I have a real espresso machine, and I pull real shots. This espresso machine is so painfully *real* that people come and take pictures of it for books and consulting purposes and shit. You, who are of course keeping it as real as it can possibly be kept, should understand. Do you see any flashing buttons back here behind my counter: Press Here for Caramel Macchiato? No, you don’t, because there aren’t any, and I don’t even know what the fuck a Macchiato is.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, I KNOW you don’t have a job because you sit in here smoking cheap tobacco and sketching scary cartoons no matter what shift I am working, so don’t fucking tap your impatient little toe at me if your shots pull a little fast and I make you a few new ones after adjusting my grind or my method of tamping. Go sit down, roll your shit, and I will *bring* you your drink. Isn’t that amazing? You see, cocksucker, although I may only be “barista-ing” during graduate school and not as a career, I *do* take pride in my work, and I *do* want you to enjoy your non-bitter espresso, since I have to see you every single day. You should A). appreciate that, and B). get a job so you can understand what it means to strive for better performance even though you make Dick-Balls an hour. It builds character. If you don’t like character, there’s a Starbucks next door.