Veni, Vidi, Venti

I don’t like Starbucks. Long have I said that I will do everything in my power to avoid going there for coffee. But, unfortunately, now I do.

Of course, one of the main reasons for my dislike is the mesmerizing ubiquity and uniformity of its outlets. They really are everywhere, and they really are all essentially the same. I walk through the same neighborhoods week in and week out and I swear that there are new ones popping up all the time. This is more than just standard growth of a enterprise that found a niche. This is a blanketing of blah.

They don’t seem to be built either. It’s almost as if a new one simply cleaves from another—a sort of mitosis, only instead of cells its coffeeshop clones. And it’s spreading-- did you know that there is now Starbucks in Bejing’s Forbidden City? So, where once hardscrabble commoners of China couldn’t even enter, fanny-packed Floridians can now complain about how their no-foam mocha isn’t “skinny” .

The reason that this once small company is now so huge is that people love Starbucks--and their loyalty isn’t easily shaken. I remember walking by a shop near Bryant Park on 42nd Street. It was truly tiny—I would say only about 200 square feet. And every day there would be at least 20 people in there, a line of the latte-starved snaking through the place. People backed against walls just so others could get through the door, some people so cramped that they were stirring in their sugar on their tiptoes. It got me wondering—what would you do if you were a claustrophobe hooked on Frappacinos?

I’m just like these people though, in that I love my coffee in the morning. And while I’d love to stand up to the giant corporate monolith by not giving it my custom, Starbucks is right there on the corner (most corners, actually). They are open very early in the morning (a requirement of a good coffeeshop) and amazingly in some cases, very late at night. The people that work there are usually efficient and almost always friendly and helpful. The coffee--while not the best I’ve ever had--is definitely better than average, and unlike many places in the city they don’t charge you full price for a refill. So, there are no practical reasons to avoid going there—just my disdain for its unchallenged reign over caffeine-dom.

In the end, quixotic notions have been trampled by pragmatic self-interest. I need coffee, and Starbucks is the best option--so I go to Starbucks now. But from the ashes of my defeat as a Starbucks denier, arises a new form of resistance: insolence. I will not obey the Starbuckian code. And, as I expected, there is a so-called “barista” who wants to make me.

Starbucks has these annoying terms for their sizes. Tall, Grande and Venti. Screw that, because that’s stupid. I’m not doing it.

“Good morning, can I have a medium coffee please.”

The mousy barista is flustered, her eyebrows furrowed behind circular glasses. “You mean… Grande.”

“Just a medium coffee, please.” I stand firm. I wonder, is she trying to recall what ‘medium’ means?

Eventually, she got me my coffee. I went in again on a different morning. She was waiting.

“Hi, can I get a coffee please, and can I get it with soy milk?” Soy’s a might more agreeable to me than regular milk, so I choose it when it’s available.

“You mean a café meeeesto?” Was she trying to indoctrinate me, or was she just really fond of pretentious names? I almost wanted to ask her for a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich, just to see if she said “ You mean a Croissant with Preserves and Legume Spread?”

“You can just give me soy milk, and then I’ll put in inside of the cup of coffee that you give me.”

Okay, I wasn’t that condescending, but I might be eventually. I might even go in there one day and ask “Can I get a steaming cuppa Joe?” or “I like my java hot as lava, sweetheart.” And who knows… over time, maybe I’ll learn to like Starbucks. In the meantime, I’ll take my small personal victories with a warm cup of meeeeesto served by my bareeeesta.