Barista Blessing

I earned a nice, steamy lump of coal on my head yesterday.

[Since stupid Starbucks doesn't offer free wifi (not yet, but word has it they're caving--ha HA!) I headed to Hastings, a really cool college town video/book/music megastore. Needless to say, it's not Starbucks quality. I knew my 16 oz. decaf soy no foam latte would be substandard, but still. Anything over $3 that doesn't have adult-only juice better be at least decent.]

I stare at the menu board (fully knowing my order but unable to prevent the obligatory gawking) then ask if they have soy. The Barista or Coffee Creator or whatever burns through my face with Queen Victoria's best and smirks. "No."

So what that soy is clearly listed as an option? This chick stole my stare! That's my look!

I reluctantly impart the espresso orders, adding a few extra adjectives for good measure, and then...that look...again! Sheesh. This is the worst customer service ever. Starbucks baristas give footrubs with one hand and delight you with quips about the cooling rate of milk while they whip up a beverage. What got into her? Exchange change without a single word and slink to a booth, avoiding all eye contact. I wouldn't put it past her to spit in my drink. Better keep an eye on her.

So I pick up said beverage and, no surprise, it's terrible. At least I'll get some internet for my $4.25 cup 'o bitter.

As soon as I sit back down another customer approaches the counter. He has a limp and a speech impediment. His speech is slow. And it's clear that this isn't the first time he's been here. Oh great. This chick's gonna rip a whole in him.

But as I spy on their conversation, this hardened, lousy latte maker transforms. She asks him how his day is going and knows him by name. They chat about her upcoming wedding, his favorite movie, and the ridiculous heat. And just at the point that gets uncomfortable for most people, she parks it on a stool outside the counter and lets the barrage of questions continue. She talks to him in a respectful, yet simple manner so he understands. She beautifully preserves his dignity. This continues for 40 minutes. He follows her as she wipes the tables and restocks drip coffee, all without a hint of unease. He leaves reassuring her that he'll be back tomorrow.

Should any of my children enter the world a bit slower, a bit more talkative, a bit socially unaware, I pray that they meet this wonderful woman who makes dreadful non-soy lattes. I pray that people like me (who forget that baristas have souls and exist for purposes greater than making my hot beverage) would not judge, as I did in such an ugly and superficial way.

God bless you, barista babe.