Just as the Campanile bells toll for the start of the hour, caffeine-deprived students far and wide rush to my place of work, the last-standing Yali’s on-campus, in the hopes of getting in line before it inevitably reaches the Oxford Street location.
Yesterday around noon, I was artistically rendering a beautiful latte feather when I received an outrageous order from Fitz Balsen-Mouph, a first-year engineering undergrad and self-proclaimed “virtuoso of java, both script and drink.”
I literally heard him rehearsing his order several times under his breath, which might be why he felt so readily confident to not-so-subtly “brandish his connoisseurship of espresso minutia”. With an unwavering arrogance, he proceeded to request a “flat white,” over-sharing that its “modicum proportion of microfoam milk to espresso is the only acceptable ratio for his gustatory palette.” Disgusted but assertive and strong (as our locally-sourced, house-brewed coffee), I roared in his face, “I AM NOT ON THE MENU!”
This is not the only instance of disrespect I’ve had to encounter at Yali’s. Just last week, customer Richard Rasch tried to make a shot at me when he pretended to order a sandwich for lunch.
His exact words were, “may I request your white loaf”, but before he finished his “order”, I walloped that perv clean across his face. He continued to whine that his “meal was also spoiled, having to settle for second-rate whole wheat bread”. It’s not my fault we only order enough sourdough and baguette bread to last an hour after opening. Needless to say, that chicken got clubbed.
I may be a person of European descent, and I may also hypothetically have zero ass, but that does not warrant the sorry excuses for flirting that I have to endure as a barista. All those coming to Yali’s to order a supposed coffee item that isn’t even listed, consider these espresso beans spilt: I AM NOT ON THE FUCKING MENU.