There’s a new language I need to learn. It isn’t Arabic – useful as that would be – it’s far more urgent than that: coffee shop speak. Because every time I try to order a simple, honest-to-goodness, straightforward cup of coffee, I’m either unable to make myself understood or I’m met with a wall of resistance. I’m not objecting to the basics (I’m not that curmudgeonly), and certainly know my mocha from my macchiato. I’m talking about being offered something with a name like blend-a-licious-frappy-whopper-choco-giggles special of the week, probably served with a triple shot of apple sauce and a hiccup of rainbow dust.
Call me paranoid, but I tend to avoid pick-me-ups with creative names. Still, this being early morning in Abu Dhabi rather than late night in East London, I gave the cheerful man behind the counter the benefit of the doubt. ‘Can I have a regular coffee, like, a normal one?’ I asked, meekly.
‘How about just a simple Kerazzy Karamel Kup?’ he countered, with a wheedling look in his eyes.
I knew it would be horrible. I knew I’d just been manipulated into purchasing a colossal beverage that would taste like one of the ice cream bins at Baskin Robbins after a week left out in the sun. But I’m not great at interacting with humans before I’ve had my morning coffee. I’m weak spirited, easily confused, cranky and can’t open my eyes properly. So I’m certainly not up to complicated negotiations with perky baristas. Against upselling, particularly when I don’t even understand what the words mean, I’m utterly defenceless.
So my drink arrived. It bore closer resemblance to Christmas trifle than the simple cup of joe I wanted – essentially a tankard of pouring cream blended with ice, topped with whipped cream, sauce and chocolate sprinkles. The last time I requested sprinkles at 8am, my dad laughed, pinched my five-year-old cheeks, and told me grown-ups didn’t have sprinkles for breakfast. I believed him at the time, and, 20 years later, should have heeded his advice. Because after drinking that concoction, in addition to the caffeine rush, I was bouncing off the walls, cranked up on sugar. Sadly, the elation was quickly followed by a sour-tempered crash.
I should probably knock the caffeine habit on the head – I’m a down-to-earth soul and ordering is far too stressful for me. Maybe from now on I’ll stick to good old fashioned water. Mineral water, of course, preferably bottled at source – it tastes fresher. I generally stick to the French stuff, lightly sparkling, please. And I only drink it through a straw, with two ice cubes and a twist of fresh lime – never lemon – placed on the side of the glass. Drop the squeezed wedge into the water at your peril. I’m not being fussy, that’s just the way I like it, okay?
