Tea Bagging It

Mindy has accused me of glumming up the blog with my last two posts, so I will change subjects to something lighter. Thanks to my subatomic attention span, I have moved on anyway.

As some of you know, I make an almost daily pilgrimage to a coffee house in Titirangi village called The Hardware Cafe. It has an eerie cult-like status among the locals and others who understand the place. The food is rich and satisfying, especially breakfast. A constant complaint by "outsiders" is the service, which resembles that you would get at home from a big sister. The cafe responds with typically-Titirangian indifference.

For example, some first-time patron's are put out by the loudly singing barista, who accompanies every song on the stereo. I saw one customer charge to the counter and bristle, "it is too early in the morning for Grease" -- referring of course to the wildly and undeservedly popular soundtrack.

I assimilated quickly out of sheer determination to be part of the brooding, artistic lot bend over white ceramic bowls of fluffed milk and espresso. I did silently lament the fact that the Hardware did not serve a Chai Tea Latte, but dared not express this disappointment audibly for fear of being excommunicated. However, after a particularly promiscuous weekend wherein I had relations with three or four other coffee houses, Chai-Tea-style, I absent-mindedly ordered a Chai Tea Latte at the Hardware.

A hush fell over the bar as the register attendant stared over her sharp nose and said, "'We do not serve a Chai Latte." Before panic set in I was able to quickly switch my order to a long black with a side of hot water -- an edgy and progressive adaptation of a popular drink. This order always merits esteem from coffee connoisseurs, so my faux pas went unnoticed.

My next trip in, the Euro-hip barista was working the bar alone, both taking orders and working the equipment distilling the sweet elixir. Having remembered my slip from the day before, he asked if I wanted a long black or a Chai latte. Was I being mocked? His eyes showed sincerity, rather than scorn, so I acted like I hadn't heard him. He explained that he can make a drink like Chai latte by putting a chai tea bag in a bowl of hot, frothed milk. I gave a nod of approval just as the register girl returned. He explained to her what he was making so she would know what to charge me. "Oh, its the drink that guy ordered ... What was his name? ... John?," she said. The barista gave an exaggerated wink of agreement between bars of some 80's techno revamp.

Half-joking I asked, "So, if I like it, I should order the John?" The barista's lips, that had been curled into the twisted grimace that one must assume to accompany the head bob when listening to 80's techno, grinned slightly at my weak attempt at humor. He said, "What's your name, mate?" Caught off guard I responded honestly. "We'll call it the Brandon," he said.

Since then, he has remembered my name and greeted me with my signature drink at every visit. I have yet to make the menu, but think surely it must still be at the printing shop. The drink really is better than the Chai Tea Latte that other cafes serve, which consists of frothed milk and two pumps of a "Chai" syrup that has never seen a tea leaf in its long, chemically shelf-life. Go ahead, order a Brandon or Soy Brandon at your nearest cafe today.