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by devnym

“… A friendly bit of PA for all those people who seem not to understand how hours of operation work: THEY’RE NOT SUGGESTIONS. This place opens at 8am on Sunday. EIGHT….

My Body Is Just A Filter: Coffee In, Sarcasm Out 

Pet peeves, am I right? Nearly everyone has them. As a barista, however, my pet peeves are a tad bit unconventional. You may not understand why the following things annoy me, unless you one day take a stroll in my espresso stained sneakers. However, with that being said, I will do my best to articulate my aggravation.

So, to all of the people who are not baristas: Stop ordering caramel macchiatos “upside down,” for the love of baby Christ in his wooden cradle. This drink request makes about as much sense as the instructions for putting together kit furniture. That is to say that this drink request makes little to no sense whatsoever.

Sorry, IKEA. I still like your lamps.

For those of you who do not know, a latte is made by pulling espresso shots and pouring them into the bottom of a cup, either to be topped with steamed milk or cold milk, depending on whether or not you want the beverage hot or iced. On the flip side, a macchiato is made by pulling the espresso shots after the milk has already been poured, later adding them to the top of the beverage. Seems simple, right? It is!

Until you come thwarting into a coffeehouse, of course, asking to have your caramel macchiato made “upside down.”So, my darling reader—can you have your macchiato made upside down?

The answer is “No!” Absolutely not. Literally never in life can you have a macchiato of any kind made “upside down,” unless you stand on your head and make the executive decision to then spill it all over the floor while holding it within your ungrateful little hands. So please stop asking us baristas to make them this way. What you actually want is a latte, which I and my fellow coworkers will gladly provide you with a smile. Another thing, before I waltz away to make more not-actually-macchiatos for sleepy eyed strangers: iced cappuccinos do not exist, either. You’ve heard it here first, folks! An iced cappuccino is, more or less, an iced latte—yet again.

Herein lies the difference between a latte and a cappuccino: the milk inside of a cappuccino is steamed for a longer time period, in order to achieve a larger quantity of foam. Cappuccinos are also often topped with cinnamon or cocoa powder, which is simply fabulous, but that is besides the point. In terms of ingredients, they are basically the same drink, save for the way in which they are prepared for.

A cappuccino in all of its toasty, foamy glory cannot merely be reduced to an iced beverage. That foamy glory is what defines the drink—the warm drink, mind you. Not cold. If you think you would like an iced cappuccino, then you would probably enjoy an iced latte—also known as the proper drink to be ordering, in this scenario.

Are we sensing a pattern here? I sure am.

So, my lovely ladies and germs, what have we learned today?

“When in doubt, order a latte.” Someone wise, probably.

A tired barista.
Bee, Writer, Hell’s Kitchen

Wake Up For Chrissakes!!!

When the subway is standing with its doors open, don’t just think about yourself making it in just in time—most of the time there’s a few people behind you trying to make it in, too. I can’t stand when a person running in front of you (you running behind them) makes it just to the doors of the subway, and then slows the hell down like it’s just them that needs to make it on. I can’t help but passively push/nudge them on the shoulders to put some pep in their step. Like, c’mon!

Rich, Troublemaker, Midtown

The Early WORM Catches The BIRD…

A friendly bit of PA for all those people who seem not to understand how hours of operation work: THEY’RE NOT SUGGESTIONS. This place opens at 8am on Sunday. EIGHT. I don’t care, Mr. Member, if you unfailingly stand in front of these doors at 7:30am every week. I’m here early so that I can set up the gym to receive its members; not so that you can come in for an extra half an hour that we don’t owe you, because WE’RE NOT OPEN. Do you come in anyway? Oh, yes, you’re practically on my heels, sighing heavily like I’ve inconvenienced you by letting you in before the gym is actually open. We go through this routine every Sunday. You don’t get to play beleaguered paying members should I show up at 7:45 instead of 7:30—I’M STILL NOT LATE AND WE’RE STILL NOT OPEN. And you CERTAINLY don’t get to stand over me whining about unacceptability should I manage to get in before you and lock the doors behind me so people can’t waltz in when they feel like it. We open at 8, fuckers, and consider yourself lucky that I open the doors five minutes before.

Eloise, PhD student, Upper West Side

“I’m on a whisky diet. I’ve lost three days already.” Tommy Cooper

There are levels of drunk, and they go in this order: Sober, Buzzed, Tipsy, Drunk, Wasted. You can reach a certain level or you can be in between levels. But the border lines are clear, like the border between the United States and every other country in the world. On low key bar nights, normally people fall between Buzzed and tipsy. Occasionally, they might find themselves on the Tipsy side of Drunk. On more amped evenings, the majority of the outfit crash land between Drunk and Wasted. Completely understandable. Completely acceptable. As long as you can behave like a mature adult and take care of yourself without relying on a friend to rehydrate you, hold back your hair, or find you when you’re missing, get as shwaysted as you want. 

But when it gets to the point when you need my help just standing up, go the fuck home. You had a good night, sleep it off. I’m no one’s babysitter. How can I expect to have a good time if I’m worried about your sloppy ass. Sloppy drunk is a look that no one can pull off. No matter how high on the hotness scale you are, sloppiness instantly knocks you down to hot mess.

Over the weekend, I met a girl, a beautiful girl, who could not hold her liquor to save her life. Lightweight doesn’t even begin to describe her lack of tolerance. Perfect example of a time to call it quits. This girl gets so wasted that her motor skills are noticeably impaired. We’re bar hopping, and she didn’t feel like waiting in line for the bar bathroom, and decided to use the porta potty. Ugh, just that name, disgusting invention. Might as well just call it, camping. I’m waiting for her outside, and all of a sudden hear her scream, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, NOOOOOOOO!!!!” She comes out seconds later. Turns out she forgot her cell phone was in her back pocket. It fell in the hole in the ground. She tried to retrieve it, but that phone is and will always be forever unclean. I thought she must have fallen in by the pitiful desperation of her voice.

That probably would have been better.

Andrew, Yacht Master, Brooklyn

Silence is Golden…Duck Tape is Silver.

Last night, I witnessed an Instagram, Facebook, and Snapchat phenomenon unfold right before

my eyes. A couple came into the restaurant I work at, or a wannabe couple. I think it was their first date. I could sense the awkwardly cute ten sion between them. You know, still trying to play

it cool while simultaneously projecting feelings of interest and genuine curiosity towards the other person. It was quite adorable, until something unsettling happened. As I was seating them a cozy romantic table, I noticed something off about the woman. In particular her face. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I could tell that something was wrong. But instead of lingering like an idiot, I bid them “Bon Appetit,” and got back to work. But throughout the course of their dinner, I made a point to walk past their table and do a casual glance at the woman’s facial features. She was pretty, a solid 7.5. But I couldn’t discern what made her a little less than an 8. As I seated another table with a child carrying a rubber ducky, it dawned on me. The woman had PSCF: Permanent Snapchat Face. She was intentionally making the duck face, pushing her lips out to make them appear fuller and more voluptuous than they really are…THE ENTIRE DATE! While that’s impressive, who’s that desperate does that?!?! There’s no way you can keep up that facade.

Don’t get me wrong, women lie all the time, not verbally, rather the image we project into society. Cosmetics, high heels, push up bras, they’re all enablers. And while those are subtle adjustments we use to alter our body, they’re also material. We can put them on, take them off, even throw them at people when they piss us off. But consciously pursing your lips to impress a guy is a new low. If you believe you have to physically alter your facial structure to capture a guy’s attention, you need to seriously evaluate your life.

Maxine, Server, East Village

Keep Humming For The Birds

This is New York City. When we all moved here, we mentally signed an unspoken contract that laid out the daily obstacles we would face in the city. There will always be lines at Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s. Times Square is reserved for tourists, cartoon characters, and the Naked Cowboy. And finally, you will frequently become irrationally angry at slow walkers, loud neighbors, and screaming children who mildly disrupt your current quality of life to the point of near suicide, homicide, or combination of the two.

As New Yorkers, we put up with a lot. But one thing we absolutely will NOT abide by, nor should we have to, is humming or singing on public transit. I don’t care if you have head- phones in your ears. I don’t care if the whole damn train has headphones in their ears. You don’t sing on the subway. Save that for the shower, dancing in your bedroom, or when you’re doing karaoke. If you have your head- phones in, you’re going to sing louder; because we subconsciously need to hear the sound of our own voice when we speak. But that does not mean that everyone else in the general vicinity of you needs to hear your gibberish. So shut the fuck up, and let me travel in peace.

Jason, Actor, Bed Stuy

Ladies, Ladies, Please!

There is a woman at my job, let’s call her Fern. Fern is my superior, not necessarily my boss, but within the same rank. No matter what I am doing, she has the uncanny knack to put me down for something. At first I thought it was just me, but then I saw how she behaved toward my female co-workers as well and it confirmed my suspicions. She doesn’t like women. She’s subconsciously threatened by the presence of other vaginas in the room. It’s like she feels backed into a corner and therefore always needs to come out swinging, asserting her dominance in the room so no one can even come close. It’s beyond rude. It’s further than condescending, it’s borderline harassment and verbal abuse. If I wasn’t so broke, I’d quit my job. Then I’d kick her ass.

Marjorie, admin, Jersey City

“… As New Yorkers, we put up with a lot. But one thing we absolutely will NOT abide by, nor should we have to, is humming or singing on public transit….”

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