The cappuccino is pleasant enough, but strong, so I return to the barista and request a tiny top-up of warm milk.
“I don’t do that,” she sneers, as if she is a famous chef who will serve a hamburger with only toppings she approves. “Perhaps you need a different drink, a misto or a latte?”
“No, this one is fine,” I say. “It just needs a few drops of warm milk.”
“Well, I’ll have to charge you fifty cents.”
I shrug.
She reluctantly pours. And instructs the cashier to ring up a sale.
Fifty cents.
In her mind: Did she think I was trying to muscle in on a more expensive drink? Or might therapy and meds be in her future?
Little wonder Starbucks does so well…
