Adventures in coffee
When I worked downtown, it was hard to walk a block without seeing some kind of coffee shop. It was even harder not to go into said coffee shop for a drink. If it was warm out, I would convince myself that nothing could be finer than an iced coffee and sweet syrupy beverage; if it was cold, I would justify that the thing I really needed was a piping hot espresso or chocolate concoction. I should do commercials for Starbucks.
But since I got my new job, I haven’t had that same luxury. Along my drive and near my office there’s not a single conveniently located Starbucks, Peaberry’s, or little independently owned coffee shop. I can’t just drop in, I have to go well out of my way and leave for work at least 15 minutes earlier than usual.
The other day I decided not to take the highway and saw, to my great delight, a Peaberry’s. I said to myself, “Myself, a small iced americano is just exactly what you need to start your day off right.” So I went in and ordered my usual a small(taking care to designate it as a small, not a tall) iced americano with room. Any coffee elitist knows that just the perfect amount of heavy whipping cream elevates this beverage from an iced espresso drink to a little piece of heaven on earth.
Thus, when the barista delivered my drink onto the table and called out it’s name (as they do) despite the fact that I’m the only one in the store and I’m standing right there, I requested heavy whipping cream and was met with an incredulous “What?”.
“Heavy whipping cream,” I repeated. She looked at me like I had a green face. “You know, to put in the drink…” I offered, now unsure of myself. She reached for the whipped cream, and I waved it away with my hands. “You don’t have heavy whipping cream?” I asked, in disbelief.
“We have half-and-half,” she suggested, indicating the serve-yourself table full of sugar packets and stir-straws.
“But… no heavy whipping cream?” I waved my hands around uncertainly hoping to convey exactly what I meant by heavy whipping cream, in case the words hadn’t quite communicated my desire clearly. She shrugged. I suited myself to a few packets of raw sugar and some milk, and it was the worst Americano I’ve ever had. I ended up throwing most of it out and my mouth tasted like ass all morning.
The moral of my story is this: don’t try to order anything at Peaberry’s if you’re cherishing any hopes of adding heavy whipping cream to it, because they just don’t have any.