Cappuccino Quest

It isn’t often that I get away with my beautiful bride, alone – without any kids, but today was one of those rare occasions. We enjoyed a quiet dinner together, and we talked about the paradoxes of life: being middle-aged, but still feeling like we’re kids; being thankful for time alone, but wishing the kids were with us; reminiscing about great places we’ve been, but spending the balance of our time visiting Kinko’s, Target, and Costco. Alas, our time was growing short, and Amy suggested we find a Starbucks drive-thru on the way home. I winced inside and gripped the steering wheel tightly, unconsciously bracing myself for what was to come. Knowing full-well the perilous circumstances life had just bestowed upon me, I smiled and said, “Okay.” Curiously, I seemed to always find myself in the wrong lane or going in the wrong direction when a Starbucks was sighted (no small navigational feat considering the ubiquity of these coffee establishments). Finally, I made it out of the city limits – there wasn’t another Starbucks for more than sixty miles, “Sorry, honey, I think we passed them all.” Amy wasn’t the least bit concerned (although her suspicions may have been piqued) and she cheerfully reminded me that there is a Bean’s coffee house on the way – with a drive-thru, no less. Thwarted by America’s addiction to caffeine, and seriously underestimating the quiet resolve of the strategist sitting beside me, I mentally conceded victory. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot about Bean’s. I’ve heard some people say their coffee is better than Starbucks.” Reverse psychology never works with Amy: I only uttered these words as an act of desperation. We pulled into the parking lot, and as I began to align the car with the drive-thru lane, Amy says, “I have to go in. I’ve never been here before, and I have to see how they make the coffee.” My blood ran cold. She was going for a full frontal assault – my mind raced as I considered the kids’ eyewitness accounts of Amy ordering coffee: a service industry inquisition unparalleled in modern times. “I think they’re closed. I don’t see anyone in there” (okay, I admit it was a feeble attempt, but I had to try something). “No they’re not. I see a girl in there,” and with that statement, Amy sealed my fate: I was going in, no turning back. Some history is important to interject at this point: Ever since returning from Italy in 2007, Amy has been on a relentless quest to find the perfect dry Italian cappuccino in the New World. Many naive baristas have suffered for a lack of proper cappuccino technique, and this poor Bean’s barista was next. The ensuing conflict hinges upon a definition of terms: ‘Dry’ means milk foam, without a trace of its liquid precursor, and two shots of espresso – nothing more, nothing less. Amy will watch the barista like hawk as the milk is poured into the foamer-thingy; ready to verbalize, “No milk!” if the barista should forget the aforementioned definition of ‘dry’. Sometimes, Amy’s line-of-sight is obscured as the drink is prepared, so when it’s handed to her she lifts the cup up-and-down repeatedly testing its weight in the air: woe to whoever hands her a weighty cappuccino. Tonight, I was in luck: the cup passed the weight test! Amy smiled as she handed the cup to me and said, “Here, feel this,” motioning for me to perform the weight-test myself. I took hold of the cup and lifted it in agreement with Amy’s appraisal; but thinking to myself, “Great. I just paid four bucks for weightless milk-foam!” As we were driving away Amy said, “It’s not as good as Starbucks. I guess it’s hard to find a good Italian cappuccino when you’re not in Italy.” She drank it nonetheless. Well, at least Bean’s identifies the volume of their cups by proper nomenclature: small, medium, and large; as opposed to Starbucks where one must engage in the counter-intuitive process of selecting between a tall, grande, or viente sized cup, but I didn’t say anything… better to keep these thoughts to myself.