‘’’Scuse me,” Justin said to the barista, whom he could barely see. “I ordered grande.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a Slurpee, kid?” I said in my soft-but-apparently-not-soft-enough voice.
Mom glared at me. “He can get whatever he wants.”
“I agree,” I shot back. “We certainly wouldn’t want your son to head off to day care without the precise amount of hazelnut in his system.”
“You must not have children,” she said, turning away.
Oh, but I do. And I’ve tried to raise them not to feel this entitled, especially at so young an age. A 4-year-old demanding less ice will no doubt turn into an 11-year-old with all the restaurant manners of Gordon Ramsay on Hell’s Kitchen.
“Grande skinny Caramel Macchiato is up.”
“Is that low foam?” Mom asked.
“Did you want low foam?” the barista inquired.
“I specifically said low foam.”
“Hold on. We’ll remake it.”
By now the entire Starbucks assembly line had been disrupted- by a customer who only recently had moved on from Sippy cups. Two orders from Justin and his mom had become four.
“Can I just get a tall black coffee?” I asked.
“Is that it, sir?”
“Wait. I’ll be more specific. A tall, black, easy-to-pour, easy-to-remember, minimal-effort-on-your-part, keep-the-line-moving coffee. No kids. Got that?”
Someone behind me applauded. I stepped ahead of mom and Justin and paid.
“Nice meeting you,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow since you’ll probably still be here.”
“Please leave,” she said.
And I did. But not before hearing Justin make one more request.
“Mommy, can I get a strawberry blueberry yogurt parfait with extra strawberries? And can they put the granola on the side?”
“Tell the lady, honey.”
