"Sure," I said. "It's the capital of Tunisia, on the northeast corner of Africa, near the tip of the Italian boot—or, if you prefer, the island of Malta."
"Double cappuccino, half-caf, oat milk, caramel drizzle, a touch of cinnamon. Foam—just enough to look nice, no more," Spoke ordered.
I call him Spode because he reminds me of a character of that name in the P.G. Wodehouse novels. He's nothing like Spode, really, except that he's the sort who can turn ordering coffee into a Shakespearean tragedy.
This local version of Spod is a bit of a celebrity. He writes a column for Port City Arts and Entertainment, reviewing local hot spots and the arts scene, keeping us informed of the cultural goings-on in the city.
After placing his order, he walked toward the seating area and immediately came to a standstill. He resembled a man who, after lunch with old friends from out of town, suddenly realizes he left his wallet on the kitchen counter at home.
Minutes later, the barista approached him with his order.
"Your double capp," said the barista who arrived at just that moment.
"I haven't found a table. I can't stand and have my coffee," he said.
"There are tables near the window," said the barista, "and several along the far wall."
She made a delicate sweep with her arm, as though revealing tables that had been invisible until this very moment. Her gesture was so dramatic that I wondered if she was enrolled in drama classes at UNCW. I decided to call her Desdemona. I don't know why. Just a whim, I think.
"Oh, that won't do at all," said Spode. "I need a cafe table in the center of the room. The light is too bright near the windows, and the television near the far wall is too loud. I need a quiet, well-lighted space to enjoy my coffee."
As Desdemona walked past our table, I caught her eye. "Well, that turned a little dark, didn't it?" I whispered.
"That's alright," she said. Then, turning to glance back at Spode, she added in a low, menacing tone, "I can go dark too."
Several minutes passed with Spode standing in the middle of the room, giving the evil eye to seated customers. Eventually, he walked back to the order-here spot.
"Excuse me," he said, moving to the front of the line. "I need to make a small change in my order," he said to the barista at the counter. "I've decided against the sprinkling of cinnamon on my cappuccino."
The order taker gave Spode a look that clearly communicated: I'm not a major player in this episode, only an extra with no speaking parts. This intrepid extra demonstrated professional-level improvisation by looking at the barista to his left, who nodded knowingly and moved away, presumably to handle the modification.
Spode turned back to the seating area and walked to a table that had just opened up very near our own. Desdemona soon returned with his order.
"I'm sorry," said Spode, "but that's simply far too much foam. Can you remake it with half as much?"
She took the coffee away without a word.
Presently, a beautiful, thin-foam cappuccino was delivered to Spode's table. I expected to see him bloom like a flower in a gentle summer rain, but it wasn't to be.
"Excuse me," Spode called after the retreating Desdemona. "I don't want to be a bother, but I changed my order to leave off the cinnamon, and yet there's cinnamon sprinkled all over the foam."
Desdemona gave him a long, slow, expressionless look.
"I simply will not be able to write my article if I can't enjoy my coffee exactly the way I like it," he said. "Anything less will ruin my entire day."
The expression on the barista's face remained unchanged.
"Please," Spode whined.
Still silent, she took the coffee away again.
Several minutes passed without noticeable barista activity. Spode appeared anxious and eventually gestured for attention.
"Am I ever going to get my coffee?" he asked when Desdemona arrived table-side. "At this rate, I'll have the article finished before it gets here."
“Hang tight,” said Desdemona, calm in that Zen-like state of not caring. “Don’t lose your cool and disappoint your readers with an anxious article. We’re bringing in a master barista from Calabash to make your coffee.”
Unfortunately, I had to leave before the Calabash specialist arrived, which disappointed me; I’d been eager to talk with this legendary craftsman. I’ve long wondered about the fuss over blonde espresso. That mystery, it seems, will have to wait for another Sunday morning.
As for Island Irv’s geography lesson, that mystery will have to wait. Some questions—like some cappuccinos—are destined to remain unfinished.
"That's alright," she said. Then, turning to glance back at Spode, she added in a low, menacing tone, "I can go dark too."
Several minutes passed with Spode standing in the middle of the room, giving the evil eye to seated customers. Eventually, he walked back to the order-here spot.
"Excuse me," he said, moving to the front of the line. "I need to make a small change in my order," he said to the barista at the counter. "I've decided against the sprinkling of cinnamon on my cappuccino."
The order taker gave Spode a look that clearly communicated: I'm not a major player in this episode, only an extra with no speaking parts. This intrepid extra demonstrated professional-level improvisation by looking at the barista to his left, who nodded knowingly and moved away, presumably to handle the modification.
Spode turned back to the seating area and walked to a table that had just opened up very near our own. Desdemona soon returned with his order.
"I'm sorry," said Spode, "but that's simply far too much foam. Can you remake it with half as much?"
She took the coffee away without a word.
Presently, a beautiful, thin-foam cappuccino was delivered to Spode's table. I expected to see him bloom like a flower in a gentle summer rain, but it wasn't to be.
"Excuse me," Spode called after the retreating Desdemona. "I don't want to be a bother, but I changed my order to leave off the cinnamon, and yet there's cinnamon sprinkled all over the foam."
Desdemona gave him a long, slow, expressionless look.
"I simply will not be able to write my article if I can't enjoy my coffee exactly the way I like it," he said. "Anything less will ruin my entire day."
The expression on the barista's face remained unchanged.
"Please," Spode whined.
Still silent, she took the coffee away again.
Several minutes passed without noticeable barista activity. Spode appeared anxious and eventually gestured for attention.
"Am I ever going to get my coffee?" he asked when Desdemona arrived table-side. "At this rate, I'll have the article finished before it gets here."
“Hang tight,” said Desdemona, calm in that Zen-like state of not caring. “Don’t lose your cool and disappoint your readers with an anxious article. We’re bringing in a master barista from Calabash to make your coffee.”
Unfortunately, I had to leave before the Calabash specialist arrived, which disappointed me; I’d been eager to talk with this legendary craftsman. I’ve long wondered about the fuss over blonde espresso. That mystery, it seems, will have to wait for another Sunday morning.
As for Island Irv’s geography lesson, that mystery will have to wait. Some questions—like some cappuccinos—are destined to remain unfinished.
