Speak Of The Devil And They’ll… Capture Your City? Or Something?

I am working as a barista in the city, taking orders at the till on a particularly busy Saturday afternoon. This older lady gets to the front of the queue. She seems disinterested and fed up from the get-go, but whatever. That’s, like, the majority of the general public when you’re working in this industry. I’m in a pretty good mood, so I think nothing of it and greet her with my best customer service smile.

Customer: “I want to order a coffee, but I can’t say the name of it because we’re at war with them.”

First of all, I live in the UK, which hasn’t been at war for a good number of years, touch wood.

Secondly, it’s worth noting here that this coffee shop is one of those specialty pick-your-own-blend-type places, and we do almost every type of coffee you could think of. This gets confusing (for all involved) at the best of times, let alone when given whatever sort of criteria this is supposed to be. Often, when customers insist on being vague for whatever reason, I make an educated guess, and I have a pretty good success rate. But WHAT can I go off of here?!

Me: *Politely* “Ma’am, I understand your reservations, but I don’t really understand what you want. Can you explain the kind of drink it is? Is it a blend or a coffee type that you don’t want to say? Please give me a clue.”

Imagine the biggest full-body sigh you’ve seen. Ramp it up a notch. That’s what her response is.

Customer: “I’m not going to say the name of it.”

Bear in mind, too, that there is an enormous queue behind her, full of stares, that just keeps building. This starts to stress me out, so I begin the hopeless endeavour of trying to guess what on God’s green Earth she could mean.

We go through this mutually humiliating back-and-forth, during which she gets increasingly angry for each second that I don’t get it. I ask yet again:

Me: “Ma’am, is there any more information you can give me to help me get you what you want?”

Customer: “I won’t say it. I won’t support them. I won’t be any part of it.”

I continue reeling off anything I can think of. Honestly, I don’t think she even listens to the majority of what I say. It’s a real possibility she’s missed a correct guess whilst flailing angrily.

After a bit, she starts outright yelling, banging her fists on the counter, and getting closer to me. (Thankfully, there is a plastic screen that separates us.) At one point, she turns to a young couple standing behind her — who, by the way, look terrified — and gestures toward me to imply that I am crazy.

This lasts for what feels like forever but is realistically the best part of ten minutes.

Customer: “FINE! The USA coffee! Are you happy?!”

Better than ever, thanks!

I’m not sure if seeing that phrase when you’re away from the situation makes it obvious what she wanted. But for me, my brain was too frazzled to try and decode anything anymore. I was anxious, I was stressed, and I just wanted her to tell me what the f*** kind of coffee she wanted. I kind of just blankly stared at her as she continued to talk to me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet, hoping she’d eventually get bored and just tell me her order. She didn’t.

Quick reminder: there was still an enormous queue.

It finally got to a point where I straight-up walked off the till and told my manager I was not serving that lady anymore. I went on break while someone else dealt with it because, of course, asking her to leave (as I requested) was off the cards. Customer’s always right, right?!

I came back after my break to see the woman had finally sat down with her drink. I don’t know how long it had taken since my efforts, but it was done now. The puzzle was finally solved.

An Americano. She’d wanted an Americano that whole time.