She walked in, diamonds first, tapping the tips of her long, slender fingers of one hand against the elegant fingers of the other. Her expression: a mix of casual boredom and mild amusement (amused, most likely, with this little town of Boonville, this little shop, these little people). She was middle-aged, attractive, and draped in delicate, dark-colored fabric. She stopped in the very center of Otto’s Ice Cream Shop and sighed, then said in a loud but graceful voice, “Oh, what do I want, what do I want, what do I want…?”
She was the type of person who is used to getting what she wants.
She spoke as if she were in the kitchen of a grand house addressing a staff of thirty servants.
Again, “Oh, what do I want?”
(Is this a quiz?)
It was just the two of us that autumn afternoon. I smiled. I waited patiently. Customer service is important.
“Give me a cappuccino, but without the foam,” she ordered.
I kept smiling. “A cappuccino without foam?” I said.
“That’s right,” she said.
Now, anyone who knows anything about cappuccino knows that a cappuccino can’t be made “without foam.” A cappuccino, done correctly, is nothing more than plain espresso topped with foam. A “wet” cappuccino is espresso with foam and a bit of steamed milk—not recommended. Wet cappuccino, wet dog, wet blanket, wet firewood…
“So,” I asked, “You’d like just plain espresso? Or would you like espresso with milk?”
“No,” she said, already sounding frustrated, “I would like a cappuccino with no foam.” She turned around and looked out the window. I’m sure she was rolling her eyes, wondering why I couldn’t just do it like Starbucks.
Not all out-of-towners are unpleasant. Many enter Boonville as they would a stranger’s house, appreciatively and with a show of good manners. They take a look around, enjoy some food and shopping, and leave a nice gift — money — behind as a thank you. But in every batch of incoming tourists there are a few challenging individuals.
Finally I said to the woman’s back, “I generally make a cappuccino by topping straight espresso with foam. Could you please tell me exactly what you want?”
It turned out that she wanted a double espresso with steamed milk. She was obviously displeased with me for being such a dumb and difficult person, but she paid for her drink and left me forever.
Later that same day a man came in, tapped the top of the ice cream freezer with heavy palms and stared down at all the yummy flavors. He tapped and stared, tapped and stared. He was dressed in khaki shorts, a t-shirt and a pair of sandals. It wasn’t an outfit he would wear around his house or to work or to the movies. Serious tourists have special wardrobes for traveling.
After what seemed like several minutes he said, “Yeah, can I get a chocolate milkshake please?”
I began to scoop chocolate ice cream.
“Wait,” he said. “Can I get that with vanilla ice cream?”
“No,” I said.
“Well isn’t that how you usually do it?”
“No,” I said. “I usually make a chocolate milkshake with chocolate ice cream.”
“Really?” he said, amazed.
It turned out he wanted vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup mixed with milk. That was OK. I made his shake and smiled and he was happy.
Later that same day a man came into the ice cream shop with a tiny white dog. The little white dog had been in the car, and was getting some fresh air. The man tied the dog to a tree outside, but the leash was long and the dog pranced into the shop. The man ordered an ice cream sundae. He sat at a table. He lifted the tiny white dog onto a red cushioned chair and scooted the chair close to the table. He saw me watching.
“He always sits at the table,” the man explained.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
The man pulled a children’s book from the shelf in the corner and immersed himself in it while spooning dainty bites of ice cream and chocolate into his mouth. He read a bit of the story aloud to the dog, who seemed completely disinterested.
Outside a confused-looking couple huddled together on a bench eating vanilla cones and clutching the collars of their two matching collies. They looked around suspiciously. Clearly they felt out of place, but were fulfilling the obligation of stopping in “this little town” and taking in the sights. And the ice cream. As they prepared to leave, the woman stood up quickly and stomped her foot on the pavement, then twisted as if she were grinding a large insect to its gruesome death. The couple and their collies marched away. And there was nothing—not a thing—in the place where the woman had stomped.
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