White-and-two-sugars-cino

Monday morning took me to Leeds, a change from the usual routine necessitated by a training course I was booked on at Corporate HQ. In accordance with Corporate Directive #293 (approximately), I selflessly decided to wait until the first off-peak train from Stevenage at five to ten, enabling me to pay a visit to Tesco and have a thrilling time conducting an audit of the rums and spirits category (oh, if only I could communicate the sheer wonder of it in mere words).

Anyway, grocery retail excitement aside (that’s a subject for another blog, I think) what really caught my attention on this trip was something that actually took place before I got on the train, when I paid a visit to the coffee shop. Now, travelling off-peak on inter-city routes you tend to get very different passengers from the peak-rate business types with the laptops and Blackberries. In their place, you get the obligatory smattering of students, of course, but also a peculiar breed of formidable retired ladies with walking sticks and spectacular handbags. And they tend not to be cappuccino-drinkers, much less macchiato or chai fans.

So when they walk into the platform’s branch of the latest funky coffee chain, they have no truck whatsoever with the menu of improbably-named beverages, and order a straightforward cup of coffee, much to the consternation of the people who run the place. You can see them struggling not to respond, in tones of righteous indignation, “A cup of coffee? White with two sugars? What do you think this is, a Greasy Spoon? Begone from my brightly-coloured plastic retail space with its tasteful, if fake, oak floor and pine furniture, and never darken my door again. Sebastian, get me a Tall skinny mochaccino with a coconut biscotti and a scented flannel! I’m going to have to lie down!”

Of course, they never do say that. They just extend a friendly hand and rest it on the scary woman’s arm (only if you look into their eyes can you see the contempt smouldering) and gently direct their attention to the charmingly retro blackboard with its painted-but-looks-like-it-could-be-chalk menu of made-up Italian-sounding names, before slowly talking them through it, pointing out which one is the nearest equivalent to “white and two sugars” – “except for the rich intensity of the espresso beans” or something like that.

And then comes the best bit.

After looking solemnly up and down the menu for a few minutes, our scary lady fixes the barista with a serious look, and asks for a cup of tea instead.