There is an elegant
plastic sign in my Starbucks that reads “We promise perfection”. I am reassured
by this. It is important for me that my coffee shop brings the same attitude as,
say, a German car manufacturer, to the creation of its product. I want my
coffee designed and engineered to precision. Error is not an option.
The first thing I do
when I arrive in my Starbucks is to join the long queue. I am glad the queue is
long. If it was short I would be worried that the place had lost its appeal,
that perhaps their standards of perfection had been compromised since my last
visit.
Queuing gives me the
opportunity to survey the wealth of options on the enormous menu board above
me. I am delighted to see several coffees that I have never heard of and don’t
understand. Salted Caramel Mocha. Espresso Con Panna. Macchiato. Chai Créme
Frappuccino. I know that I am in a place that is at the cutting edge of
creativity.
I learn about Starbuck’s
record of responsible corporate governance on their knowledge and education notice
board. “We have been working with communities in Ethiopia to provide clean
water...” I know that I am an ethical consumer. I feel good.
I ask my barista,
dressed in a fetching green apron, for a small Americano. I am reminded that it
is called a “Grande” in Starbucks. She asks for my name and writes it on the
cup. It smells oaky and warming. My small (tall) coffee is what other coffee
shops would describe as “very large”. The customer before me bought a large (“Venti”)
coffee. I know she is going to feel terrific later on because she is about to
consume her body weight in liquid.
I sit down at a small
wooden table. It is covered in the debris from its previous incumbent. Used
coffee cups. Empty muffin wrappers. My fingers are sticky when I touch the
table. One of my favourite things about my Starbucks is that the staff only
occasionally clear the tables or clean the surfaces. It makes it homely. It’s
just like being in my own sitting room. I am comforted by the squalor.
I look around me. There
is a painting on the wall. It depicts some abstracted figures enjoying cups of coffee
around a table. I like that the art reflects the very activity that I am
currently engaged in. Art really does reflect life.
My eyes wander to the
ceiling. I count eleven security cameras. I feel safe in the knowledge that if
I am attacked or robbed as I enjoy my Americano, there will be a record of the
event from multiple angles.
I am surrounded by
fellow coffee lovers. Men and women. Young people and old people. We are a
community. I remind myself to get a Starbucks Reward Card which will incentivise
me to enjoy my coffee here until I die.
I finish my Americano.
I can feel a familiar sensation in my stomach. My bowels are churning. I enjoy
this symptom of my Starbucks coffee. It means that I can spend the rest of the
day on the toilet, my second favourite place in the world. My hands begin to
shake. My nervous system is reacting to the caffeine. I am now fully alert and
ready for anything.
Did I mention which
Starbucks outlet I am describing? I’m afraid my memory isn’t quite what it used
to be. I think it is the one at the Green Park end of Piccadilly in London. Or
is it the one at the Haymarket end of Piccadilly? Actually, it could well be
the one on Dame St in Dublin. Come to think of it, perhaps it is the one on
Rambla de Catalunya in Barcelona. I can’t remember exactly.
Today, Starbucks is my
favourite place in the world. Yesterday, it wasn’t. And tomorrow it probably
won’t be either. But today it is, because I have tried, Oh so desperately, to
like the thirteen aspects of Starbucks mentioned above. If I try to love
something that I hate, perhaps I can understand it better. I have loved, with
every fibre of my being, the very things I detest most about a coffee shop.
ENDS
