A Cortado
I spent 5 years in Seattle, the city where the rain smells like americano, and the mountain in the backdrop of the city looks like whipped cream on a Mocha Frappe. No wonder I turned into a coffee snob. No, not a snob. Just particular, no – knowledgeable about coffee in a non-confrontational way.
Now, Russia, where I’m from, has a rich tea culture but the first Starbucks landed there in 2007 – last week in coffee years.
My order is simple: Cortado. One word. Half espresso, half milk. Everyone in Seattle knows what it is. But every time I try to order it in Russia, the barista’s face goes, ‘Is this a coffee order or a spell from Harry Potter?’.
At first, it was a surprising inconvenience. Then something changed. I began to relish their bewilderment, it reminded me of the look on like ambushed mountain goat as it was about to faint… Ordering cortado became my secret, shameful pleasure.
I’d approach the counter deadpan, nonchalant, even bored. Heart pounding with illicit excitement, head giddy with wicked anticipation. ‘One cortado, please’, I’d drop the bomb – and then it’s showtime. Barista’s eyes pop, their brain short-circuit, ‘cannot compute’ as they turn to the equally clueless coworker.
It’s… intoxicating. Each ‘Uh… what’s in that?’ a sweet wave of happiness would explode in my chest, fill my throat, and spill onto my face. In horror, I’d catch myself smiling. Oh. I’m actually delighting in this tiny absurd moment of superiority.
The fall comes inevitably. One day, my glee erupts. I’m too deep into this petty little game, enjoying the chaos I’ve caused, when I see IT. A flicker of recognition in the barista’s eyes. They notice the brief but unmistakable flash of joy at their confusion. I’m caught. They see me in all my petty glory… and I see them seeing me.
Like the water from the ice-bucket challenge, a sudden and icy drench of embarrassment covers me from head to toe. But with it comes a strange relief: I’ve been exposed, my fleeting, foolish triumph laid bare. I’m no longer just the foreigner with an obscure coffee order. I’m the woman who finds weird, perverse pleasure in confusing baristas. And in that moment, there’s a raw, unfiltered freedom. Being seen, warts and all, in the full, glorious light of my ridiculousness.