Serenity's Revenge

Earlier today at the Circular Journey Café, Island Irv and I had coffee with a friend named Elliott, although Irv and I call him Brambles for his insistence on wearing wild, unkempt hair, a wispy beard, and bare feet. 

The trouble began, as troubles often do, with excellent intentions and a sixteen-ounce flat white. "Gentlemen," Brambles announced, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had discovered a conspiracy of cosmic proportions, "I believe my coffee has been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" I repeated, glancing at the cheerful café atmosphere around us. "How? Why?"

"My ex-girlfriend, Serenity, is operating the espresso machine today," he said. "I had no idea she worked here when I ordered."

Island Irv, who believes that all coffee-related drama stems from the Enlightenment, said as he looked deep into his own espresso, "So you think she put something in your coffee? Maybe she’s just genuinely committed to good customer service.”

Elliott was having none of it. He shook his wild, unkempt head. “She gave me that smile when she handed me my drink.”

“That’s standard protocol," I said.

“No,” he said. “It was the smile that says, ‘I hope you enjoy your little cup of regret for dumping me, Todd.’”

“Your name’s Elliott,” I reminded him.

“She used to call me Todd when she was mad at me. It was a thing. I'm sure she put something in it."

“What would she put in it that would be so terrible?” asked Irv, giving the cup a sniff.

“I don’t know. I'm convinced she's added something that will either make me projectile vomit on the nice couple at table three, or send me rushing to the restroom when someone else is occupying it."

I examined the coffee: it looked perfectly ordinary, though I reasoned that was the mark of a well-planned poisoning. “I think you’re being a little paranoid,” I offered.

"Why don't you simply order another coffee?" Irv suggested with the practical wisdom of a man who had never overthought a beverage.

"Can't," Elliot said. "She's watching me. Every time I think she's occupied somewhere else, she materializes like some sort of caffeinated apparition. It's as if she has radar."

He wasn't far from right. As if on cue, Serenity looked toward our table and waved with the enthusiasm of someone who is genuinely pleased to see her ex-boyfriend.

"Right," I said, rising with the determination of a man accepting a noble mission. "I'll get your coffee. I'm expected to order at least two every Sunday morning. She won't suspect anything."

She was waiting for me when I approached the counter. “Back already?” she asked sweetly.

"Sixteen ounces of the very best African bean, blended with oatmilk, and a dash of nutmeg," I said, avoiding eye contact like a spy delivering a password.

"Elliot takes his espresso with cinnamon, not nutmeg," she said, her tone as innocent as a cherub.

I froze. How could she possibly know? I tried to remain stoic, but she read my face like a TikTok meme.

"Lucky guess," she said, beginning to prepare the drink with movements that seemed almost too deliberate. "Tell him I said hello."

I returned to our table feeling I'd been outmaneuvered by a master.

"Well?" Ned asked anxiously.

"She knows," I reported. "Somehow--I don't know how--but somehow she knows."

Island Irv stood up, cracking his knuckles like a gunfighter preparing for a showdown. "I'll take care of this. I've got experience with difficult women."

"All women are difficult when it comes to you," I pointed out, but he was already striding toward the counter.

Five minutes later, he returned with an expression of bewildered defeat. "She asked if I wanted extra foam for Ned's latte before I even had a chance to order. Then she talked me into trying something she called a turmeric shot. I felt powerless. It went down hot."

In the next few minutes, Serenity disappeared into the back room, and Irv made another attempt only to see her re-materialize like caffeine-fueled mist just as he reached the register.

“Anything for you, sir?” I heard her ask Irv, and she wore that now-familiar smile—the one that apparently meant “Todd.”

After three more rounds of this game—each ending with one of us ordering unnecessary baked goods or, in Irv’s case, an alarming second turmeric shot—we decided to try honesty.

I approached her and said, “Serenity, did you put something in Elliot's drink?”

She looked me in the eye and said, “I put love and care in every beverage I make.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” I observed.

“I believe a little mystery enhances the flavor,” she replied," and we strive to exceed the expectations of every customer on every visit."

"Well, could you at least promise not to put anything unpleasant in his next order?" I asked.

Serenity paused in her cleaning, considering the request with the gravity of a judge weighing evidence. "I could," she said finally, "but I won't."

"But why not?"  I asked.

"Because," she said, her smile taking on a distinctly mischievous quality, "where's the fun in that?"

I retreated in tactical defeat, leaving Elliot to contemplate his potentially sabotaged beverage with the expression of a man facing his doom.

"So what do I do?" he asked.

Island Irv shrugged with his characteristic philosophical acceptance of life's absurdities. "Drink it or don't drink it. Either way, you'll know."

"That's your advice? Drink the potentially poisoned coffee?"

Without asking for permission, Irv took a tentative sip of the suspected latte, his face immediately contorting into an expression of profound confusion.

"Well?" Elliot asked.

"It's..." Irv said, taking another sip, "actually quite good. Excellent, even."

Elliot stared at him in astonishment.

"The best coffee I've had in months," Irv continued, draining the cup with apparent relish. "Rich, smooth, perfectly balanced. Whatever she put in it, it worked."

From behind the counter, Serenity's laughter chimed like silver bells, and I realized we'd witnessed something far more sophisticated than mere sabotage. It could only be described as the most elaborate hoax designed to mess with someone's mind in the history of café culture.

And so we left the cafe this morning with Elliot clutching a second cup of Serenity's mysterious brew, and Irv praising the consciousness-expanding powers of turmeric-induced enlightenment. 

I suspect Serenity's real revenge was in watching us spend half an hour convinced we were part of some evil conspiracy, when all along she was simply doing what any talented barista would do—making sure every cup was memorable. I'm beginning to believe that baristas wield more power than sorcerers.