This gay man customer syndrome is one of the funniest and bewildering of all customers. He walks in and takes a look at the menu, perplexed by the selection. His lips purse. Can you picture it yet? Try.
Me on the coffee machine says hello.
“What have you got?” he asks. It’s monotone and half-disgusted already. I know he’s been looking at the board for at least a minute, so he should already know. I don’t know what people mean when they ask me this. Do they want me to read them the board? Or are they expecting that that is not our real menu and I will rattle off a completely different one? I never know how to answer that question.
I look at my watch: kitchen closed fifteen minutes ago. I don’t want to bring it up lest he have a tantrum in front of me as I make a coffee for my other customers. I know I have to say it. “I’m sorry, the kitchen closed at three.”
He looks at his watch. I can tell what he’s thinking....'you can’t be serious’. He looks up for a sign and suddenly sees it written in large white chalk letters on the board below the food items. He looks at his watch again just to make sure. I must jump in. I must save this situation. The thing about a bitchy gay man is that they can make you feel the size of Tiny Tom Thumb, even though you as the barista are not in charge of the kitchen. You try not to go near the back. With all the chefs and knives around, things get messy.
“I can do you a cup of coffee. And we have some lovely cakes or scones for afternoon tea.” That’s it. I’ve thrown out the life buoy. Is he going to grab onto it? Or put it on and start dancing to YMCA? (I’m sure gay men nowadays don’t do that. That was an 80’s thing I think. Now I’m just being stereotypical.) They sigh a lot when things aren’t going their way. “So no food at all?”
“I’m sorry, only cakes. The kitchen turns everything off at three.” I could go on to say that we haven’t had a customer for a good half an hour wanting food so it’s impractical to be hanging around just for the likes of you, but I don’t. As a barista you learn to smile. Smile while you go ‘what’s he going to demand off me now?’ Smile while he looks in the cake cabinet half with disgust. He must choose something if he is to eat. He must suffer with cake.
“Well I’ll have a large latte, and that.” I love it when they don’t tell you the item, just wave their long fingers at it when you are no where near the cabinet so you cannot see.
I’m writing down his order. “A latte and what was that?”
“That!.” He sticks his sticky finger on the glass I just cleaned. What is he, a child? Kids touch glass. Adults can read.
I look through the misty back pane and try to see. “The Caramel Slice?”
“No…” He is very impatient with me. Obviously I’m a stupid person who probably didn’t even finish school. Hence why I am a café bitch. “The orange one.” His finger is still stuck on the glass.
"Oh the orange and almond.”
“YESS.” His slides his s’s out like a snake. I am pathetic. I finally got what he wanted. How slow must I be? How do I hold down this job? But, seriously, I must ask more questions!
“Would you like sugar in your coffee?”
“Ah, no.” Again answering like I should have already known the answer. But he is suffering, he gets no sandwich, only cake. And do you think, after you have done him the service that you get a thankyou as you hand over the take away – thank god he never eats in. The gay man customer who can’t get a sandwich would not sit around and pleasure you with his company. No, he struts out of the café in a disgusted huff, with only cake at 3:30 in the afternoon. I would like to know where he works and make demands he cannot fulfill. You swear after him as he leaves in a huff, big long feet striding out the door to his little Honda Jazz.
