Ever have a Hazelnut Macchiatto?

Neither have I. Nonetheless, I was in Starbucks today.

When we first got Starbucks in our area, I was very much against the concept, seeing them as nothing more than greedy corporate coffee bent only on voiding our area of local landmarks such as The Daily Café, Willoughby's, Koffee?, and Common Grounds. Lately I've seen them differently, as a member of the ranks of those independent coffee houses; one that happened to make good, but still tries to maintain it's leftist roots. Yes, the menu has become a unified and homogenized Value Menu of coffee and espresso concoctions, but even the best of the independent coffee houses I frequent only usually brew 2 or 3 coffees plus a decaf daily. Plus, for a large corporation, Starbucks' commitment to fair trade beans, healthcare for their employees, and the promotion of independently released musicians sits pretty good with me. Most importantly, no one went out of business -- well, the Daily's gone, but that had nothing to do with Starbucks -- but now I have a non-Dunkin Donuts option when a drive-thru is necessary.

So, as i said, I was in Starbucks, just trying to get an iced mocha and a frapacchino, no big whoop. So I thought. In front of me is a curious assortment of people. There's this woman, her husband, and what i gather are her two adult children. Now I guess it's OK to go grab a coffee with Mom and Dad, but, well, if this was my Mom, she's be enjoying her decaf Americano at the home.

So I walk in, and these people are already at the counter, 2 lattés, a decaf something-or-other...

"A medium American."

"Dad wants a Grandé Americano."

"He'll have an Americano."

"What size?"

"What size, dear?"

"I said he wants a Grandé."

"A Grandé."

OK, yes, it took 3 of them to relay his order to the barrista. I heard him the first time, but for some reason the barista was playing into the ridiculous game of coffee telephone. No wonder the old man was wearing earplugs. Yeah, I'm serious.

"Anything else?"

Now by this time, there's a line forming behind me. Randy Newman has asked me if I'm indeed in line. Taking a half-step forward toward the absurdity ahead of me, I respond "I think so."

It would be 1o more minutes before I'd get to order, and I'd discover that the agitated, white-haired man behind me was no more randy Newman than he was an expert on coffee.

"Anything else?"

"Do you have any samples?"

"Samples?" I was as confused as the gay barista who shared my name.

"I usually get samples of the beans. you have any sample decaf beans?"

"I don't at the moment." Not that I believe he ever did or would.

"Well, I usually get samples of the decaf when I come in."

"That will be 10.79."

"What do you have samples of."

"She usually comes in to a different store," her daughter attempts to justify.

"Your drinks will be right up."

"Can I get a sample of the decaf?" The earplugged husband is now far enough away to be the 6th person back in line, and I behind him. No wonder Randy Newman questioned if I was in line.

"Mom, he needs us to wait over here for our drinks," the gay son trying to preserve his chances with the barista sharing my name.

"Any decaf samples?" Insistent, isn't she.

"We have the decaf we roasted today. It's ground, but I can give you a sample of that? Would that work."

"OK, but I could come back tomorrow if you're going to have something else. Here, this...", picking up a pound of Pike Place Roast, "is this decaf? Oh, no, it's not" No, Pike Place isn't decaf, nor are the pound bags generally given out as samples.

The barista bagged up about a quarter-pound of the house decaf, and passed it over the counter, hoping that might drag this gaggle of loons over to the left to wait for their beverages, so he could take orders from the rest of the line now transfixed with the spectacle before us.

"There you go," assured the daughter. "Now she has coffee to make in the morning."

So, now having time to be 100% certain on my order, and feeling empathy for the people behind me, I rattled off my order with as much speed and efficiency as anyone can speaking Starbuckeese, paid, and moved over to my left.

"Is this the decaf Americano?"

"No, that's the latté," replied a second very patient barista.

"Iced Venti Non-Fat No-Whip Mocha."

"No, I'm waiting for a Grandé Americano." I tried to gently slide by her to acquire what was actually the first of my two drinks.

Finally, her infernal Americano arrived, and her children were all-too-relieved to escort her, and the earplugged father, quickly from the store. I received my second beverage and headed out shortly there after. The coffee was good, and I guess in retrospect I have a funny story to tell along with it.