As Thanksgiving (and more importantly, the holiday season) swiftly approaches and the days grow shorter and colder, every Starbucks in the nation is beginning to fill to the brim with promises of warm beverages clasped in mitten hands. The neighborhood Starbucks – normally a haven for the hip, beanie-d teenagers – becomes the place to be on bitter December evenings, beckoning young lovers, scholars, and friends to come inside. As the customer is embraced by familiar jazz tunes, comforting lighting, and the smell of dark roast, the barista behind the counter smiles at them and asks them if they would like the usual. The customer gets his drink, sits at a table, and wraps himself in his favorite book.The barista, on the other hand, makes about 40 peppermint hot chocolates, cleans up a spill, has to replace someone’s brownie with a cookie because it’s “just too much chocolate” and only gets a bathroom break after she has peed herself a little bit already. Oh, and her name is Sarah and she’s writing this article right now.
That’s right, everybody. I’m a barista and I’ve got a few things to say to you before the holiday season rolls around and the hell that is the Starbucks Christmas season begins anew.
Warning: EXTREME FEELINGS
First: Unless you’re a regular, a big tipper, or my mom coming in to visit me at work, I DON’T CARE WHAT YOUR NAME IS. So what if I spell it wrong? I only need your name so I can yell at you from across the room to come get your non-fat sugar-free mocha with no whip. Frankly, I would much prefer to just let you all fend for yourselves in figuring out whose drink is whose, but some genius up at HQ thought the experience would be more “personalized” if we included names in the bargain. Therefore, I only need to know how to say your name. Not how to spell it. Get off my back.
Second: If you order something because you don’t know what it is, then decide you don’t like it, that is YOUR fault, not mine. Every so often I have someone order a Frappuccino and then tell me they wanted something hot. Are you kidding me? A Frappuccino is a frozen drink. It’s in the goddamn name (frozen cappuccino). It’s not my job to provide a full-length description of what you’re ordering, and if I did that consistently, you would all give me the side eye. Basically, if you don’t like your drink, either deal with it or pay for another one. My job is not handing out free drinks to picky customers. If you ask me for something else, expect a facial expression halfway between my boss’ “the customer is always right” smile and utter disbelief.
Third: Don’t come in and ask for something off the “secret menu.” The secret menu does not exist. If anything, it’s just a list of drinks that people have thought up while working at a Starbucks and published on the Internet. If the actual Starbucks Corporation has anything to do with it, it’s only “secret” because the drinks on it probably couldn’t pass FDA inspection. We’re talking sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, and more sugar.
Fourth: Don’t act surprised when I tell you your total. If you just came in with your entire family, each got a cookie, a cake-pop, and a hot chocolate, you’re going to have to pay for it all. And Starbucks is expensive. Seriously. It’s a huge multi-million dollar business. Full-time baristas get health coverage. How do you think we pay for that? We charge you five dollars for a single drink, not to mention the extra we charge for extra espresso, syrup, or soy milk. Also, don’t you dare complain to me about the high prices. I’m just a part of the system, my friend. I don’t pick the prices. Don’t act like I do.
Fifth: If you ask me what’s in a drink, I’m going to make it out to be a better answer than it actually is. The truth of the matter is that I don’t even know half the shit that goes into the majority of drinks. This is what I can tell you goes into a Frappuccino: a measured-out amount of ice, whole milk (unless otherwise specified), mystery syrup, more mystery syrup, sometimes a mystery embellishment, and coffee. Past that, I couldn’t tell you. Sorry.
Sixth: This is my place of work. I don’t mind talking to you if there isn’t a line. (In fact, I love talking to customers. It makes my job worthwhile.) But. If you are standing in front of me, yammering away, while a line slowly grows behind you, I am going to be dismissive of you. I have a job to do and the people in line behind are going to be ticked off with ME if YOU don’t move. On that note, don’t hit on me while I’m at work. It’s so weird. If you’re on the other side of the counter, I am literally serving you. The power balance is already off. If you make a pass at me, I will get seriously uncomfortable, especially since I can’t escape. I have four more hours here, dude. Can you just give me a break?
Finally: Don’t ask me what my favorite item on the menu is. I hate all of this shit, except the iced tea. And the iced tea is cheap, so I’m going to lie to you and tell you something way more expensive. Hey, I gotta pay for my health insurance somehow.
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