I can't take it any longer. I've had such uniquely snippy service there that, even though I'll probably go there again this year, some time, I have to fuckin' call them out: Spyhouse Coffeehouse in Uptown.
I don't know about these guys ... it's like the combination of surly baristas, bitter espresso and awful esoteric music are all signs that say to a customer, "You suck, and if you patronize our coffeehouse, we'll laugh at you as soon as the door hits you in the ass on your way out." I always come in hoping to enjoy my drink and some alone time without incident, and yet there's usually a small interaction, or some aspect of the store, that sullies my visit.
It was customer service this time, New Year's Eve, the final hours I was desperate to utilize to finish my column (I failed, by the way). My favorite coffeehouse was not open NYE, and neither was the teahouse close by. I needed a place to clear my head and do some work, so I settled on the Spyhouse. I was relieved to see it open; I shouldn't have been.
There were two girls working that night. There's this one girl who's really small and quiet. I think I've snapped at her once before for not being able to speak up, but that has always been me being childish and lashing out because of a real indignity one of her co-workers did to me. But she was the one who took my order, and broke the news that they weren't closing at their customary hour of midnight, but at 10, or in about 45 minutes or so. Shit.
So she goes away to make my mocha, and so this bitch rings me up. To celebrate, this wacky chick is wearing a party hat off one corner of her hat. But underneath that stupid hat and her stupid-ass "2011" glasses I still recognize her as the chick who scolded me for forgetting to ask for whip cream on my mocha. She couldn't have looked more ... ironic in communicating that she was feeling festive. Babe, douchebags hang hats on their side. Wiggers hang hats on their side. You're not making a comment on society; you just look stupid.
So I made up this internal judgement of her when she said my mocha was $3.50. What set me off was when she dumped my change in my hand without even saying thanks. Of course this bitch wouldn't say thanks -- she's in her own little world where donning New Year's Eve glasses at work and putting on a party hat incorrectly makes her the Princess of the Ball!
So that colors my feelings towards seeing the other girl there, the mousy one, make the coffee. I was going to the far end of the restaurant, towards the counter where all the lone wolves open up their laptops and start surfing porn or whatever. From there, I can see the barista and the coffeemaker. Right over the counter where I was were sinks for washing the dishes. And I thought, Well, shit, once you're done with that, why don't you walk down here and give me my coffee? I felt so slighted that I thought that was the appropriate remedy. Now of course that wouldn't happen -- the coffees have always been served up at the front -- and it didn't happen. But I had to deal with this surly cunt, so I wanted my coffee right where I was setting up camp and doing work, dammit!
And the surly cunt, by the way, didn't dispose but threw the papers left out for customers to read into the trash. Looks like somebody has New Year's Eve plans where she can keep wearing the glasses and the hat on the corner of her fucking head! Why throw? Why not just toss? You ddin't want to be there, did you, you cunt, and that's why I was non-existent to you, huh? Bitch, if you don't want to work there, just do what I did, and quit. Quit! And you can go to as many parties looking like a douchebag wigger princess as you like!
Whatever, I have to get back to work. The last thing a man in an agitated state should be drinking is coffee. Anyway, I'm settling in when I see the cord fall of the chair next to me, where I put it, and dangle off the counter. Well, what fucking hell is this bullshit, I ask in my head. And I turn around and The Mousy One was sweeping up around and in front of each of the chairs at the counter to get a head start on cleaning.
And again, it is not something to blow up over, but my anger towards her co-worker friend I transferred to her. I push out my chair, I get up, and I make a big deal out of this:
"What? What?!"
"I ... I'm cleaning. I didn't know it was on that seat."
"Fine-fine-fine." (I pull out my chair to assist her, sarcastically.)
"No, that's fine."
"No, please, I insist. Look, you missed these two receipts on the floor."
"No, that's OK. I have to come back here anyway."
Lady, I've cleaned floors at my parents' store. The first thing you learn is you try and clean the floor once. But the damage was done. She now knows me as the Weird Asshole Who Had A Meltdown And Yelled At Her. I really think The Mousy One isn't that bad when it comes to customer service, but I know that after 10 o'clock close those two would be all, "Hey, what the fuck was the deal with that Asian asshole? Idiot."
The Cunt made sure all of us scattered for places besides the Spyhouse when she unplugged the house modem about, oh, seven minutes before they actually closed. That's never happened at My Favorite Coffeeshop. That's why they're My Favorite Coffeeshop.
So she bumrushed me out. Fine. The Cunt vigorously, yet half-assedly went through washing the cups and silverware (and by this time she, thank fucking God, took off that stupid hat and those stupid glasses). And again, she was at the sink, close to me, and between me and the tub where we're supposed to put our cups and silverware. I was going to put it in that tub, but since she's already there washing, and she so fucking wants us customers out of her hair, why not help her a little bit by giving her the spoon I used to stir my drink? Or, better yet, throw it at her head to show her how goddamn disgusted I was with her bitchy customer service?
But I don't want to be arrested, do I? So I settled for what a compromise I thought up as I was packing up. I stood, hoisted my computer bag over my shoulder, took out the spoon from the paper cup, went by the counter to where The Cunt was still working, and softly tossed -- not threw -- the spoon onto the counter, where it made a racket, but hopefully didn't bounce enough to hit her. Don't know; didn't turn around.
And on my way out I hear that idiot bitch say, "Happy New Year!" Oh, now you're being warm and inviting and talkative? No; she probably detected my hostility (even though I doubt she realized her part in it) and decided to be all hipster/Pitchforky sarcastic on me. Oh, quit, or be fired, or die, bitch. Please!!!
No comments:
Post a Comment