And Another Thing...: I Only Asked For A Cup Of Coffee
...The vision from the glossy pages hands me my coffee; I hand over the ransom and look for somewhere to sit.
All of the chairs at the tables are occupied so I lower myself into one of the deeply upholstered sofas, wondering if I will ever be able to get up again and reflect on the good old days when I could go into a coffee bar, perch on a stool, ask for coffee and be understood. It didn't cost an arm and a leg then, either...
Arthur Loosley goes through the semantic maze of ordering a drink in a fancy modern coffee bar.
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'A cup of coffee please'.
The ultra-fashionable young lady behind the counter seems not to have heard me.
'What do you want?' she asks.
'Coffee,' I repeat, 'Just a plain cup of coffee.'
Again, I add the word, 'please' but that doesn't satisfy her.
'But what do you want?' she repeats.
She points to a board on the wall bearing names such as Mocha, Latte, Americano, Espresso, Cappuchino, Frappuchino & Machiato . . .
'I really only want a nice cup of coffee: strong, with a splash of milk and no sugar,' I tell her. Already I am beginning to feel unwelcome here.
'Latte?', she asks?
'Just coffee, please, with a splash of milk and no sugar'.
Oh, you want Americano, she chirps, in a tone matching the look of pity in her eyes, set in a field of iridescent green make-up.
I am about to ask her to explain the difference when I spy a small folded card on the counter. 'Fresh filter coffee' it says, almost apologetically, from its hiding place behind a plate of pastries. They're talking my language at last, and the price is a few pennies less than the other varieties. Perhaps that's why they don't want us to see it, but .
The vision from the glossy pages hands me my coffee; I hand over the ransom and look for somewhere to sit.
All of the chairs at the tables are occupied so I lower myself into one of the deeply upholstered sofas, wondering if I will ever be able to get up again and reflect on the good old days when I could go into a coffee bar, perch on a stool, ask for coffee and be understood. It didn't cost an arm and a leg then, either.
I also remembered that for many years I thought I didn't like coffee, until I discovered that the stuff my mother served up was actually labelled 'Camp' chicory and coffee essence . It was a thick dark syrup consisting mostly of sugar, with just 4 per cent of coffee, presumably to justify its inclusion on the label. It was absolutely awful, and the sweetness was overpowering. It also attracted ants to the kitchen cupboard.
More recently I have discovered that even the manufacturers now admit that it tastes better cold. Just a little of the stuff stirred into chilled fresh milk, either full cream or skimmed depending on one's level of cholesterol consciousness, is just right for a hot summer's day, and there's no need to hire an interpreter to know what you're drinking, because it's all on the label in plain English.
Love them or hate them, the new fancy overpriced coffee bars have become a multi-billion dollar global business. They dominate the market and use their massive buying powers to drive coffee producers' prices down - or out of business - and their own profits relentlessly up.
Clearly, they are here to stay, and will manage very nicely without me.
A nice cup of tea, anybody?
Arthur Loosley, 2006
