Unless I brought a thermos of homebrewed coffee to school, the place to get the best java on campus is at the library. There, students stand in line to buy Cliff Bars or colored water (oops! "water of color"). Me: I endure the line for their double espresso. It's huge (just $1.65) and served in a paper Dixie cup that trembles. Maybe it's my twitchy anticipation but I suspect the container experiences its own quaking because of the high octane stuff. Last time I went, the clerk seemed puzzled that this was all I wanted in my drink. It dawned on me that most people order that mega-shot as a depth charge into their large cups of multisyllabic joe: latte, soy milk, etc. I'm not begrudging people ordering exactly what they want if that is what they desire. But that double espresso is about as elemental as one could get — and that's why it's so freaking good.
Partly out of simplicity but mainly because it is satisfying, I order the most basic beverage at Starbucks. By asking for a medium, dark roast I don't have to wait in line. They fill my cup and take my money — and I'm done. Except for one small hiccup. They always ask, while they pour, whether to leave room for cream. It's a simple "no" but it breaks the flow. For quite some time, I've puzzled about how to place my order to avoid that question. Fill 'er up seems to quaint, like what I'd say to Goober at the Mayberry gas pumps. Top it off? Again, doesn't sound sufficiently 21st century. I puzzled over this, believing there was a code word I could use. With someone else always in line behind me, I avoided any chit-chat that might make me the target of derisive stares.
Wandering away from the crowded Starbucks at the conference hotel, I strolled with an acquaintance to turned out to be a nearby hotel's Starbucks, not crowded. With a casual air and knowing that the Midwestern location would be amendable to conversation, I asked what I should say to avoid the room-for-cream inquiry. Ultimately, this turned into fascinating discussion about social norms and the persistence of a color blind society. The barista was a super chatty black guy and his co-worker was a skittish white lady from NYC. Lots of tension and hilarity — at least that's how I remember it. How did the talking move to that point? Because I learned that to get a full cup of dark roast, I don't say how much but instead tell them I want it black. That now makes sense even though it puzzles me that they only serve dark roast in black. If it becomes a lighter brown, that would only happen because I add dairy to it. In summary, to get a full cup of dark roast, one has to specify "black." If you do want room for cream, I just realized I don't know what you should say. What I do know is that your coffee would be the same color as mine (black) but just not quite as much of it.
