T     H     E

                                W    O     R    L     D     

                                        e x i s t  

                           

                                       Because

                                             of                

                                      P e o p l e  

                                            like

                                M   a  c      V   o   g   t  

                                              H E    

                                                is

                                              M y  

                        G   O   O   D    +    M  O   R   N   I    N    G                                                                                            

Originally shared by Mac Vogt

Coffee & Thoughts

The other day, Queen DUFF?????????????????????????? asked if I ever get upset with my customers.

As a rule, no. I’m a customer service professional, I’m a servant. I’m a host. I’m Alfred Pennyworth. I’m Buddha. I take a sincere joy helping folks attain an unspeakable level of experience with their coffee. I love my customers. They’re great. They, afterall, have the wonderful taste to come to our fine establishment, a hole tucked away in the wall, up a flight of stairs, credible at 4.5 stars on Yelp and thirty-three reviews, boasting the recognition of BlogTO as serving the best coffee in the neighborhood YONGE-DUNDAS…

There are no bad apples. They spill shit, I clean it up. I make soothing sounds all the while. They want to talk about themselves endlessly, I listen. They don’t like something? I make it again with a smile. It’s all part of the job. And I love my job.

There are no bad apples.

Except for one.

I was outraged.

He came in as if he stepped out of a GQ magazine. Dressed to the nines, a solidly middle-aged gentlemen, looking all gentlemanly. Tight haircut, exactly fit, unique glasses. Moneyed. He gave out the distinct impression he was respectable.

And with an easy confidence, this sharp gentleman came to me, and he asked, “Why is your espresso so expensive.”

With a period, like he was talking down to me.

I blinked. I looked with him to our tastefully indie chalk board behind me, where the number next to the word “espresso” read 2.85. Plus tax for three dollars. I looked back to see if he was kidding, but his expert brow furrowed deeper in disdain.

My adrenaline rose and I asked, “What cafes are you comparing us too?”

He said, insolently, “McDonalds and Starbucks are around $2.25.”

This GQ man just compared my espresso to McDonalds. And Starbucks. But, McDonalds?

Let us imagine this handsome, upper class man in a suit, sipping espresso at McDonalds.

I told him, “At all the cafes I’ve been to, three dollars is standard.”

He said, “No it’s not.”

I laughed, politely, full of barista rage, and said, “Well, see, I know for a fact that Starbucks and McDonalds are here,” I raised my hand to my chest to indicate a level. “And our espresso is here,” slowly as to show multiple notches being passed, I raised my hand to eye level and locked my eyes with his.

He said, “No,” but I could tell he was shaken. Maybe he felt at this point he was committing an error, but wasn’t sure where he was wrong. There was a confused stubbornness about him.

I assured him the case was indeed as presented, with the caveat that I’ve never tried McDonald’s espresso. I went on to say I did know with fair certainty that Starbucks uses like month old beans, roasted to hell to mask the crappy quality, and pulled with an automatic machine which cannot be calibrated to the crappy bean.

He regained his composure and said, “It doesn’t make a difference.”

I assured him that not only is every part of their extraction process, I’m sorry, bad, but most of these Italian inspired cafes extract 2 oz out of only 7 grams of coffee, which is an over-extraction by a large margin. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s bitter and lame.

We use 20 grams for the same volume. To get it sweet and strong. It’s a double shot, sir, ristretto, calibrated perfectly.

With that, he gave in. It was the deal he was looking for, that he was getting a double shot at $3 when the competition offered singles at $2.25.

The McDonalds drinking GQ man then ordered an espresso with the same easy confidence he demonstrated at the beginning. He looked away, to the horizon. Nothing unusual had happened. That was his acquiescence.

I pulled him an espresso in a war-torn silence. I made it perfectly.

He ordered a scone as well, and I made him that too. He tipped me a dollar. I said, “Thanks, man.”

I watched him take his espresso and scone to the window bar, and he did not taste his espresso until well after it died. Espresso rapidly deteriorates at seven seconds. You’re supposed to enjoy right away. But no. He munched his scone with dignity, alongside his now flat, shitty espresso, ignorant.

He drank it purposefully. Then he left.