I work in a bubble tea café. In walks a small group of people, with one female customer who is studying our menu thoroughly. I notice she is talking to another member of the group about some of our premium choices, three of which are currently unavailable and have big signs over their pictures saying “sold out”.

Everyone but her orders, and she finally seems to make a decision.

Customer: “Hi. Can I have the [sold-out premium drink]?”

Me: “Unfortunately, that one is sold out, as indicated.”

Customer: “Oh. What about [different sold-out premium drink]?”

Me: “That one is also sold out, sorry.”

Customer: “Hmm. Okay, then I’ll have a classic milk tea, instead.”

Me: “Great! With tapioca topping?”

Customer: “Yes, please. Oh, wait, does the classic milk tea have milk?”

Me: “Uh. Yes, the classic milk tea is with milk.”

Customer: “Oh, I didn’t know. That’s fine.”

I make the drink and hand it to her. She comes back a few minutes later.

Customer: “Excuse me. What toppings did you put in?”

Me: “Tapioca? The ones you agreed to?”

Customer: “Oh, okay. They’re weird.” 

With that, she walked out. I turned to my coworker and asked if we both heard all of this; she was equally as confused as me.

I was traveling with family from Italy to the USA to visit some relatives. I was fourteen, and my grasp of English was fair, but I believed myself to be the Grand Champion of the English Language.

I was disabused of that notion when I went to have breakfast with a cousin at a local cafè. The menu was nothing I had never seen before, but there was an item, “latte”, that caught my attention. So, I confidently went to the counter to get some.

Me: “I’d like to have one cold latte, please.”

Barista: “Sure, would you like to have it iced or just chilled?”

Me: “Uh… I’d like it cold. Like, straight out of the fridge cold.”

Barista: “All right.”

I order a slice of cake to go with it before paying and leaving my name so to be called up. I passed time chatting with my cousin, and then my name was announced. Picking up the tray, I saw there was a slice of cake, all right… and a cup full of milky coffee.

Me: “No, wait, are you sure this is my order?”

Barista: “You ordered a chilled latte and cake, didn’t you?”

Me: “Yeah, but you gave me stained coffee instead of latte.”

Barista: “Wait, stained coffee? This looks perfectly fine to me.”

Me: “It looks like coffee, yes, but I asked for a latte — milk. I don’t like coffee at all.”

Barista: “Are you trying to prank me or what?”

Apparently, this had gone on long enough that my cousin had left the table.

Cousin: *In Italian* “[My Name], what are you doing? Why is it taking you so long?”

Me: *In Italian, as well* “This guy is telling me this is milk when it clearly isn’t. Don’t y’all drink straight milk around here?”

Cousin: *Facepalming* “Hang on, I’ll tell you later.” *Switching to English* “Forgive him; he didn’t know the menu. Don’t make my coffee. I’ll take this for myself.”

Then we went back to the table.

Me: “So, where exactly did I screw up?”

Cousin: “You asked for a latte. But that doesn’t mean ‘milk’ in English.”

Me: “Wait, then what does it mean? ‘Whatever the man behind the counter feels like’, or what?”

Cousin: *Groaning* “It means ‘coffee with milk’, you narrow-minded moron.”

I must admit it took me all my strength not to punch him for being condescending, but in hindsight, I see where he was coming from with that comment. I still don’t like coffee, but at least now I ask for actual milk in cafés in English-speaking countries!

Related:
This Customer Has A Latte Problems, Part 4
This Customer Has A Latte Problems, Part 3
This Customer Has A Latte Problems, Part 2
This Customer Has A Latte Problems

A few weeks back, I saw two young women on their way out of the café where I work. One of them had a really cute avocado plushie sticking out of her bag, and as I’m a huge plushie fan, I commented on it, telling her how cute it was. She laughed and told me where she’d found it, and they left.

That was that — at least I thought.

Today, they were back, getting a coffee and something to eat in our cafe. Recognising me, one of them asked me if I had gotten myself an avocado plushie yet.

Me: “No. I thought about it but decided to be reasonable. We have a bunch of plushies already, and I don’t know how my husband will take me bringing home another one…”

They smiled, got their food, and headed to their table. I didn’t see them leave, but half an hour later, they approached me again, holding an avocado plushie out to me.

Customer: “Surprise!”

They actually simply got me one and gifted it to me!

They got another round of cake on me for that, and I admit I cried a little after thanking them about fifty times.

Oh, and my husband took it in stride!

Related:
Avocado-No-No, Part 3
Avocado-No-No, Part 2
Avocado-No-No

CONTENT WARNING: Gross (Description of infection and treatment)

It’s 2005, and I’m working at a popular Canadian coffee shop while in university. One day, I come in to work and see a new employee in the back filling out paperwork. I introduce myself.

Me: “Hi! I’m [My Name], nice to meet you. Is this your first day?”

Woman: “Yes, it is! And my name is [Woman].”

Me: “Well, I look forward to working with you! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to—”

Woman: “I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday, so I won’t be in.”

Me: “…okay?”

Woman: “Yeah, I have a nasty yeast infection that won’t go away.”

Me: “Um…”

Woman: “It never gets better, only worse, but thankfully, my husband doesn’t mind the smell.”

Me: “Okay, listen, I have to—”

Woman: “The doctor is going to scrape it out of me. It’s like a surgery. He’s going to scrape the yeast out of me.”

Me: “All right! Well, I have to clock in so…”

Woman: “Yeah, it’s really bad. And it smells. Oh, are you leaving? I’ll catch you at break and tell you more!”

I scurried off as fast as I could and tried to forget what I had just heard. I never did see her again. She had to leave right after filling out her paperwork, and I didn’t work the next day, but I was told things got even weirder.

Apparently, she refused to do any work at all — citing her right to refuse unsafe work — and still expected to get paid. Climb a ladder to get a box? Unsafe. Make coffee? Unsafe due to the high temperatures. Clean the tables in the lobby? Unsafe due to the cleaning chemicals.

She was sent home after telling several other colleagues — WHILE BEHIND THE COUNTER — about her “lady problems” and upcoming “scraping”.

In college, I tend to go to a cat cafe when I’m anxious or to celebrate after a stressful period. The cat cafe partners with a shelter, so the cats in the cafe tend to rotate as they get adopted or new cats come in.

There is one new cat who is named Martha. Martha is older (five years old), missing her right ear entirely, and skittish. I am permitted to greet her, but afterward, she leaves when I try to pet her, so I let her be.

I sit down on a couch and get monopolized by a cuddly kitten. Immediately, I notice that a boy keeps “chasing” cats around the room (following them even when they get up and walk away from him), putting cat toys on their heads while they’re sleeping, and ignoring when the cats’ ears pull back — basically, ignoring the polite cat-speak for “I’m good, thanks.”

His mom doesn’t do anything and is talking to her daughter about which one they should think of adopting.

At this point, the boy starts following Martha around and actually corners her on an armchair where she has no escape.

I speak up at this point.

Me: “She’s a little skittish.”

The boy waves me off and pets Martha.

Me: “No, I mean she’s very skittish. I don’t think she really likes that.”

I am politely indicating that he should stop. I get a very polite response.

Boy: “Butt out!”

Okay, then I will.

Martha shrank back and was very obviously not happy; her one remaining ear was folded back at this point. The boy was basically standing over her, and no matter how much she meowed at him, increasingly louder, he didn’t stop petting her, even trying to play with her feet, which she withdrew hastily.

Finally, Martha had enough, managed to squeeze past him, and bolted into one of the empty cat boxes.

This would be the clue to stop, but the boy actively put his hand into the cat box to try to keep petting her.

He unsurprisingly yelped and jumped back; Martha had scratched him.

For the rest of the time I was there, the boy whined about how he was “just petting the cat”.

I enjoyed the rest of the hour allotted to me petting the cats (even Martha sat on the couch near me at one point) before leaving the cafe. I kind of doubt the kid learned anything from that, but one can dream.