"Have you ever heard of a city called Tunis?" asked Island Irv as soon as I'd settled down with my Sunday morning latte in Ibis Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar.
"Sure," I said, "it's the capital of Tunisia and it's on the northeast corner of Africa, near the tip of the Italian boot or, if you prefer, the island of Malta."
I expected that to be the end of this line of questioning because he seemed puzzled by the inclusion of footwear in my response, and besides Irv often asks questions that go nowhere. But I was wrong.
"So what's the northwest corner of Africa near," he asked.
What, if anything, I wondered, is this leading to?
"The northwest corner lies just across the Straight of Gibraltar from Spain," I said.
"Spain," he said with a quizzical expression as though he were musing about the implications that particular bit of geography might have on his personal philosophy. I was prepared for more, but no, before Irv could think of another question, someone else took the stage.
"I'd like a double cappuccino, half-caf, with oat milk, a drizzle of caramel, and just a sprinkling of cinnamon. I want only enough foam to be aesthetically pleasing but no more."
The request was made by someone you've read about in a previous post. I described him then as being the Lord Sidcup type and I may have implied that he often instills in my mind the thought of beating his brains out with a brick. I call him Spode because he reminds me of that P.G. Wodehouse character.
I looked at Irv, who was looking at me, with the same expression; an expression that said, Oh no, not again, Lord. Why me?
This local version of Lord Sidcup is a bit of a celebrity because he writes a column for Port City Magazine in which he reviews local hot spots, and the arts scene, and keeps us informed on the goings on in the city.
After placing his order, he walked toward the seating area but, immediately slowed to a standstill. He resembled the man who, after lunch with old friends from out of town, suddenly realizes he left his wallet on the kitchen counter at home.
Minutes later a barista approached him with his order.
"Your double capp," she said.
"Oh!" he said as though it were a surprise. "I haven't found a table yet. I can't enjoy my coffee standing here in the middle of the room."
"There are a few tables near the window," said the barista and there are several tables along the far wall."
She made a delicate sweep with her arm as though revealing tables that had not been seen up to now. Her gesture was so dramatic that I wondered if she was enrolled in drama classes at UNCW. I thought I'd call her Desdemona. I don't know why. Just one of those things, I imagine.
"Oh, that won't do at all," he said. "I need a cafe table in the center of the room because the light is too bright near the windows and the television near the far wall is too loud. I need a quiet, well-lighted space to enjoy my coffee."
As she walked past our table, I caught her eye and said to her, "Well, that turned a little dark, didn't it?"
"Oh!" he said as though it were a surprise. "I haven't found a table yet. I can't enjoy my coffee standing here in the middle of the room."
"There are a few tables near the window," said the barista and there are several tables along the far wall."
She made a delicate sweep with her arm as though revealing tables that had not been seen up to now. Her gesture was so dramatic that I wondered if she was enrolled in drama classes at UNCW. I thought I'd call her Desdemona. I don't know why. Just one of those things, I imagine.
"Oh, that won't do at all," he said. "I need a cafe table in the center of the room because the light is too bright near the windows and the television near the far wall is too loud. I need a quiet, well-lighted space to enjoy my coffee."
As she walked past our table, I caught her eye and said to her, "Well, that turned a little dark, didn't it?"
"That's alright," she said, "I like it dark sometimes." Then turning to glance back at Spode, she said with a low menacing tone, "I can go dark too."
I looked at Irv once more with two raised eyebrows. He called my eyebrows and raised me two more with a knowing nod.
Several minutes passed with Spode standing in the middle of the room giving the evil eye to seated customers. Eventually, he walked back to the order-here spot.
"Excuse me," he said to people at the front of the line, "I've ordered but need to make a small change."
"I've decided against the sprinkling of cinnamon on my cappuccino," he said to the guy taking orders at the counter.
The order taker didn't say anything but gave Spode a look that said, I'm not a major player in this episode, only an extra who has no speaking parts.
"My order was a double cappuccino, with a drizzle of caramel, and a sprinkling of cinnamon. But I've decided against the cinnamon."
The intrepid extra demonstrated a professional ability to improvise by looking at the barista to his left who nodded knowingly and then moved away, presumably to take care of the change.
Spode turned back to the seating area and walked to a table that had just opened up very near our own. He sat, took his tablet out of a shoulder bag, and signaled to the barista that he was ready for his coffee.
Desdemona soon returned with his order. "I'm sorry, said Spode, "but that's simply far too much foam. Can you remake it with half as much?"
"I'll get a spoon for you to remove some of the foam," she said.
"Does that ever work? I mean really work?" said Spode in a tone that left no doubt it was not a question.
She took the coffee away without a word.
Spode began working on the tablet and presently, a beautiful, thin-foam cappuccino was delivered to his table. I expected to see him bloom like a flower in the gentle rain of summer. But it wasn't to be.
"Excuse me," Spode said to the retreating Desdemona, "I don't want to be a bother, but I changed my order to leave off the cinnamon and yet there's cinnamon sprinkled all over the foam."
Desdemona gave him a long, slow expressionless look.
"I simply will not be able to write my article if I can't enjoy my coffee exactly the way I like it," he said. "Anything less will ruin my entire day."
Desdemona didn't reply. Her expression was unchanging.
"Please," whined Spode.
Still silent, she took the coffee away again.
Several minutes went by without noticeable barista activity. Spode began to appear anxious and occasionally looked up to glance toward the front of the cafe. Finally, he raised a hand and gestured for attention.
"Am I ever going to get my coffee," he said when Desdemona arrived table-side. "At this rate, I'll have the article finished before it gets here."
"Hang tight," said Desdemona. "We don't want you to lose your cool and disappoint the people with an anxious article. We're driving a master barista from Calabash to make your coffee."
She turned and walked away.
I looked at Irv with another raised eyebrow to see if he'd taken this development the way I had.
"You'd think a magazine columnist would be aware," said the islander, "that, even under the best conditions, a sensitive, highly-trained barista will go dark at the slightest provocation."
I nodded. Unfortunately, I had to leave before the specialist arrived from Calabash. I was disappointed too. I was looking forward to having a word with him. I've always wondered what's the deal about blonde espresso.