Wild Sovereign Development Site

Tag: barista

  • without spilling a thing

    This beautiful waiter was so caring and funny, he stood for five minutes as a very young guest chose his pizza, then I saw him across the room carrying a fully-laden table with quivering wine glasses, all without spilling a thing. He had flourish and verve but was not show-offy. Afterwards I bailed him up by the register. “We think you have a lot of charisma, a lot of character. My partner reckons you have that gleam in your eye – the gleam of stardom. We think you can do anything you want to with your life. You probably already know this. But in case you didn’t – I wanted to tell you.”

    I thought he might think, who are these people and what do they want from me. I made my companion wait outside in the cold afternoon light so it wouldn’t seem cheesy, like a deputation. The waiter’s face warmed and broadened. As soon as I finished speaking, shyness struck, I ran out of the restaurant. He was still looking after me as I rounded the last corner: “Goodbye! Thank you!” I darted upstairs to the street. “Thank you! Have a wonderful weekend!”

    ~ 2013, Brisbane

  • a strange moustache

    Lady Barista and I made each other laugh today, or maybe I just made myself laugh, which is lamer but still enjoyable. I turned up with my curly-handed mug and passed it across. “Just the uzh?” she said, which is her uzhual question. I was reading the band posters behind her. “Oh! I’m performing in that!” “What?” she said. “Queensland Poetry Festival. We have this fantasy that my poetry book & my CD will be out by that time but I think…. it’s not going to be both.” She picked up my loyalty card and said, “Hey! You’ve got a free one here.” Instead of throwing the full card away she passed it back. “You should keep that.” It had a bright yellow postage sticker on it, for tracking an overnight bag. “Ok,” I said, “but I think you better stamp it anyway. Just in case I try to come back and claim that free coffee again.” She said, dryly, “I think I might recognise you.” I said, “Wearing a fake moustache.” We started to laugh. “Dark glasses,” she said. She said, “I think the cup might give it away.” I was lying on the counter, laughing. “So if someone turns up,” I gasped, “in a plastic moustache – and a big hat – and dark glasses… and a shonky foreign accent – ‘Chello. Do you haff ze decaf?’ – I have to confess that might be me.”