“I am not ordering an espresso just to look cool.”
“Well, you’re not having a cappa. It’s almost noon. You’ll look like a pleb. You’ll only drink two sips of it.”
“If I want a cappa I’ll have one. This is Yorkshire not Italy. I’ll start a new trend. Anyway, they don’t care. They’re baristas. They make coffee for a living. It’s their job to make me what I want. And don’t give me that’s rubbish about milk and digestion. You’re having a latte.”
“Well don’t get anything with syrup or cream in it. I hate that American shit.”
“I’ll order what I bloody well like. It’s my money. Anyway, if it’s too late for a cappa, why is it still on the menu?”
“For morons. And you’re not a moron.”
An exiting customer holds open the door. The bell dings a single crisp, clear note, reminiscent of old-fashioned shops. Smiling nods of thanks and a “Ta mate” are exchanged.
“A flat white and an americano to go please.”