Primrose sends a Vivanno back three times!

I tend to fall into the passive-aggressive camp when it comes to coffee. I like a little espresso with my chocolate milk, and lately I've fallen into lust for the salted caramel hot chocolate, but I don't think I've ever sent a drink back.

Whether Starbucks believes it or not - no one is going to make the same drink the same way twice, much less every time. As long as it is pretty close, I drink it and go on. I come for the atmosphere anyway. Although, there was a time when one barista was consistently producing terrible drinks - and I pulled aside a manager and said "Look, this is just bad." The girl didn't last because apparently everyone was complaining - not just me.

Anywhoodle. Back to tonight's story.

We'll call them Primrose and Proper Pete. They both have broom handles jammed so far up their rear ends that you can probably open their mouths and sweep.

Primrose and Pete sweep in, peering at the one remaining table of picked-over Christmas merchandise. Those over-priced gift baskets ($62 dollars for some coffee, assorted mugs and other junk) still haven't shifted.  Nor have those books with the mouse. Here's a prophecy: Them books ain't gonna sell neither. They redefine the meaning of pointless.

Anywhoodle. Primrose and Proper Pete order a mocha Vivanno and a peppermint mocha. They whip open an iPad and stick their noses in the air as they survey the lobby.

They look at me. I look at them. They look at me. I look at them. She needs a better haircut, a colonic and probably a dildo. He needs a 22-year-old secretary named Daffodil or Sunny or maybe Bridgitte who wears short skirts and tiny tops and bends over to pick up pencils a lot. They both need to smile a little.

The quiet barista calls the Vivanno - and Primrose immediately sends it back: "Can you just rake off the whip cream? I didn't want it." THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU ORDER IT THAT WAY?

I don't see it or hear it, but we all know there's a repressed sigh.

The Vivanno comes across.

Primrose shakes it a little, sticks the straw in and stirs it and sends it back again. "This looks a little too thin."

Quiet Barista - I named her this because she's the type that NEVER SAYS A WORD - yet moves with perfect efficiency. She has this strange Jane Austen-ish vibe, aided by an array of delicate old-school hair accessories and tiny fascinators.

Anyway. Back to Primrose. "This looks a little thin. I wasn't sure how you make yours. The one I usually go to makes it the way I like. Can you make it again and put another half a banana in it?"

Another repressed sigh, although I swear I thought I saw an eye roll this time. I'd have thrown it back across the bar at her.

This Vivanno comes across the bar. Primrose picks it up, shakes it, eyeballs it like a jeweler pricing a diamond and says "I think it might still be too runny. Can you put less milk in it?"

I definitely saw an eye roll and there was a death stare that should have melted holes in the plate glass windows. This is a Starbucks, not a couture coffee shop!

Vivanno Number Three comes across the bar. Primrose gets it - and Quiet Betty is staring at her. Primrose shakes this one and opens her mouth. Betty hits her with a look that says "Say something - and you'll be wearing that in your pores for a week." Primrose makes an unhappy frown, but wraps a napkin around the cup and sits down.

The action shifts to Proper Pete. He doesn't like his peppermint mocha.

I don't understand how hard it is to screw up one of those, but he doesn't think there's enough peppermint. Quiet Betty wants no more of this nonsense and goes to get the supervisor on duty, who asks him what he ordered and what's wrong.

When the supervisor hears that there's NOT ENOUGH PEPPERMINT, she flips off the lid, squirts in two more pumps of peppermint and slides the cup back across the counter.

Serial complainers.

But they're NOT DONE YET!

Primrose and Proper Pete want some decaf Christmas Blend, but the store is sold out. When the supervisor tells them that the store a few miles a way has some, they get this look like "Well, will you just get in the car and go get it for us?"

How's about no? I'm just not sure why people think that being so demanding to retail and food service workers will ever get you ahead.

Pleather and Combover visit Starbucks

More proof that rich people are crazy. As if we needed more.

A gang of more comes into the Starbucks - which is surprisingly busy tonight - just a few days before Christmas. I guess the coffee shop crowd, like me, doesn't really have a family. Or else, we're stranded here in the sandy tundra, far from home and eating cranberry bliss bars instead of turkey and stuffing. I didn't mean for that to be sad, it just was. I miss my grandma.

Anyway.

This Gang of Four is led by a tall bloke wearing tan slacks, a cornflower and peach collared pullover and a tan leather jacket. His hair is that generic middle-aged hippie "growing it out" thing, that is too long to be "neat" and too short to be a real hippie. He needs a haircut and a comb.

The wife is a piece of WORK. She's wearing ... she's wearing ... well, either pleather or a reinforced Hefty bag. I believe it is a gunmetal gray catsuit - WITH BOOTS ATTACHED - complete with belt. I never see any sort of separation between "pants" and "blouse." This is topped off with an equally atrocious capelet in the same fabric, which shimmers - I'm still not decided if it is leather, pleather or just plain old plastic. But I know the "shoe" part was attached to the "pants" part. She had to have been in her sixth decade, rail-thin and there was a studded dog collar around her throat. She had a voice of command and the other couple jumped when she spoke. Her hair was teased into a spiky crown. I should have gotten photos, I now realize.


They're looking for some special kind of coffee. This store doesn't have it, but another one does. I don't know, I didn't get the details - the Christmas carols have been turned up to an annoyingly loud volume.

The barista is trying to give them really simple directions. He's already been on the phone to the store and said "They're driving there right now - can you put it behind the register?"

Pleather and Combover are yelling at each other across the store about whether or not some woman named "Susan" would want a coffee plunger or a coffee mug or chocolate biscuits and the other two are yelling back and forth between the register and the handoff bar about whether or not they should get coffee or cocoa. There is a lot of yelling and proof that money can't buy class.

The barista starts over with the directions, because no one heard anything the first time around. He gets about halfway through - after the third "turn here" - Combover yells at Pleather and says "FORGET IT, WE AIN'T DRIVING AROUND IN THE DARK NO MORE!"

Pleather starts pouting and picking up tumblers and setting them back down and then picking up Starbucks Via and setting it back down and asking the barista "HOW FAR IS IT AGAIN?"

Combover howls again "WE AIN'T GOING. GET YUR COFFEE."

The other two have moved over to browse a display of reasonably attractive but over-priced Starbucks gift packs. They look suitably uncomfortable.

Exuent side door, Pleather, Combover and the un-named couple.

Just another night at Starbucks with Mumsy and Chirpy

Four days before Christmas and the Starbucks is dead.

There's a super-cheerful version of "Santa Clause is Coming to Town" blaring out over the speakers, but that's the ONLY sound, other than an occasional scrape of a chair, in the shop.

There hasn't been a customer since 8:30 p.m. There might not be another until closing time at 10 p.m.

There are five of us here. Two barista, cleaning, stocking, moving things around with brisk efficiency, not intruding on the calm. Their noises don't intrude over the soft slide of Bing Crosby crooning "White Christmas."

An African woman with a wild head of hair that would do Sideshow Bob credit is slumped in one of the comfy chairs. She's buried in a laptop and hasn't said a word since before 7 p.m. - not even when the six-kid extravaganza raised enough of a fuss to shatter windows. She's listening to some deep electro-trance and working over a website. She's gotten up twice, once to buy a fruit and cheese plate and again to get a refill on a passion tea lemonade.

The man behind me is another regular, but I don't know his story. He comes in around 9 p.m. each night, buys a local paper, proceeds to sit at a four-top and reads it cover-to-cover. The baristas even know to save him one. He drinks one venti drip, never anything fancy.

And there's me.

Five people, sitting, typing, reading, washing, stocking, moving in a quiet ballet that never intersect another person.

We have customers!

An old man with an combover that must be a foot long if you combed it out and an equally old woman wearing a faux Burberry raincoat. Neither of them say anything, they just point.

Close on their heels comes a chirpy child and her mother. Mumsy is wearing skinny jeans and a cardigan. The child is clutching a nutcracker for dear life. They are accompanied by a Russian Mafia bodyguard who watches from a post behind a display of Starbucks Via and mugs. I am tempted to star, as he is wearing a very shiny silver hat, but he could probably bench press me with one hand, so I leave off and resume typing.

The trick that Mumsy and Chirpy pull is one for the record books.

Chirpy is apparently giving her precious Nutcracker as a gift. I hear Mumsy telling her - "Can I see it, just for a second? I need to see how big it is?"

Mumsy looks around and finds a cheap coffee tumbler and asks the barista to "gift-wrap" it. At least she bought something instead of just asking for paper and a bag.

The barista, a sylph-eyed young thing who doesn't talk a lot, takes the tumbler, wraps it up in tissue paper and practically throws it into a plain brown and green Starbucks bag. The whole time this is taking place, Chirpy is banging her Nutcracker on the counter in front of the register, reducing a biscotti to its component parts.

Mumsy reluctantly throws the biscotti wrapper into the pile "to be paid for" as well. Then, Chirpy starts "rapping" - going "NUTTY BUDDY, NUTTY BUDDY" over and over.

While the barista is running the credit card, Mumsy looks up and says "she wants to be a rapper today." This is the whitest child I've ever seen - and she's holding a Nutcracker. That's a rapper, alright.

Just another night at Starbucks.

Is the Starbucks condiment bar a stash house?

I'm not making any allegations, nor am I suggesting anything, but if there's ever a narcotics arrest at this Starbucks, I know EXACTLY where the stash  has been hidden. At the condiment station.

First, one of the baristas does a spin through the lobby and cleaned the condiment station, which was admittedly messy. He wiped it down, straightened all the pamphlets and stocked all the napkins.

This involved much banging and opening of the drawers. Which, as I was seated right in front because the shop was unnaturally busy on a Sunday evening, was loud and made me cranky, I did not appreciate. But, their house, not mine.

Five minutes later, another one came over to "straighten" the napkins again and put new napkins underneath, in the cabinet part. More banging. Still, business must be done.

Ten minutes later, more packages go in and out of the cabinet. It must be a Tardis, to hold the quantities of napkins underneath there. Straws and stirrers get re-stocked this time - and I start wondering why the first barista couldn't do all this properly the first time? Because he banged stuff around for a solid fifteen minutes.

Another five minutes, and the second barista is back to bang stuff around again. Four trips over the course of 45 minutes. Only one of these involved anyone cleaning anything or re-filling milk.

The rest of the time, they were rooting around underneath the cabinet.

Just the baristas.

I really hope it isn't some sort of obscure drug drop. They already sell enough legal drugs in there at $4.40 a pop for the iced mocha crack. CAN YOU IMAGINE IF THEY STARTED SELLING ANYTHING ELSE?

I wonder if you'd get like an extra gold star in MyStarbucks Rewards for that? Or just a trip to the pokey?

Starbucks salted caramel hot chocolate: An update on the situation

For the past week or so, there has been a CRITICAL shortage of salt in the 239 area code. When I say CRITICAL, I mean "work stoppage critical."



Yes, these are First World Problems. Babies are starving in Africa. Et cetera... This is entertainment. I tip my barista and carry green bags to the grocery store. Deal with it.

I really want to do the French thing and protest on the streets. But I'm not French. I'm Scottish. And I'm not painting myself blue.

At least three Starbucks stores have run out of the salt topping that adds an extra dash of "special" to the salted caramel hot chocolate. This state of affairs clearly cannot go unremarked upon. Where the hell is WikiLeaks with a trove of cables and emails to document THIS SITUATION?

It all started last week, when I wanted a post-luncheon hot chocolate. The busy store downtown was out. Blam. Strike ONE. The drive-thru I hit on the way to work ran out four days ago. Blam. Strike TWO. My "hometown" Starbucks - the one where Starbucks Drama was founded - ran out last night and did a good job faking a hot chocolate with extra chocolate, whip cream and mocha and caramel syrup. Still. STRIKE THREE, YOU'RE OUT.

I've really fallen in love with the salted caramel hot chocolate over the past few weeks, none the least because it has been slightly nippy in this part of Florida - well, if you count 50 degrees nippy. All the native Floridians scream blue murder and haul out the jackets and scarves. All the ex-Yankees giggle and send cell phone photos of the palm trees and sunny skies and screen shots of the temperature readings on their iPhones to all their friends back in the frozen tundra.

Me? I came from a place where the leaves changes and we got snow once every three years. I love cold weather and think 50 degrees is a nice change of pace, but I don't freak out about it. AND I WANT A SALTED CARAMEL HOT CHOCOLATE.

If Starbucks has 8,000+ stores in this country, they can at least get supply-chain management right.

Well, lo and behold, they got it right tonight. The drive-thru closest to where I was reviewing a play had the salt. I SPECIFICALLY asked "Do you have the salt for salted caramel hot chocolate" before I ordered - and they said "We just got some more this morning.

I got the drink - AND IT WAS NOT GOOD.

The universe does not want me to have this drink.