Every time I order coffee at a restaurant, I fear the waitstaff hates me. Several friends who’ve worked as servers have confirmed that this is likely true.
Not sophisticated enough for the bartender, but more complicated than either soda or water, coffee is by far, the highest maintenance drink. With its own set of accompanying logistics, coffee involves frequent refills, additional monitoring of cream and sugar supplies, and the extra step of actually making each individual pot.
Still, nothing compares to coffee for its invigorating warmth, and it wouldn’t be on the menu if they didn’t want people to order it, so I often do, but cautiously.
While ordering, I scan the server’s face to gauge their response. Ordering coffee is a lot like saying “I love you” early in a relationship – it forever alters the relationship and can never be retracted.
When it goes well, the order is met with anticipated joy and the evening progresses smoothly, almost magically at times. “Coffee? Yes! I thought tonight might be the night where you finally said it, I’ve already made some just in case!”
Other times, the order is met with awkward silence, perhaps even a defeated sigh. The enthusiasm clearly doesn’t go both ways, but we’ve already been seated, so we play the evening out until uncomfortably parting ways.
This is usually accompanied with the line that, “It will be awhile, I’ll have to make a fresh pot.”
I don’t know why servers feel the need to involve me in the preparation process as if I’m their co-conspirator. Nobody ever tells me that my breakfast order will be right out, they just need to crack a few more eggs first.
“Making a fresh pot” is clearly code for “change your damn order,” but trying to do that escalates the situation even further. There’s no escaping the incontrovertible truth that, out of all the other customers there, I’ve become the difficult one.
Some customers are hyper-aware of the strain that coffee drinking puts on a server and open their order by asking if there is already a pot of coffee on, as if they’re hoping to be persuaded one way or the other by the drinking habits of their fellow diners. These people should never be trusted.
You can’t game the coffee supply with only one piece of data. If courtesy to the waitstaff is really the goal, the inquiry must go far deeper with questions like “how much coffee remains in the pot,” or, how many other people are drinking coffee?”
Anyone willing to take up this much of a server’s time with coffee-related inquiries should be ashamed, which is why they stop at their half-hearted inquiry and make terribly uninformed decisions that have no impact on reality.
The only place I’m ever truly comfortable ordering coffee after breakfast hours is at a diner, where it’s never viewed as an inconvenience. Diners are the last refuge for the PM coffee drinker.
I was especially excited after moving to Wallingford to find a local diner that serves lattes, a drink that white guys in their thirties are required to enjoy after reaching the five-year relationship mark with a girl.
The first few times I ate at this diner, I admired the large “latte” sign on the wall but hesitated to order one because they’re such a serious commitment of time, money, and energy.
I surveyed the restaurant several times trying to figure out their process to see if it would burden the waitress, the bartender, or someone else entirely.
After several visits, I never saw a customer order one, but still, the sign beckoned me, shining down over the lunch counter and dessert cases.
Finally, one chilly Sunday, the mood was right and we excitedly set out for eggs and lattes.
As I ordered, the waitress looked puzzled, like someone digging through a couch cushion for spare change, and the facade of my coffee-ordering confidence cracked.
She seized on my weakness, “We don’t serve lattes here.”
I pointed to the sign, “Are you sure? It’s pretty heavily advertised.”
“Honey,” she sneered, “that’s just decoration. How about coffee? I’ll just have to make a fresh pot.”
Right, a fresh pot. Message received. Thanks a latte.
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