Time: A weekday afternoon. 3-ish.
Place: Ritual Coffee Roasters on Valencia Street in San Francisco.
Me: In a mid-afternoon slump, slightly blurry, jonesing for a caffeine boost.
At the counter: A girl, 18-ish.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Counter girl: What would you like?
Me: A cappuccino, please.
CG: For here or to go?
Me: To go.
(a pause)
Me: Oh, and can I ask a favor? Can the barista stir a tablespoon of raw sugar into the espresso before adding the foam? Because, you know, when you add the sugar afterwards, it gets caught in the foam, and… (stops, slowly, as a sour expression of distaste spreads over counter girl’s face)
CG: Umm, we don’t… do that.
Me: You don’t do what, exactly?
CG: We don’t add… anything… to our espresso. We don’t believe in ruining it. We believe that our coffee shouldn’t have… things…added to it. Philosophically, we just don’t believe in it. So, no.
Me: Oh. Okay.
Barista (overhears and leans over, frowning): Sugar makes the espresso bitter, and we’d really rather not ruin it. (shakes his head, clearly displeased) I mean, I’ll add it if you really want me to, but… (furrows brow, sighs)
Me: No, that's fine. Just make it the way you make it.
Barista: I mean, if you insist.
Me: No, really. Just make it the way you make it.
CG walks away and whispers to her associate at the other end of the counter. They giggle, glancing in my direction.
I turn away. I have never felt this ashamed in the act of ordering coffee in my life. Ever. I feel like a heel, a rube, a bumpkin.
And there, in the middle of the busy room, tears rush to my eyes. I am simultaneously furious at them and furious with myself for letting it affect me so much. My brain clamors with judgment as my ego rushes to its own defense: how dare this greasy-haired girl with ill-fitting pants treat me like a disease? Who are these people, anyway? I want to walk out, forget that I ever stepped through the red-flag-waving door.
But I stay, willing the tears to subside. (Why? I don’t know. It takes me far too long to walk away from bad situations.) The barista finally slides my drink across the counter with a final disappointed glance.
I pick up the cup and walk out.
In the relative safety of the sidewalk, I try to figure out what just happened. Was it me? Was it them? Did I really just about have a breakdown over... a cappuccino?
All I know for sure is this: I am never. Going back. To Ritual. Again.