Often when I go to a bike shop to buy basic replacement parts like inner tubes or brake pads, a nice young man will offer to help. They tell me the shop offers classes on how to fix flats, or ask if I've ever worked on brakes before. I just pleasantly say yes, I can handle it, and they'll say "Well, just bring the bike in to the shop if you need any help . . . " I don't see any point to getting huffy about it. After all, they are there to help, and it's better than not being able to find anyone when I do need customer service.
One sunny day a while back, though, I stopped for a mid-ride coffee break at a nice neighborhood espresso place served by two young guys behind the counter. When I ordered my usual americano and croissant, the young man looked doubtful. He asked if I wanted the coffee black, and still looked uncertain when I said yes. When he served my cup and plate he offered cream and sugar again and watched when I took my first sip, as if he was sure I wouldn't like it.
The coffee was so dark and smoky I couldn't see the bottom of the cup, and it did need to mellow a bit as it cooled - just the way I like it - and the croissant was fresh, warm, crackly on the outside, tender and buttery on the inside. Also just right.
Remember back when Starbucks was a new thing, people used to complain that the coffee tasted burnt, or make fun of older suburban ladies ordering their first latte?
That was decades ago, kids. My generation practically invented espresso, along with sex, drugs and rock & roll back in the 70s. Geez.
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