I WAS BLESSED to get a job in an independent café on my gap year.
My original plans for the year involved learning how to juggle and improving my knowledge of geography. Working in a café meant I never had time to do either: a happy accident, really, as my party piece now involves being asked where different counties are in relation to each other. My ensuing efforts unite any motley crew in hysterical pity.
My barista training was less formal than that of friends who work with large chains, but no less stringent. Making a perfect cappuccino is as much an art as a science, as any barista will confirm.
Once I nailed the core skills of grinding, tamping, foaming and steaming, customer service became my priority. What follows is a non-exhaustive, anthropological taxonomy based on my experiences of that mysterious creature – the modern coffee drinker.
1. The Martyr Mouse
Has been brought up to believe that to minimise your own wants and needs is a righteous way to live. She (almost always a woman unfortunately) is keen to communicate that she does not wish to inconvenience you, who is paid to serve her, in any way.
Rarely utters a sentence that is not book ended with qualifiers: “could I trouble you”, “would it be possible”, “I’m sorry to be so awkward”, “would you mind very much”. She often says “I don’t mind” or “whatever is easiest/whatever you have” when you ask for her preference.
This practice may be acceptable when you have dropped in unannounced on one of your friends and expect to be waited on. It is not a fair or polite thing to do in a café, when “whatever you have” is whatever is on the menu that she could just read and is right in front of her, for Christ’s sake.
You, the waitress, then has to try to coax a decision out of her, the Parkinson to her Meg Ryan, or else decide for her and then see that she didn’t like your choice when she leaves most of it on the plate.
The Martyr Mouse tries to negate her existence and so charges you with the responsibility of guessing what she wants. In not troubling you she troubles you deeply, taking up the time and working memory space that four regular customers do.
Exasperation and impatience are well seasoned with overwhelming pity when you serve a Martyr Mouse. She, however, will sandstorm the food with salt and pepper before tasting it.
2. The Regular
A creature of habit. Frequency of visits is only one criteria The Regular meets. They know how the place works as well as you do, and they respect the system.
They catch your eye when someone is being awful and mime acts of violence. You had a crush on them for about six lattés, but then came to your senses.
True Regulars understand the boundaries. They don’t ask you to hang out with them outside of apron hours.
Serving them is more relaxed than when friends come in and you want to seem like you’re good at your job and also feel a bit guilty when you don’t have a proper chat with them.
Regulars don’t bat an eyelid when you stop the story of your worst ever Tinder date mid-sentence and switch into Customer Service mode with the helmet haired lady on table five (a change so dramatic that you may as well have started speaking Swahili).
More often than not, members of this elite group have worked in the service industry themselves.
3. The Artist
It would be more accurate to call this breed of customer The Knob, but we’re going to pop on the sepia-tinted glasses that they see themselves through for this one.
The Artist is a regular but must never be confused with a Regular. For one, they guzzle resources but not products, needing a family-sized table and several hours to consume a single beverage.
The fact that this is a functioning business and not the set of the indie rom-com that The Artist has cast themselves in has not popped into their deluded little minds.
They will close their eyes and throw their head back in appreciation when The Smiths (or similar alternative car ad music) comes on because FINALLY a sliver of culture has illuminated this day of dealing with the unwashed and unenlightened.
Watching this strain of humans flirt with each other is more stomach-churning than dealing with the glass of water that holds someone’s dentures while they eat soup.
The Artist deigns to be nice to you but is the reason that you leave work almost two hours late every week with psychological skid marks.
4. The Virgin
Every once in a while, a brand new customer comes in, all revolving eyes and shy smiles. The Virgin breathlessly admits they’ve never been here before, that friends have recommended it, that they didn’t know it was here.
You get to take Alice’s hand and lead her through Wonderland, through the roast of the bean and the vegetarian options on the menu.
If their eyes rove to the dessert, you trot out your story about the brownie, heated up and served with a scoop of ice cream and a winsome smile. A few minutes of talking smack about chain coffee shops and the evangelical mission is complete.
The Virgin makes you see your job through new eyes. Makes you want to be the best you can be for every customer. When they finish up and come to the till to pay, everyone compliments each other and has a jolly old giggle.
The cherry on top? When they catch sight of their own smiling face in the nearest reflective surface, the tip jar.
5. The Child
The Child stares at their iPad and grunts their order at their caregiver who translates to you that they want a pizza with no cheese or sauce and plain ham (well that’s good because we’re all out of the sparkly jelly bean ham).
They haven’t yet mastered the phonemic skills needed to produce phrases like “thank you” or “please”.
They leave their expensive toys on the floor. Their sculptures, composed of scones and sticky fruit substances, can be found hidden in the furniture long after they’ve left, serving as little reminders of that difficult period in your life.
The caregiver is usually too exhausted to regulate the child’s behaviour, and orders double shots and puts three sugars in and hides the tears. The Child stretches your will to live, especially when they happen to be well into adulthood.
Emer McGinnity is a full-time stay-at-home daughter. She enjoys doing vegan things, is liberal in her use of glitter, and only knits with wool with less than 30% acryclic. She blogs at mirrorinthebackofmybrain.wordpress.com.
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