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Volume 3, Issue 11
THE GREAT MACCHIATO CONTROVERSYListen friend as I relate a tale of woeful dissidence, laced with secret societies and subversive subcultures. There is a controversy brewing just beneath the surface of polite society, which could effectively tear the very fabric of existence as we know it! They are everywhere conspiring all around us, plotting under our very noses. If you listen closely you can hear their hushed conversations in the shadows and see their conspiratorial knowing glances as they pass one another on the street. Although, there are many legends, and much propaganda on the subject, where the rift between these two factions began is hard to say. All that is known for sure is neither faction has any tolerance of the other and each blames the other for the degradation of purity. Where I first came in contact with the fringes of these secret societies was in a very unlikely place, an unassuming little coffee shop in Lakewood. I ordered a caramel macchiato, not because I knew what it was, but because caramel sounded good! The coffee guy (I refuse to call them baristas) stepped back a little and said a very defensive tone, "We don't make them like Starbucks." Now, I'm not real hard to please, so I told the guy to just make it like he makes it. He handed me a cup of espresso with a dollop of foam on top and a little caramel syrup in it. It was pretty good, but my curiosity was piqued so I had to find out just how Starbucks makes them. I headed for the one close to my house in DTC's Belleview Promenade. This time I was served a large cup of steamed milk and espresso with caramel drizzled over the foam. It was pretty good, too, but I couldn't let it slide without asking about the difference. My question was received well, I mean there was no defensive vibe at all, but this coffee guy had no idea what I was talking about. As I turned away a lady standing behind me said very matter of factly, "If it's not done this way, it's not a real macchiato." I stopped dead in my tracks; I could feel a world-class rant coming on! Then as my mouth began to open, preparing to release the spun gold of knowledge that it is famous for, I fell uncharacteristically silent. I suddenly realized I was outnumbered and out gunned; almost everyone in the place was looking at me with that good ol' boy 'you ain't from around here' scowl. Now I'm a pretty big guy, and I've been known to go to the floor to defend my beliefs from time to time. But even a hard head like me knows when my chances are those of a one legged man in a butt kickin contest, so I just smiled nervously and headed for the door. Lynyrd Skynrd was pounding out 'gimme three steps' in my head and scenes of being beaten with cell phones and Gucci bags by wild-eyed yuppies clouded my vision as I headed across the parking lot. Their baleful glares followed my progress as I sped away, and I could have sworn that one of them took down my license plate! I was trying desperately to process the bizarre set of circumstances that had just transpired, but I had no frame of reference for beverage prejudice. From somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind the random voice of reason began rattling off all the useless information I had ever been fed "for my own good": fasten your seat belt, don't look into the sun, use a number two pencil, take small bites, wait an hour before swimming. On and on the reel played, but no help for this situation. Thinking this could be an isolated set of events, I decided to try some other places. I hit a few places downtown-- some made it one way some made it another, but almost all had a pious opinion of their formula. I kept driving farther and farther out of town, stopping for macchiatos as I went. I started thinking I was being followed somewhere around Arvada (probably due to the fact that I had downed enough espresso to power a 747). I kept moving, partly to find the truth, partly to stay ahead of 'them'. In Golden it was, "We don't make 'em the way they do," then in Morrison, "We prefer the traditional preparation." In Evergreen I heard, "This is an American macchiato." No matter how far I went the story remained the same. I woke up a few days later in my car completely surrounded by empty coffee cups, with my maxed out credit card still clutched in my shaking hand, and completely out of gas. I had stumbled out of the car to escape the putrid stench of drying espresso and congealing caramel, when I realized I hadn't had solid food in a couple days. My stomach started making satanic, growling, 'feed me Seemore' kind of sounds. There I sat in the dirt on the side of the road outside of Evergreen with no gas and no money, holding my head in my hands. Then my ears began to ring, "Oh God, now I'm gonna die," I thought, then I realized that it was actually my cell phone ringing inside my car. I rifled through the mound of empty cups until I found my caramel and espresso covered phone. It was my editor telling me I was passed deadline again, demanding my story. I didn't have so much as a word written, but thinking fast I told him I had it done but he would have to bring me some gas before I could give it to him. After listening to him rant about irresponsibility and such for a few minutes he agreed and said he would be there ASAP. We were standing next to my car. As I poured the gas into empty tank I started thinking about my empty stomach again. "How's about a paycheck advance so we can get something to eat, and I'll give you my story over lunch?" I asked hopefully. He agreed and we stopped at the first greaseball burger shack we saw. As I wolfed down my heart attack in a sack he asked, "So what about this review?" I sat back and slowly began, "Listen friend as I relate a tale of woeful dissidence--." Have dinner with Bobby! Find out how to enter the contest on page 4. |