Barmaid's Revenge
It's time for a confession: I hate Starbucks.
"But wait, Debra," I hear you cry: "You post from Starbucks more often than just about anywhere besides home!"
Yes, well, this is probably true. But I'm never there for the coffee - I really prefer the Ethiopean stuff we brew at home, which I can make anytime. I'll cop to enjoying a few of their specialty drinks, like chai lattes and frappucinos, but most of the time I stay away from those because they're expensive and absurdly fattening. No, when I'm at Starbucks, I buy the smallest, cheapest beverage I can, and I nurse it for as long as possible, because I'm there for one reason, and one reason only: The wi-fi.
T-Mobile Hot Spot is expensive if all you want to do with it is get online at Starbucks. But I gather it's not too pricey as an add-on if you're already a T-Mobile customer. And guess who added it on while I was dating him? My obnoxious ex from a few years ago, Peter. And he hasn't changed his password since. Not that I'm costing him any extra money, but I think it's fitting that he's been providing me with free wi-fi at any Starbucks in the country since he dumped me.
So there I am sitting in one of my several neighborhood Starbucks options on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, catching up on e-mail, happily IMing a few friends, occasionally writing a few words of my novel, and trying to sip the final remnants of a small (I absolutely refuse to call it "tall") coffee. A man walks up to me, and says, "Excuse me, are you Pamela?"
He's kind of cute, so I'm tempted to throw him a line like "I might be," but instead I just smile, and say, "No, sorry." Must be meeting a blind date, I imagine as he frowns, and I go back to my e-mail. Out of the corner of my eye I notice him leave only a few minutes later, and I idly wonder how long most people give it before they consider themselves stood up.
Twenty minutes later I'm merely pretending to sip, when another man approaches me, this time short, bearded, and not as cute as the first. "Pamela? Wow, you're --"
Now I'm intrigued. "No," I say without smiling, "I'm not Pamela."
"Sorry, I -- sorry," he says, and practically breaks the doors getting out of there.
Another ten minutes, and another man walks up, this one overweight and bespectacled. "You must be Pamela," he says.
I push my chair back, and stand up. "You're the third guy to mistake me for someone named Pamela since I've been sitting here. Is this one of those jokes where the next person to come in is Pamela, asking if I've got any messages for her?"
"You mean -- you're not --"
"No, I'm not!" I say just a little bit loudly. "Now, who's Pamela?"
"Well, according to the ad, you are! I don't see anybody else like you in here," he adds, gesticulating grandly.
"Wait, ad? What ad?"
"On... on Craigslist." He reaches into his jacket, and unfolds a printout. "I Reward Courage," the headline reads.I'm lonely today, and I want to meet a new man. I've always admired men who had the guts to approach me and be clear about what they want. So this afternoon, I'm at the Starbucks at [intersection], waiting for a man with the guts to tell me he wants me, so I can take him home with me. I'm a beautiful woman with shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair with brunette roots, I'm wearing glasses and a navy blue sweatshirt, and I'm posting this from my Mac laptop. If you have the guts to approach me and be honest with me about what you want, you might just get it.
I look up at my third suitor, who's sweating a little. "And you're definitely beautiful," he says.
I fight not to roll my eyes, since it's not his fault. "Listen, that's sweet," I say, handing back the ad. "But I'm not Pamela, and I didn't post this ad. I think someone is having a cruel bit of fun at my expense." I look around the room, wondering if that someone is still here.
"And mine," he adds.
"Yeah, I guess so." I close my laptop and start wrapping up the adapter cord, hoping to get out of there before the place is packed with Pamela-seekers.
Tuesday night I'm on with Cindy, who's been with us for a few weeks since Kira decided she couldn't work on her feet anymore. I'm not sure exactly when Kira is due, but we're expecting good news sometime during the holiday season. Cindy is a capable, hard-working barmaid, but she doesn't talk much. She hasn't really made any friends on the staff, but she's friendly enough to the customers, and as long as she does her job and doesn't make our jobs harder, she'll be just fine.
Business has been light, so I've been working on an experiment all evening. My friend Dara happened to mention to me during brunch on Sunday that she would come back to The Bar more often if we served something that tasted like Starbucks's pumpkin spice latte. So I'm determined to create something that tastes as good, isn't nearly as fattening, and (of course) gets you drunk, something Starbucks can't do.
I strain from a shaker into two small glasses for the sixth time tonight, sprinkle cinnamon over them both, and hand Dara one of them. We clink our glasses - again - and try a sip. I close my eyes.
"Oh, my God," she says, "that's it. That's it! What's in it??"
"I can't tell you what's in it, Dara, you'll just make it at home!" But she's right, I think I've got it.
"No, I promise - I'll even bring Dennis by to try it, he loves the lattes, too!" I must look skeptical, so she continues, "You don't even have to tell me the quantities - just what you used."
"Okay," I shrug. "I started with that new rum-based chai liqueur stuff, Voyant. Then these last couple of times, I added Stoli Vanil instead of plain vodka, which I think really helped. But I also topped it off with a little bit of something else. Remember that stuff I brought back from the Netherlands Antilles a couple of years ago, that I keep stashed in the cooler?" I hold up the tall, narrow bottle of Ponche Caribe, the closest thing to an eggnog liqueur I've ever had.
"Are you going to be able to get more?" Dara asks.
"I'm pretty sure it's available in the States. But listen, if it means keeping your money out of Starbucks's hands, I'll go back to Curaçao for a case."
She finishes off the test-size glass quickly. "Make me a full-size one this time, and then start packing." We laugh, and I start mixing some more. "Wait, what are you going to call it?"
I pause for a moment. "I have no idea. Pumpkin spice latte is already taken."
"What about Jack-o-lantern, or Pumpkin Pie?"
"No, those are already real cocktails."
"Well, we'll come up with something."
Three days later, we still haven't. Anybody want to take a crack at it?
"But wait, Debra," I hear you cry: "You post from Starbucks more often than just about anywhere besides home!"
Yes, well, this is probably true. But I'm never there for the coffee - I really prefer the Ethiopean stuff we brew at home, which I can make anytime. I'll cop to enjoying a few of their specialty drinks, like chai lattes and frappucinos, but most of the time I stay away from those because they're expensive and absurdly fattening. No, when I'm at Starbucks, I buy the smallest, cheapest beverage I can, and I nurse it for as long as possible, because I'm there for one reason, and one reason only: The wi-fi.
T-Mobile Hot Spot is expensive if all you want to do with it is get online at Starbucks. But I gather it's not too pricey as an add-on if you're already a T-Mobile customer. And guess who added it on while I was dating him? My obnoxious ex from a few years ago, Peter. And he hasn't changed his password since. Not that I'm costing him any extra money, but I think it's fitting that he's been providing me with free wi-fi at any Starbucks in the country since he dumped me.
So there I am sitting in one of my several neighborhood Starbucks options on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, catching up on e-mail, happily IMing a few friends, occasionally writing a few words of my novel, and trying to sip the final remnants of a small (I absolutely refuse to call it "tall") coffee. A man walks up to me, and says, "Excuse me, are you Pamela?"
He's kind of cute, so I'm tempted to throw him a line like "I might be," but instead I just smile, and say, "No, sorry." Must be meeting a blind date, I imagine as he frowns, and I go back to my e-mail. Out of the corner of my eye I notice him leave only a few minutes later, and I idly wonder how long most people give it before they consider themselves stood up.
Twenty minutes later I'm merely pretending to sip, when another man approaches me, this time short, bearded, and not as cute as the first. "Pamela? Wow, you're --"
Now I'm intrigued. "No," I say without smiling, "I'm not Pamela."
"Sorry, I -- sorry," he says, and practically breaks the doors getting out of there.
Another ten minutes, and another man walks up, this one overweight and bespectacled. "You must be Pamela," he says.
I push my chair back, and stand up. "You're the third guy to mistake me for someone named Pamela since I've been sitting here. Is this one of those jokes where the next person to come in is Pamela, asking if I've got any messages for her?"
"You mean -- you're not --"
"No, I'm not!" I say just a little bit loudly. "Now, who's Pamela?"
"Well, according to the ad, you are! I don't see anybody else like you in here," he adds, gesticulating grandly.
"Wait, ad? What ad?"
"On... on Craigslist." He reaches into his jacket, and unfolds a printout. "I Reward Courage," the headline reads.I'm lonely today, and I want to meet a new man. I've always admired men who had the guts to approach me and be clear about what they want. So this afternoon, I'm at the Starbucks at [intersection], waiting for a man with the guts to tell me he wants me, so I can take him home with me. I'm a beautiful woman with shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair with brunette roots, I'm wearing glasses and a navy blue sweatshirt, and I'm posting this from my Mac laptop. If you have the guts to approach me and be honest with me about what you want, you might just get it.
I look up at my third suitor, who's sweating a little. "And you're definitely beautiful," he says.
I fight not to roll my eyes, since it's not his fault. "Listen, that's sweet," I say, handing back the ad. "But I'm not Pamela, and I didn't post this ad. I think someone is having a cruel bit of fun at my expense." I look around the room, wondering if that someone is still here.
"And mine," he adds.
"Yeah, I guess so." I close my laptop and start wrapping up the adapter cord, hoping to get out of there before the place is packed with Pamela-seekers.
Tuesday night I'm on with Cindy, who's been with us for a few weeks since Kira decided she couldn't work on her feet anymore. I'm not sure exactly when Kira is due, but we're expecting good news sometime during the holiday season. Cindy is a capable, hard-working barmaid, but she doesn't talk much. She hasn't really made any friends on the staff, but she's friendly enough to the customers, and as long as she does her job and doesn't make our jobs harder, she'll be just fine.
Business has been light, so I've been working on an experiment all evening. My friend Dara happened to mention to me during brunch on Sunday that she would come back to The Bar more often if we served something that tasted like Starbucks's pumpkin spice latte. So I'm determined to create something that tastes as good, isn't nearly as fattening, and (of course) gets you drunk, something Starbucks can't do.
I strain from a shaker into two small glasses for the sixth time tonight, sprinkle cinnamon over them both, and hand Dara one of them. We clink our glasses - again - and try a sip. I close my eyes.
"Oh, my God," she says, "that's it. That's it! What's in it??"
"I can't tell you what's in it, Dara, you'll just make it at home!" But she's right, I think I've got it.
"No, I promise - I'll even bring Dennis by to try it, he loves the lattes, too!" I must look skeptical, so she continues, "You don't even have to tell me the quantities - just what you used."
"Okay," I shrug. "I started with that new rum-based chai liqueur stuff, Voyant. Then these last couple of times, I added Stoli Vanil instead of plain vodka, which I think really helped. But I also topped it off with a little bit of something else. Remember that stuff I brought back from the Netherlands Antilles a couple of years ago, that I keep stashed in the cooler?" I hold up the tall, narrow bottle of Ponche Caribe, the closest thing to an eggnog liqueur I've ever had.
"Are you going to be able to get more?" Dara asks.
"I'm pretty sure it's available in the States. But listen, if it means keeping your money out of Starbucks's hands, I'll go back to Curaçao for a case."
She finishes off the test-size glass quickly. "Make me a full-size one this time, and then start packing." We laugh, and I start mixing some more. "Wait, what are you going to call it?"
I pause for a moment. "I have no idea. Pumpkin spice latte is already taken."
"What about Jack-o-lantern, or Pumpkin Pie?"
"No, those are already real cocktails."
"Well, we'll come up with something."
Three days later, we still haven't. Anybody want to take a crack at it?