#992 - When the barista gets your name wrong

After traveling for these past two months, I've come to the realization that once in a while, it's nice to treat yourself to a taste of home.  I have two guilty pleasures - one is McDonald's (I've tried Mickey D's in at least 20 different countries by now - which I'm sure will be a DEEP SIGH topic sooner or later) and the other is Starbucks.  Despite its crazy prices and endless menu that makes you do more reading than a ninth grade English class novel, Starbucks is always a great destination for that cup of joe that reminds you of home, and free wifi to satisfy your internet craving.  As an addict of the net, I am very grateful to pay a premium for my iced beverage just for the ability to surf the internet for an unlimited amount of time.

But what I absolutely hate about the place is the fact that the Baristas take down your name during your order.  Look, I understand the fact that you want to personalize the customer experience, but really, does it help if my name is rarely correct on the cup?

Maybe it's the loud sounds of people talking at the tables, or the machines whooshing and whirling every sort of concoction that prevent the Barista from having any clue of what your name is.  The more letters, the easier it is to fuck it up.  Three syllables?  You might as well go fuck yourself, you'll never get your name properly written on that cup.

Here's how a conversation usually goes with a Barista (mind you, even English speaking countries still have issues with my name - this example was from a recent trip to London):

Smiling Barista: "What's your name sir?"
Me: "Terence."
Happy Barista: "Thanks Karen - your order will be up shortly."
Me: "No, it's Terence." (Puzzled look on my face as if I look like a Karen while double checking to see if my penis was still there.)
Apologetic Barista: "Sorry, Clarace, I'll get that corrected for you." (pens out Karen and starts to write Clarace.)
Me: "No, sorry, it's Terence." (Saying it louder and wondering why I just apologized - I guess it's just the Canadian in me.)
Puzzled Barista: "Taris?" (Scratching out Clarace and now trying to find an empty spot on the cup to write this common name of Taris on the cup.)
Me: "No, TERENCE." (I'm projecting like I'm on a Broadway stage speaking to a crowd of over 1,000 theatre goers.)
Confident Barista: "Oh, Terrace!"  (Feeling all proud that he's finally got it.)
Me: "Yea, Terrace." (Resigned to the fact that I've just wasted a full minute trying to play 20 questions with my name with this Barista.)
Other Barista: "Terrace?  Iced latte?"
Me: "Here." (Begrudgingly accepting my new identity.)

After a trip to Starbucks, I walk out with and iced cold drink and a Multiple Personality Disorder.

At this rate, it's just better to make up a name like Peter or Mark or Paul that they can't fuck up.  (Or can they?)

DEEP SIGH.

On a DEEP SIGH sidenote, I was outside an Edinburgh Starbucks near closing time and saw a woman walk into order a coffee.  She was the only one in the place and the Barista still asked her for her name. She looked around, first to her left, and then to her right, and she must have been thinking, why the fuck do you need my name if I'm the only one here.  I guess she finally relented because I saw the Barista quickly scribble something down on her cup before getting her drink ready.  I wonder if ELLEN walked out of there equally angered that her name Helen (or better yet Eileen) was nowhere to be found on her cup.