This morning I went down to the local cafe for my habitual caffeine fix. It had recently changed hands and I was excited to see what was new in store. I could feel the modification as I entered the seemingly familiar environment; loud dubstep beats replaced the tranquil jazz that once set a relaxed and friendly atmosphere. I tried to ignore the electronic sounds and made my way to the counter. I felt rude distracting the heavily tattooed employee from her iphone application but I was very much in need of a coffee. “Sorry,” I interrupted, “could I please order a latté with one sugar?”
“We don’t do lattés,” she replied, without raising her gaze from the electronic screen.
“What do you do then?”
“Look at the menu,” she said, disinterestedly.
I turned my attention to the large blackboard hanging above the girl’s head. The majority of information displayed was written in a mixture of foreign languages.
“I’ll have a café noir,” I said, in my best French accent. The drink was obviously a distance from the milky latté I’d anticipated, but it was the only caffeinated beverage I was able to identify from the disjointed list.
The girl didn’t respond to my order; she just dawdled over to the coffee machine and began production. I was eventually handed a tiny cup of black coffee and requested to forfeit eight dollars in payment. Distracted by the seizure-inducing music I paid the fee and quickly stepped outside. I took a mouthful of the lukewarm liquid and struggled it down. It was horrible. I looked back through the glass paned door to see the barista again engaged with the apple device. I reflected on what had just taken place: A nineteen year-old girl, with no education, minimum wage employment, and inadequate social skills, had somehow made me feel like the least important person in the world.
“We don’t do lattés,” she replied, without raising her gaze from the electronic screen.
“What do you do then?”
“Look at the menu,” she said, disinterestedly.
I turned my attention to the large blackboard hanging above the girl’s head. The majority of information displayed was written in a mixture of foreign languages.
“I’ll have a café noir,” I said, in my best French accent. The drink was obviously a distance from the milky latté I’d anticipated, but it was the only caffeinated beverage I was able to identify from the disjointed list.
The girl didn’t respond to my order; she just dawdled over to the coffee machine and began production. I was eventually handed a tiny cup of black coffee and requested to forfeit eight dollars in payment. Distracted by the seizure-inducing music I paid the fee and quickly stepped outside. I took a mouthful of the lukewarm liquid and struggled it down. It was horrible. I looked back through the glass paned door to see the barista again engaged with the apple device. I reflected on what had just taken place: A nineteen year-old girl, with no education, minimum wage employment, and inadequate social skills, had somehow made me feel like the least important person in the world.