I'm with you, aloof barista

Never learn my "usual!"

There’s a coffee shop in my neighborhood that I go to a few times a week, where I always order the same thing: a flat white with whole milk. Nine times out of ten, I get the same barista, who acts like he’s never seen me before.

“Whole milk OK?” he says. “Yep!” I reply, while inside I silently shout, just like every other time!

Sometimes when he makes it, I compliment it and he says thanks. One time I thought I got in a little when he said he liked my fanny pack, which is denim with embroidered flowers on it. It’s the sort of item I like to turn to the front when I go into places where I’m categorically less cool than three quarters of the people in there. Cool people almost always compliment it, to which I recite back, “It’s made from upcycled denim.” They seem to like that, which makes me feel like I just got a gold star.

In aloof barista’s case, however, the fanny pack was a one-off. When I went back a few days later, he asked what I’d like to order before following up with the whole milk question again.

I suppose it’s natural to feel a little offended that he doesn’t ask if I’m having “The Usual?” with a knowing wink every time I waltz through the door by now, much less show any sign of recognition whatsoever. Am I really so unmemorable? But the more I think about it, the more I think he has the right idea. Hospitality is exhausting enough for most human beings.

I was never a very good barista, most obviously because I worked in a crappy cafe whose owner never taught staff how to properly pull an espresso or steam milk. (In fact, during my interview, he asked me to steam plain old whole milk as a test. I foamed the shit out of it, inelegantly poured it into a glass, then he drank the whole thing in front of me and told me I had the job.) The place is a laundromat now.

But the real reason I was a terrible barista is I took it upon myself to not just serve, but try to brighten the mood of every person who walked through the door. This would’ve been OK if I were the sort who gets charged up by hours of chatting up semi-strangers while preparing them something they have strong opinions about (which I was categorically bad at making). But I found the social aspect positively draining after a certain point, especially during the morning rush, for which we were perennially understaffed. Yes, regular in the khaki jacket, please tell me more about that weird thing on your foot while I address this backlog of four strawberry banana smoothies (Why the fuck do we serve smoothies here? At least the machine will drown him out for a good minute), four bagels—one lightly toasted, one extra—two lattes that I don’t know how to make and three coffees (Shit! I forgot to start the second pot because I was appeasing regular).

My friend who owns a restaurant recently told me almost nothing bothers him more than when a customer walks up and says, “Do you remember me?” I can’t stop thinking about this. On the one hand, how can he possibly answer no to a customer he’d like to see come back again and again? On the other, as the person asking that, how can you expect someone who’s greeted, accommodated, traded niceties, and perhaps laughed with thousands of people to remember you because you came in once or twice?

Arguably, no one asked me to go above and beyond at that shitty coffee shop. My 24-year-old self had yet to work through an insidious internal cocktail of people-pleasing female and Midwest nice that came with every surface-level interaction. But I’d also find myself haunted by the vulnerabilities that certain people felt comfortable enough to offload just because I poured them a cup of fine-enough coffee every day. I make minimum wage! This isn’t my burden to assume!

I like to think that aloof barista, who I’d place in his mid-20s, has long since figured out that this is a job for a licensed therapist, not a barkeep or coffee shop employee. Or else he simply doesn’t care. Either way, he’s right. Because what does aloof barista really owe me at the end of the day? Nothing more than to serve me a fine flat white and be really, really sure that I still want whole milk in it.