Never order Coke at 9:00 am
Setting intentions for 2022.
Only one shop in the area was open on New Year’s Day—Spread Bagelry on South Street.
Dispatched from the home in search of hot coffee to warm a dreary and wet Philadelphia morning, I ventured out solo in a velour tracksuit, my legs like coils.
I moved quickly through the rain and tried four other coffee shops on my expedition, each of them closed before I found the bagel place open and alive.
The socially distanced line came up to the glass door when I arrived.
Inside there’s a beehive of activity as the hurried workers scramble between orders.
One lady works the cash register and takes orders, two behind her on the sandwich station swipe through a long list of orders, a guy at the end who pulls out the bagels from the boiling water and places them in the wood-fired oven, and another woman who roams between the cashier, the coffee machine, and the sandwich station.
I’ve only just settled into my place in line, dusting off some of the raindrops from my tracksuit, before I notice some commotion between the two customers ordering at the front of the line and the cashier. One of these customers turns back to face the line and says something with an eye-roll expression.
I don’t catch what she says. No one else appears to either, so the woman in front of me, stocky with a short haircut, takes it upon herself to relay the message.
“She says it will be at least an hour wait for bagels.” She had a look on her face of someone who thinks they could do a better job.
Noticing the woman’s disdain, the chaotic energy in the store, and the despondent look spread across each employee’s face, I realize the universe is sending its first test of the new year.
I close my eyes and utter my internal refrain: No bad days.
“We ordered ahead,” the couple behind me reply with a smug chuckle. “We’ve played this game before.”
Good for you, I think. Once I get my coffee, I’ll leave you both to enjoy the amazing view from atop your high horses.
The line inches forward over the next five minutes but evidently, it’s not fast enough. The buzzcut lady in front shares her discontent through heavy sighs.
I can feel the pitch-black hole of negativity open up around me.
No bad days. No bad days. No bad days.
When buzzcut reaches the front of the line, she orders a few bagels but also a bottle of Coke. It’s 9:00 am so I quietly judge her for that decision. My disdain is warranted given the piss-poor energy she’s intent on cultivating.
She pops the lid off the glass bottle, hands the bottle opener back to the cashier, spins on her left heel, and waltzes over to the table like she’s trying to make a point. Her friend is waiting for her at a table, where she’s already eating a bagel with her mouth open while staring mindlessly out the window.
No bad days.
I order my coffees. Twice because the cashier either wasn’t listening or didn’t care the first time, probably both.
After paying I move to the side to sit on one of the benches.
More people walk into the store and look up at the menu. The line swells so now people are squeezed up against the glass doors and they start queuing outside.
The tension inside mounts as the workers notice the line forming.
From my perch, I watch as the woman who’s meant to be making my coffee pulls out her phone and starts texting. Then she dawdles out the back and I don’t see her for five minutes.
She returns with a sleeve of coffee cups while still texting on her phone. She leaves again to go out back, still on her phone.
When she returns this time she makes eye contact with me.
“You wannud a latte, right?” She asks in a frustrated tone.
I move closer and ask her to repeat the question because I wasn’t paying attention, which only agitates her. Like me and my coffee order are the reasons for her bad day.
“You said latte?!”
“Sure,” I reply. I actually ordered a cappuccino but I don’t need the drama today.
No bad days.
“What milk you say you wannud?”
“Ah, oat, please.”
“What?”
“OAT MILK.”
No bad days, no bad days.
I return to my bench seat like a good patron and sit quietly. Saturday morning, the first of the year, and all I can think about is making good intentions.
My beloved barista fires up the steaming machine, shoves a jug of too much oat milk up to the tube, and starts the frothing. It’s squealing and sucking and slurping and sloshing and meanwhile, she’s trying to have a conversation with another staffer.
By now I know the latte, which was meant to be a cappuccino, will be a spongy mess of bubbly, burnt milk.
No bad days.
She puts the coffees into a tray, I zip my tracksuit up to my chin and waltz out into the gloomy day.
The rain has stopped.
No bad days.
Lovely read, but you've left me yearning for closure - hope you bump into buzzcut and the barista again, even if only for my entertainment
Do I need to send you a Nespresso machine from the sunny island of St Croix? No bad days here.