|
Post by Raivis Galante on Sept 28, 2011 9:42:09 GMT -5
At the Galante coffee shop, busy periods were few and far between. All but when the Starbucks across the street closed for repairs, the cafe retained its one customer every few hours pace. It was not that their coffee was bad or that their barrista was clumsy and a little forgetful {though surely that had an impact}, it's just that being situated by more mainstream, corporate shops did not help them get noticed. Damn hipsters not practicing what they preach and choosing the cozy little shop over the harsh flourescent lights and oversanitization of Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts.
The young barrista did not mind the periods of inactivity that constantly plagued them. It was nice. Raivis could safely go off into his little dream world of heavingly bosomed heroines and broad chested pirates with hearts of gold with a lessened risk of pouring freshly made coffee onto someone's hand and perhaps risking a lawsuit. The blond used all this time to also gather his thoughts and try to wrangle words together in an appealing manner. It was a mystery to his parents, the owners of the shop, why the phrase 'caramel macchiato' was written into an acrostic poem on the blackboard where the menu was but they knew some things where better off unasked.
Raivis sighed, fiddling with his dark brown apron behind the counter. He was a bit antsy, yearning for his latest dimestore romance novel and frustrated that no word in the English language rhymed with purple. Or silver or even orange for that matter. Such colors were stubborn things he decided as he grabbed his book from the hiding spot next the whipped cream.
|
|
|
Post by fbonnefoy on Oct 9, 2011 3:24:11 GMT -5
No matter how many years it'd been since university, seven in the morning was still too godforfucksaking early. Pardon his proverbial French. Then again, the jet lag wasn't helping. Two years of flying back and forth, from city to country, country to continent, continent to city and still--
Hold on one minute. City to city, country to country, con-- ahhhh, je m'en fou!
It took another second to realize that he'd cussed out loud. Francis sheepishly stopped rubbing at his temples with the pads of his fingers to look about his person, but few people had stopped at his exclamation--nor given him a second glance, at that (other than to admire his beatific--albeit mussed--presence, of course). That was the beauty of living, being, breathing in a metropolis: you could be everything... or nothing. Either, or. And. Or.
(But New York. New York had always been the city that never slept in some form or another; and hence, it knew. It watched its inhabitants nonstop, even through sleepy lashes.)
Straightening up, the Frenchman ran a tired hand through his hair--which he hadn't had time to brush out since his flight; since. His. Flight! Twenty-one minutes and thirty-two seconds ago but who was counting?--and decided. "J'ai besoin de café."
He should've been more French and cut in front of the line at Starbucks while at the airport.
But that had been 25 blocks ago, and he was mere minutes from his hotel. (He'd instructed the cabbie to drop him off three blocks away so he could get a little blood back into his legs while getting some non-10,000 metres filtered air into his lungs--but now that his fogged brain had sluggishly crawled back to life, he'd realized what a tremendously stupid idea that had been. Luckily, he'd ordered his luggage straight to the bellhop--but that didn't change the bag of essentials still slung over one shoulder.)
Coffee. Breakfast. Perhaps the morning paper. Ahhh, what an unexpected mental lapse! He would've pulled out his Blackberry and searched up the nearest coffeehouse if it wasn't already common knowledge that there was a Starbucks on every corner of every street in the Big Apple; and hence, when Francis entered the first door to smell of espresso, it wasn't entirely his fault when he strolled up to the counter and tapped his finger on the book that was currently covering the barista's face, accompanied with a sharp "Monsieur. Coffee. The largest cup you 'ave, 'ere. Grande, Trenta, or whatever nonsensical name your company gives the sizes, nowadays."
|
|
|
Post by Raivis Galante on Nov 26, 2011 22:18:18 GMT -5
Violette, the daughter of the count, was in the process of being whisked away by the gang of pirates with hearts of gold in hopes of using her to attain money when the book suddenly jumped a few centimeters closer to the young barista's face. Which of course led to his reaction of dropping the book while blinking in a startled and most likely, rather dumb appearing manner. After recovering from the minor heart attack he had, Raivis looked up at the man- a customer! who dare interrupt his romance novel-adventure in order to the smaller blond to actually do his job.
"Erm, sir? This isn't Starbucks," he mumbled near under his breath hoping to dear lord that when he dropped his book, it hadn't landed in the small spill of coffee he had been procrastinating to wipe up. Just because it was called a 'dime store romance' does not mean that it was cheap!
Despite his grumbling, he got the largest {it was almost the size of Raivis' head} mug he could find and carefully filled it with freshly brewed coffee. "Five dollars and fifty cents." All of this was done without even looking at the customer. Yes, his trashy novel landed in the spill and he was a bit too upset to try to be personable beyond handing the hand the coffee.
{Sorry for the late reply!}
|
|
|
Post by Alfred F. Jones on Jan 8, 2012 20:12:24 GMT -5
[[I'm going to declare this thread dead, since we no longer have Francis. I'm sorry. If you'd like to start up a new thread, please feel free to do so.]]
|
|