I posit you this. In what universe does cappuccino sound like mocha?
Seriously. I’m not indulging in the rhetorical, I want an answer. I have been wracking my brain trying to figure out by what process exactly you hijacked my caffeine the other morning.
Let me paint you a picture, maybe jog your memory a little.
It was still quiet at the coffee stand, no earlier than eight thirty or so. Pretty much the only sounds were my stomach growls and the squeaked rumble of the steam spout on the coffee machine.
The barista turned to us and asked “Chocolate sprinkles on the staff size cappuccino?” Loud, clear, articulate. He didn’t even mumble, nor did he have an accent.
I said no. I don’t have chocolate sprinkles on my cappuccino. If I wanted chocolate with my coffee I would order a mocha. I’m not five, I don’t need to trick my palate into drinking coffee. I like coffee.
You said yes. Apparently a giant spoonful of sweet cocoa in your milk is not enough for you. You wanted sprinkles too. And sprinkles you got. Or rather I got them.
The barista, poor man, looked a little bit confused but when you stepped forward to claim the cup he dutifully powdered the milk froth and handed it to you, “and for the mocha?” Now it was my turn to be confused, why was he looking at me? Silly person I was I assumed you had ordered a cappuccino too.
You laughed. A vacant little giggle. “Oh, the mocha is mine!”
I have never wanted to hashtag bitch slap someone to that extent.
The sole reason I refused the baristas offer to make me another and quickly hurried off with my sprinkle contaminated beverage is because had I stayed I would have risked performing this little rant face to face, pouring out not just my annoyance but perhaps the cup you handed back to me over your head. Some days I should get points just for not stabbing anyone with a fork.
Do the world a favour, go to Starbucks next time. It’s your kind of place. They’ve got so many toppings and flavours you won’t even know you’re drinking coffee.