My Hero!

I want to meet this guy and buy him a drink.

Working downtown Seattle in the "Heart of Seattle" district, comes complete with damn near minimum wage pay. Those who take our tips might as well just ask me to bend over and do a little double-dip action with their free iced venti water. As for those who want to sit in line, our labor allowance is regulated by our budget, which is determined by performance, and if it takes us one extra minute every other customer thats a significant portion of our capacity reduced, thus, I get no hours. So take forever, take our tips, spend our time serving paying customers with your free waters, and make sure you get insulted when I call the drink out in the right order to the barista on bar so that it's made right.. because you think we are correcting your improper ordering technique. And by the way, we do love our regulars, they are special and we connect with them. The curbhumper psychos that want special attention can find it somewhere around 4th and Pike underneath the bus stop bench. Thank you! I want to be your bad barista.

From:
Starbucks Gossip

I don't know what is wrong with me

I couldn't hold on to anything tonight, even if ya glued it to me. I came home covered from head to toe in syrup and mocha powder. I had coffee stains on my SOCKS.

Let's recount my evening closing.

5:30 - (Half an hour after signing in) I drop a pitcher full of milk. (About 3/4 gallon.) You would not believe the blast radius of a half-gallon milk explosion.

6:15 - I knock a pitcher full of beverage base (that white junk we put in cream based frappuchinos) into the sink.

7:30 - I bump a blender pitcher which is set up with a Venti (24 ounce) mint mocha chip frappuchino. It hits the floor.

7:45 - A whip cream canister slips out of my hands

8:30 - A co-worker drops a cup full of chai syrup down her shirt (I think it may be contagious.)

9:00 - While pouring fresh skim into a pitcher, I get splashed in the face. Not a little splash. A BIG SPLASH. It goes in my ear, down my shirt... and eventually down the front of my pants.

10:15 - Trying to close. I Dump half a bag of mocha powder. I was tipping it to put it in the metal container, but instead most of it flies all over the store.

I handled the mop more times tonight than I think I have in the entire year I've worked at the Bux.

I got home and collapsed on an arm chair.

The dog came to greet me, sniffing all over as usual. She licked the syrup, powder, coffee etc from my shoes, and the whip from the bottoms of my pants.

I stood up to go upstairs, turned around to collect my belongings, and the dog started to lick my butt. Ew.

When I felt back there, ahem... and I realized I had congealed syrup of some kind ALL OVER MY TRUNK!

I went to take a shower and had to PEEL my clothing from my body- I had that much syrup on me.

We had all our asshole customers in one day for some reason. We must have put a sign on the door that says "Assholes get free coffee today".

...why the hell do people insist on swarming restaurants fifteen minutes before they close?
I had to bust my Kung-Fu and kick everyone out.

I am SO not looking forward to tomorrow.

from http://postsecrets.blogspot.com

Ok, so...

I was the asshole barista today.

I had a rough day to begin with... and an even rougher night before. We did have a good shift closing, though. We had a great crew who knew what they were supposed to do. We even got out of there 15 minutes early.

Anyway, I show up today and the place looked like a coffee-ground-grenade had detonated. The bar was backed up by about 15 minutes. There was a line out the door. There were two poor baristas: one chained to the blender turning out fraps as fast as he could, the other floating between a register and the espresso bar.

I was supposed to be on a register, but the place was a madhouse. I jump on the bar (in the nick of time, I might add) and crank out about 15 drinks.
I had a lot of hover-ers and whiners, but not more than standard.

Only one really big douche-bag worth complaining about...
some lady asked for an extra hot latte. I made her extra hot latte and handed it to her. (I steamed the milk to 175 degrees. It scalds at 180, and then the whole place smells like burnt plastic.)
She looked at me and said "THIS is not extra hot". She slammed her cup on the bar so hard that the lid came off and her "not-extra-hot" latte and the "not-extra-hot" milk sloshed all over her hand. She jumped back, clearly scalded, and ran to the condiment bar for napkins. So I steamed the milk to 177, remade her drink and set it on the bar. She sheepishly picked it up and slank out to the parking lot burned and embarrassed.

I actually kinda felt bad for her.

Job Related Suicidal Ideation

Last night, as I was closing, (Busting my ass to get out of there by 10:30 so management doesn't freak) I kept eyeing the box cutters we keep around for various tasks. (Scraping the goo off the steam-wands, opening cartons, slicing up lame-ass customers, etc.) This melodic little chant kept circling through my head. "Down the highway, not across the street! Down the highway not across the street!" So I just tossed a box cutter in a blender and hit 2. Wait- that's what I wanted to do. But instead I poured a double and tossed it in with my Maker's Mark on the rocks. Wait- that didn't happen either. Will workmen's comp cover job induced insanity?

Some more annoyances for you:
Last night some douche-bag and her fat fucking family came through my line. Her fat-ass, condescending, twit-son wanted a $40 gift card and his free half-pound of coffee. Only he wanted a promotional coffee. I explained to him that the offer didn't cover promotional coffees. He rolled his fat eyeballs and asked for a half-pound of espresso instead. That isn't covered under the promotion either, but I just wanted him to go away, so I said okay.

A line was forming. (Now 4 deep.)

I tendered the transaction.
He remembers he wants a drink.
He stares up at the menu board.
...
Two minutes later. (Now 7 deep)
"Gimme a mocha frappuchino."
I called his order.
"No, wait. Make that a caramel one instead." (Now 9 deep)
I re-called his order. My barista dumped the pitcher and started over.
"No, wait. Make that a caramel macchiato. (He pronounced it mash-ee-atto.) (Now 11 deep.)
I asked if he was sure.
He said "yes, gimme a caramel mash-ee-atto".
I called his drink.
"Wait.. can you make that with skim milk and no whipped cream?" (It doesn't come with whipped cream.)
I re-called his drink (venti-skim caramel macchiato).
"No whipped cream!" He barked at my barista, who snapped back, "It doesn't come with whip." Good for her.

I tendered his second transaction. (Now 14 deep)

"Oh, can you grind this for me?"
I said "sure, what kind of coffee machine do you use?"
"It's espresso."
"Right, and will you be using it in an espresso machine?"
"No, I'll just make it in my coffee maker."
I was getting ready to strangle him.
"Does the filter have a flat bottom or a cone shape?"
"Flat. Wait. I mean cone. Mom?! What kind of filter does the coffee machine have?"

Enter the mother (from across the store).
Mom: "The regular kind."
Me: "Flat bottom?"
Mom: "No, it looks like a cone." (People in the line are leaving.)

I go to grind the coffee, come back a few minutes later, and my barista is handing out service recovery coupons to everyone in the shop. The fat ass family doesn't even notice.

Mom: "Gimme a grande, skim, decaf, latte. Grande is the large right?"
Me: "Venti is the large."
Mom: "That's dumb. Okay gimme one of those."
I call the drink: Decaf, venti, skim, latte.
Mom yells at barista: Make sure that's decaf!
My barista grit her teeth. I was kinda hoping she would make it a decaf, venti, skim, extra-lugi, latte.

I ask if she would like anything else. She says no.
I tender transaction # 3.

Mom: "Oh wait. Can I have a pound of decaf espresso?"
I get it for her. (Line out the door.)
Mom: "Can you grind it for me?"
Yes, paper cone?
Mom: "No, it's espresso, grind it for an espresso machine."
Me: "Steam or Pump"?
Mom: I don't have time for this. Just grind it.

I said okay, and ground that shit for a French press. Tee hee.

(In case you don't know, French press is just about the coarsest grind. Espresso is just about the finest.)

I hand her the coffee.

"Next, please!"


Last night was full of dick-heads and douche-bags. I even started the evening in a good mood.

P.S.

I'm putting together a "Boys of Starbucks" calendar. If you have any nominations please email me.

Love Hate Relationship

I hate my job, but I love coffee.
The bastards have me hooked. I can never quit.
...

Okay, maybe I don't really hate my job.

A bad day at Starbucks is still a good day in Baghdad.

Some po-dunk gossip for my throngs of readers:
We have a new assistant manager. He is the biggest TOOL I have met all day.
This guy was the store manager of another store in the district, but is such a big TOOL that he was demoted to assistant manager and moved to our store.
What the hell did we do to deserve this?

To the lady who chewed our sample scones with her mouth open while gawking at the over-head menu board: You made me gag. Actually, I threw up a little in my mouth.
Try regaining composure when that happens. Ew.

Daily Tard-o award (yeah, I just made that up) goes to:
Scott (the new kid).
Commendation:

When Scott was asked to measure and grind a half-pound of coffee, he shouted across the crowded store: "How much is a half-pound? Point three seven (.37)?

Another example

Some six-figure dick head came in today (this happens a few times a day, at least) wearing a pink "Barbie Dumped Ken" t-shirt. She was one of those sad middle aged women who try really hard to look under 30. She had three strikes against her, in addition to wearing tight, age inappropriate clothing, she was on her cell phone, had no idea what she wanted and changed her mind three times... then she rolled her eyes and bitched when the poor frustrated barista fucked up her order. I really hate Starbuck's customers.