in the hounds!
Because there's MORE.
What I mistook for black tights is in fact either a leotard or a bodysuit, because it continues its formfitting path upward and over the hills and valleys of a woman's domain. It clings to her - literally, because it is a couple sizes too small. Ladies can get away with that below the belt, but it don't looks so good on the top half.
Over this, presumably to ward off the chill, she's decided to thrown on the top to a sweatsuit in a dirty aqua color. Well, maybe that's being charitable. It was originally something in aquamarine velour - and now it is just dirty.
There are drop earrings - inch-long gold wire drops with a little holder at the end and a black stone nestled inside. The feet you ask? Ballet flats. Pink satin ballet flats.
And the hair. Ye gods, the hair. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. She's had it done at a tres chic salon in whatever flyover red-state backwater she's from (more on that in a minute) and it looks *good* - shoulder-length, a thousand different shades of brown and blonde and even a few black and red highlights and it is swept up off her head to reveal some pretty good skin. Nature has blessed this child with a nice, thick mane of hair that horses would weep over. Even now, Lady Gaga is plotting to sneak in and cut off a few locks to send off to her secret laboratory of wig scientists.
Only, she's decided to cap the entire look with a Carrie Bradshaw-style fascinator. In this case, an enormous black butterfly fashioned from a couple of ostrich feathers. It rides the air currents above her head like some mordant moth, gazing, watching, waiting, twisting and turning, waiting to strike down all those who displease its most fashionable mistress.
This poor child. THIS POOR CHILD.
Her daddy, for he could be no other thing, rolled in wearing some weatherbeaten dungarees, clodhoppers with the honest dirt of Midwestern toil still clinging to them and an enormous green and teal plaid shirt purchased at something with a Mart in its name. Mommy had on a neat pink and tan pants suit she got on sale at the Dillards, worn over long johns and under a sensible cardigan. Mommy also had a fanny pack and a water bottle on a strap. Her younger brother, who never once looked up from his Nintendo DS, had on khakis and a red and white polo. And an enormous fluffy camouflage jacket. The flyover states picked the wrong time to visit sunny Florida.
This poor child. She's got about seventy fashion ideas screaming at her - all at once - TV, movies, magazines, peers - and she literally doesn't know what to do. I literally do not know what the influence for this is - unless some sort of demented demon told her "this is how you're going to land your school's version of Chuck Bass." That's a scary thought. Because you know, I could sort of see that outfit slapping down the street on an episode of "Gossip Girl." Help me!
Instead of trying to develop one particular style - she just throws it all into the blender and gets something that looks like a Goodwill donation box after a battle royale between drag queens armed with hot glue guns and Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen armed only with the force of his foppish personality - and seventeen yards of chintz.
Please honey, if you're out there, if you're listening, PICK A STYLE ICON, say Marlene Dietrich, and copy her. Or pick a period, say the 1960s, and work that for a while. Don't go for the velour English country house fascinator bodysuit look unless you're ABSOLUTELY sure you can pull it off - and darling, I really don't think you're about to pull this one off.
Cheers for trying though. Major props.
PS: That zebra purse was FIERCE!
This is what happens when country comes to town.
First, the purse is plenty enough of a *statement* on its own. Enormous fake zebra stripes - real zebras would kill for this kind of pattern definition. Red faux leather bottom. Hmm. Maybe even real. This thing is *gorgeous* - the combination of red, black and white doesn't look at all like "Murder in the Rue Ze-braaa" - it is striking. Probably a first-rate European knockoff - or maybe even a top-quality store brand. All downhill from there.
This fabulous handbag is swinging from the arm of a dowdy twentysomething in black tights and a satin floral miniskirt that looks like it should be on the walls of an English country house. An English country house in 1724. Pale blue, ice blue in fact, with a scene of trees and roses and hounds. Are we ill yet? Send in the hounds!
Because there's MORE.
What I mistook for black tights is in fact either a leotard or a bodysuit, because it continues its formfitting path upward and over the hills and valleys of a woman's domain. It clings to her - literally, because it is a couple sizes too small. Ladies can get away with that below the belt, but it don't looks so good on the top half.
Over this, presumably to ward off the chill, she's decided to thrown on the top to a sweatsuit in a dirty aqua color. Well, maybe that's being charitable. It was originally something in aquamarine velour - and now it is just dirty.
There are drop earrings - inch-long gold wire drops with a little holder at the end and a black stone nestled inside. The feet you ask? Ballet flats. Pink satin ballet flats.
And the hair. Ye gods, the hair. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. She's had it done at a tres chic salon in whatever flyover red-state backwater she's from (more on that in a minute) and it looks *good* - shoulder-length, a thousand different shades of brown and blonde and even a few black and red highlights and it is swept up off her head to reveal some pretty good skin. Nature has blessed this child with a nice, thick mane of hair that horses would weep over. Even now, Lady Gaga is plotting to sneak in and cut off a few locks to send off to her secret laboratory of wig scientists.
Only, she's decided to cap the entire look with a Carrie Bradshaw-style fascinator. In this case, an enormous black butterfly fashioned from a couple of ostrich feathers. It rides the air currents above her head like some mordant moth, gazing, watching, waiting, twisting and turning, waiting to strike down all those who displease its most fashionable mistress.
This poor child. THIS POOR CHILD.
Her daddy, for he could be no other thing, rolled in wearing some weatherbeaten dungarees, clodhoppers with the honest dirt of Midwestern toil still clinging to them and an enormous green and teal plaid shirt purchased at something with a Mart in its name. Mommy had on a neat pink and tan pants suit she got on sale at the Dillards, worn over long johns and under a sensible cardigan. Mommy also had a fanny pack and a water bottle on a strap. Her younger brother, who never once looked up from his Nintendo DS, had on khakis and a red and white polo. And an enormous fluffy camouflage jacket. The flyover states picked the wrong time to visit sunny Florida.
Instead of trying to develop one particular style - she just throws it all into the blender and gets something that looks like a Goodwill donation box after a battle royale between drag queens armed with hot glue guns and Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen armed only with the force of his foppish personality - and seventeen yards of chintz.
Please honey, if you're out there, if you're listening, PICK A STYLE ICON, say Marlene Dietrich, and copy her. Or pick a period, say the 1960s, and work that for a while. Don't go for the velour English country house fascinator bodysuit look unless you're ABSOLUTELY sure you can pull it off - and darling, I really don't think you're about to pull this one off.
Cheers for trying though. Major props.
PS: That zebra purse was FIERCE!
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Third place is the second loser! One night at Starbucks ...
Starbucks prides itself on the "third place" mentality - not home, not the office, the mythical "third place," where people will want to come in, drop their loads (and cash) and spend some time and money.
So why, in Cthulhu's name, does this Starbucks feel so uncomfortable? I have never been in a coffee shop that has felt more - "unwelcome" - I guess, to start.
It is large - the floor space is easily as large as any of my normal haunts. But it looks like this was carved out of a pre-existing retail shop, so it is basically a huge square room with a kitchen on one side. And there is enough furniture in that square to seat half of Hannibal's army before he crossed the Alps. And an elephant or two.
Thirty-three seats, with ELEVEN of them those chocolate-box leather couch/lounger things Starbucks uses arranged in a "conversation pit" grouping around the middle of the floor. Somehow, despite the huge floor space, it looks crowded and unfriendly.
And don't forget the merchandise. This, unfortunately, isn't a no-merchandise store. Enter the door and you're hit with a stand of coffee beans and tumblers. And to get to the register, you have to run a gauntlet - LITERALLY - a narrow passage arranged to funnel customers between the shelf of coffee beans and stuff on the wall and a rack of clearance merchandise and leftover Christmas tumblers on the floor butting up to the conversation pit. It just feels to ... "unfriendly."
There's also the noise. Either by hook or by crook, every single noise seems to be amplified. I blame the high ceiling.
Tonight's customers are an interesting bunch.
Directly in front of me are two men, burly enough to be linebackers, but very much *into* each other. The one on the left, wearing blue jeans, running shoes without socks and a zip-up windbreaker, is talking a blue streak about people, places and acquaintances. The one on the right, in blue jeans, hiking boots and a gray T-shirt with a tattoo poking out on the left bicep, could probably put my laptop through the floor and me after it. He doesn't say much, but he's leaning farther and farther forward. He's the Ennis del Mar, the other one is the Jack Twist.
Over to my left are the married yuppies, who came in, desultorily picked over the Christmas tumblers, ordered a pair of tall coffees and immediately sat down and looked at their BlackBerries for half an hour before deigning to talk to each other. He's got on blue jeans and a pullover, she's got on a ill-fitting pair of black slacks, a royal blue blouse and a cute-ish tweed blazer. Someone should tell her to stop trying to bleach her hair at home despite the recession.
Farther over, and completely into each other, although I'm not exactly sure in what fashion, are two skinny twenty-something girls. They're in black from head to toe and have matching jackets with faux-fur lining around the hoods. One looks like she might be a dancer - she has that lithe looks and sits in the chair with an uncommon pale grace - like a tree bare of leaves nestled lightly on a snow-covered field. She seems to inhabit this world but be not quite in it. The other one, a pale child of Asian descent, looks around with a constant grim cast to her features. I hate that she's starting a brand new year (to us, anyway) with such morbid thoughts.
Behind me are two obviously jolly women who are slugging down frappuccinos and a four-pack of those delicious vanilla bean cupcakes. One has a front-end that would make a battleship blush. This girl *must* have the world's best underwire bras - that, or some guide-wires or something. Her companion has a loud, fake Burberry purse - although she looks entirely happy with it. They are guffawing with glee over something and spewing cupcake crumbs all over the place.
One further table down - and this one just walked on - is probably our town's version of Belle du Jour. She clicked in with black tights, a long maroon sweater, a tight black jacket and a skinny boots that went up past her matchstick knees. Hollywood starlets would kill to be this thin. Even the "boys" sitting across from me turned to stare, although they probably just coveted the boots. Then they went back to making faces at each other. Then, Princess Stork Legs had to go up to the coffee bar and get a barista TO COME WIPE DOWN HER DIRTY TABLE. She still hasn't bought anything yet. Maybe she's waiting on a client.
That would make this some kind of a "third place."
So why, in Cthulhu's name, does this Starbucks feel so uncomfortable? I have never been in a coffee shop that has felt more - "unwelcome" - I guess, to start.
Thirty-three seats, with ELEVEN of them those chocolate-box leather couch/lounger things Starbucks uses arranged in a "conversation pit" grouping around the middle of the floor. Somehow, despite the huge floor space, it looks crowded and unfriendly.
And don't forget the merchandise. This, unfortunately, isn't a no-merchandise store. Enter the door and you're hit with a stand of coffee beans and tumblers. And to get to the register, you have to run a gauntlet - LITERALLY - a narrow passage arranged to funnel customers between the shelf of coffee beans and stuff on the wall and a rack of clearance merchandise and leftover Christmas tumblers on the floor butting up to the conversation pit. It just feels to ... "unfriendly."
There's also the noise. Either by hook or by crook, every single noise seems to be amplified. I blame the high ceiling.
Tonight's customers are an interesting bunch.
Directly in front of me are two men, burly enough to be linebackers, but very much *into* each other. The one on the left, wearing blue jeans, running shoes without socks and a zip-up windbreaker, is talking a blue streak about people, places and acquaintances. The one on the right, in blue jeans, hiking boots and a gray T-shirt with a tattoo poking out on the left bicep, could probably put my laptop through the floor and me after it. He doesn't say much, but he's leaning farther and farther forward. He's the Ennis del Mar, the other one is the Jack Twist.
Over to my left are the married yuppies, who came in, desultorily picked over the Christmas tumblers, ordered a pair of tall coffees and immediately sat down and looked at their BlackBerries for half an hour before deigning to talk to each other. He's got on blue jeans and a pullover, she's got on a ill-fitting pair of black slacks, a royal blue blouse and a cute-ish tweed blazer. Someone should tell her to stop trying to bleach her hair at home despite the recession.
Farther over, and completely into each other, although I'm not exactly sure in what fashion, are two skinny twenty-something girls. They're in black from head to toe and have matching jackets with faux-fur lining around the hoods. One looks like she might be a dancer - she has that lithe looks and sits in the chair with an uncommon pale grace - like a tree bare of leaves nestled lightly on a snow-covered field. She seems to inhabit this world but be not quite in it. The other one, a pale child of Asian descent, looks around with a constant grim cast to her features. I hate that she's starting a brand new year (to us, anyway) with such morbid thoughts.
Behind me are two obviously jolly women who are slugging down frappuccinos and a four-pack of those delicious vanilla bean cupcakes. One has a front-end that would make a battleship blush. This girl *must* have the world's best underwire bras - that, or some guide-wires or something. Her companion has a loud, fake Burberry purse - although she looks entirely happy with it. They are guffawing with glee over something and spewing cupcake crumbs all over the place.
One further table down - and this one just walked on - is probably our town's version of Belle du Jour. She clicked in with black tights, a long maroon sweater, a tight black jacket and a skinny boots that went up past her matchstick knees. Hollywood starlets would kill to be this thin. Even the "boys" sitting across from me turned to stare, although they probably just coveted the boots. Then they went back to making faces at each other. Then, Princess Stork Legs had to go up to the coffee bar and get a barista TO COME WIPE DOWN HER DIRTY TABLE. She still hasn't bought anything yet. Maybe she's waiting on a client.
That would make this some kind of a "third place."
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