Confessions of a Barista

0 Comments 14 November 2009

I spent the past few days pondering whether I am experienced enough to write about a job at Starbucks. Let’s face it, I’ve been there a week; I don’t even know how to make a salted caramel signature hot chocolate. Perhaps what is more interesting than a brainwashed barista blabbing of free one pound coffee bags every week, is a n00b point of view.

I work at One International Place off Oliver Street, a Starbucks that is commonly known as, “the one that gets SO BUSY, they wear headsets.” Yes, that’s us. Every day suits and executive breasts pile in looking for a mid morning fix.

Once I drape myself in the black uniform and tie on the green apron, I am their slave. Trust me, I don’t despise it-they tip very well-but when behind the counter I feel about as human as Rosie Jetson.

Imagine what she couldve done with TWO leg-rollerblades.

Imagine what she could have done with TWO leg-rollerblades.

Working the espresso bar makes me feel like some sort of chef. As silly as it sounds, each drink is similar to a dish, in that in needs to be cooked (steamed in Starbuck’s case), combined, and garnished to perfection.Pouring the caramel sauce on top a caramel macchiato is eye candy that makes me want to keep one in my room on a shelf, forever, rather than eat it (just like I did with my first Cinnabon in 1997).

Steaming milk while brewing espresso shots simultaneously reminds me of cooking with my mom back in New Jersey, one hand puree-ing pea soup and the other turning over spinach patties. Of course, at Starbucks I don’t get to watch the Sopranos while I work.

But the job is awesome. I get to work all kinds of non stop movement positions.

The first day I had to call out people’s drinks at the “handoff plane” (aka the fucking COUNTER) where the drinks apparently take flight into the customers hands-I realized that I sounded like an upscale hot dog vendor. My voice slowly ascending: “getcha double tall sugar free soy peppermint MOE-kuhhhhhh!”

If you came out of the womb and said to the gynecologist, “Grande bold?” this job is for you. Barista’s find themselves saying Grande Bold 300 times per shift.

Would you rather say Good morning and thank you 300 times? You will love register. That is, of course, if you can deal with the touch screen monitor which is about as accurate as Ray Charles at an archery range.

Overall I must say I like the job. My manager is very respectful and easy going. He convinced me that Starbucks is good for a community. A hyper caffeinated community. Filled with yuppies.

So yes Starbucks is controlling my mind; does that satisfy all you anti corporation money haters? Sure Mom and Pop coffee taste great too. That’s obvious. But I don’t have any passion about coffee beans or flavors or blends.

The reason being, I don’t drink coffee.

*Gasps!*

How is that possible? It can’t be?! But, but, but…

It’s true. I have achieved the impossible. I work at a Starbucks, but I don’t drink coffee. The only thing I’m required to do by Starbucks corporation, is develop my ability to converse with customers about whether Ethiopian Sidamo tingles the sides of your tongue or the back. From time to time I have to know what country the coffee’s come from and what pastries** compliment certain coffee flavors.

You’re probably wondering why I’m happy about this. The main reason is because caffeine does terrible things to your body, so I’m happy I have a perky job without the percolated fluids in my system.

Think about how great I feel walking around knowing everyone else is harming their body and I am not. =O It’s like walking around a doughnut connoisseur convention munching on carrot sticks.

**Starbucks doesn’t serve pastries. Muffins, scones, and brownies are not pastries. They are baked goods that are made with high fat dough. Pastries are the distinguishable cousin of baked goods that have a thinly rolled dough, lower in fat. The croissant is the only pastry Starbucks serves. “Crispy Squares” (commonly known as RICE KRISPIE TREATS!) are NOT a pastry. Just because pastry sounds high class, doesn’t make it right. When the coffee guzzling corporation officer decides to start serving sfogliatelle, turnovers, pies, tarts, and crepes, come talk to me about pastries.

Written by a man who wakes up at 4:30am three days a week.

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Tom Smith

Tom Smith - who has written 31 posts on Tom Smith Hearts.

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Mom: You better hide your stuff.
Me: What stuff?
Mom: Your little doo-dads.
Me: What doo-dads?
Mom: You know…
Me: What? My weed paraphernalia?
Mom: Yeah.
Me: Why?
Mom: People can see it in your apartment
Me: Who’s going to see it in my apartment? My friends?
Mom: It could be anyone, you never know who’s going to be in your apartment
Me: I’ll never know who’s in my apartment?
Phone Conversation
09/07/10
Patting myself on the back
After finishing Matt taibbi’s great derangement, I feel so validated about my attitude toward politics.

There are certain beliefs I have about politics that people easily dismiss because they come off nihilistic, overly negative, and well, easy to dismiss. I have, since 2008, believed:
1. The American political system is solely a business of businessmen, with money the number 1 priority, always.
2. American foreign involvement in war or occupation in third world nations will never stop, it is embedded into the economy and always will be.
3. The candidates are the same, other than small social issue debates. Both Democrats and Republicans support the war regardless of what they say, and the President has little power to make drastic changes to a system that already produces massive wealth for the upper class.
In The Great Derangement Taibbi explores American politics and the right wing religious culture, only to discover that everything in this country can be whittled down to one key concept: $

So when people argue with me about NOT voting for the candidate who will bring “CHANGE,” or try and make me feel like an asshole for not partaking in the hype/buildup/debate or the 08 election, I can now simply say- you are not on my level on knowledge and understanding.

You don’t have a choice, you don’t win, and you can’t change it. You live in a terrible country (unless you like both buying new products and working 9-5).
07/29/10
Here I have a confession to make. It’s not something that’s easy to explain, but here goes. After two days of nearly constant religious instruction, songs, worship, and praise— two days that for me meant an unending regimen of forced and fake responses— a funny thing started to happen to my head. There is a transformational quality in these external demonstrations of faith and belief. The more you shout out praising the Lord, singing along to those awful acoustic tunes, telling people how blessed you feel, and so on, the more a sort of mechanical Christian skin starts to grow all over your real self. Even if you’re a degenerate Rolling Stone reporter inwardly chuckling and busting on the whole scene-even if you’re intellectually enraged by the ignorance and arrogant prejudice flowing from the mouth of a terminal ambition case like Phil Fortenberry— outwardly you’re swaying to the gospel and singing and praising and acting the part, and those outward ministrations assume a kind of sincerity in themselves. And at the same time, that “inner you” begins to get tired of the whole spectacle and sometimes forgets to protest—in my case checking out into baseball reveries and other daydreams while the outer me did the “work” of singing and praising. At any given moment, which one is the real you?
Matt Taibbi, The Great Derangement
07/27/10

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