Real life | 27 October 2016

Coffee shops are becoming impossible. I had been standing in the queue at Caffè Nero on Battersea Rise for nearly half an hour behind a man ordering a round of coffees that were so complex, so detailed and intricate, so different from each other, so bespoke and unique, that it would have been quicker to get served if I had been standing behind a man ordering a helping of weapons-grade plutonium and a custom-made Range Rover.

I had nipped in to buy a coffee and a croissant. Silly me, for wanting a coffee and a croissant.

The man in front of me was ordering something like, from memory: ‘One regular black Americano with one and a half shots; one regular decaff white Americano with one shot, skimmed milk; a grande caramel full fat latte with two shots and extra froth; a regular soya cappuccino with one shot and chocolate on top, a large cappuccino with one and a half shots, skimmed normal milk and no chocolate; a large soya latte with two shots, easy on the froth; a macchiato with two shots and extra foam; and a small decaff mocha, normal milk, half a shot, no chocolate, extra cream.’

In other words, he ordered all the sizes, all the coffee strengths, to the nearest decimal place, all the milks, and all the different frothing and topping possibilities.

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Matthew Parris

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Some of the coffees were so ludicrous I don’t know why their human counterparts had ordered them. After all, if you want de-caff, why on earth are you worrying about whether or not you get one shot of un-coffee in it or two, or indeed one and a half?

It took the single barista on duty 20 minutes to assemble the various concoctions correctly, writing carefully on each paper cup complex codes that summed up the ingredients so no one would have their human rights infringed by sampling a sip of cow’s milk rather than soya, or being assaulted by one shot when they wanted one and a half.