I Panic When I Buy Coffee

I panic when I buy coffee that is not from Starbucks. It’s a deep-seated panic that jolts my heart nearly awake enough for me not to need the caffeine, but not quite enough to rip me from my somnolent haze. And the reason is three words: Tall. Grande. Venti. That’s right. Tall. Grande. Venti.

Let me explain. You see, back in the day coffee wasn’t a big deal. It was just caffeine. It had a job to do, and you got it so it could work its magic and you could make whole sentences by the time you got to work. And so you went to Starbucks. You muttered that you wanted a coffee in small, medium or large and someone repeated your order back to you with a huge smile saying Tall, Grande or Venti. And eventually this became part of your nomenclature.

And then they came. The coffee cognoscenti. The ones who pooh-poohed this proliferation of caffeination, preaching hand crafted, hand made, doubled steamed dry cappuccinos and the likes. Basically they came and small batched the shit out of coffee. Planting their flag in a pile of beans as the sommeliers of caffeine. Baristas in the high courts of coffee they turned coffee into an academic pursuit with cocoa sprinkles in a leaf shape on the top. Or maybe it’s a heart. Do academics heart things? Probably not right?

And in these hallowed spaces – these ivy leagues of coffee – you just can’t say, “I’ll have a Grande iced coffee with one pump of vanilla.” No. If you mutter a half sentence that has Tall, Grande or Venti in it, you’re pretty much throwing the book at the institution of coffee.   You’re aligning with corporate America and the downfall of all small business. You might as well call the barista a guy who makes coffee, and his finely crafted facial hair – yes I’ll say it – a beard. What you are doing is exposing yourself as someone who uses caffeine rather than someone who appreciates coffee. You might as well also tell everyone there that you drink wine from the box and not just when the screw tops are all finished.

If you’ve ever dropped a “Grande” bomb in one of these places, you’ll know exactly what I mean. You are frowned at in away that’s not about misunderstanding; it’s more of a “God is disappointed” frown. Then you are shown cups and asked to point at which one you would like, like a child who is minutes away from a time out if you don’t get it right. And then when you get your coffee you will notice there is no leaf/heart – a gentle jab really because they hate you.

So each time I wander, not fully awake, into one of these places, I fear I will be exposed for the Venti fraud that I am: a girl who just wants a cup of Joe in the morning. (Also, at the end of the day I just want a glass of wine but I’m happy with a cup too). And somehow I’m turned into a mumbling twit as I lose all words while my brain tries to navigate around those three no-no ones. I think I might have a family history of Tourette’s and pray I don’t blurt one out like a puff of the steam they are putting in the wet cap with almond milk.

I really hate that coffee has become a way to make me feel so bad about myself. That what I hold in my hand is now a sign of class, social standing, and political alignment. I mean its just caffeine. One cup and I’m as smart as the next guy. It can be delicious, crafted, double roasted, tripled foamed, but its just caffeine. Wake up and smell the Grande coffee.

*This was written using the Wi-Fi of a “fancy” coffee shop just for spite.