Wednesday, January 25, 2006

I know what a cinnamon roll is

Begin rant:

Went to Flightpath this morning for a meeting. I walked in, said hello to my friend, dropped off my bag at his table, and stepped up to the counter to order. The chick behind the counter was talking to someone else about random shit. Not being in any kind of hurry, nor an asshole, I waited for them to finish. Finally they did, and the barista turned her attention to me. As it's a coffee shop, I got a coffee. And as I hadn't eaten anything, I asked for a cinnamon roll.

She said to me, "Well, we have cinnamon rolls, but it's probably not what you're thinking of. We don't have what you're thinking of."

Egg-squeeze me?

If you could jump into the wayback machine with me and journey back thru time to those thrilling days of yesteryear, to the days of Lee jeans and a lemon-yellow kitchen straight outta the 70s, you'd find me there, because that was our kitchen. There's a good chance you'd find me eating some cinnamon rolls, most likely by Pillsbury, the kind in the biscuit can with icing at one end. Though it could be the kind that came in a box with icing in a little squeeze package. Regardless, the rolls themselves were basically the same: dough with cinnamon and sugar on it rolled up with icing drizzled on it. In fact, as far as I know, that's pretty much how I'd describe any cinnamon roll in general. Ok, maybe they don't all come with icing, but for the most part they do. If I'm hungry for a pastry in a bakery or coffee shop and there's a cinnamon roll, I'm probably getting it. (Unless it's got raisins and then I tell it to fuck off.)

So, back to today...

"You don't have what I'm thinking of?" I ask, amazed that this mind reader hasn't done more with her psychic gift than pick up the morning shift at a coffee shop. I look over to the pastry cabinet where I see a cinnamon roll like the one I ordered there a couple weeks earlier.

"No," she says. "Most people mean coffee cake, which is more of a bread--"

"No, I want a cinnamon roll," I say, talking over her. (Newsflash: Though not a rocket scientist, I also know what coffee cake is.)

"--than what we have, which is just this," she pulls one out, "pastry thing with some cinnamon and a lot of sugar."

"Uh, that's what I call a cinnamon roll. That's exactly what I was thinking of, and that's what I'd like."

I mean, whatthefuck? She's telling me that I don't know what I mean, or want (see above def. of cinnamon roll), and what she thinks I want is something else entirely, and called by another name (coffee cake). And it's not like she was some wet-behind-the-ears freshman either. She was older than me, looked to be in her mid-to-late 40s, tattoo on her breast. Nor was it done in a manner like she was offering me a piece of The! Best! Most! Scrumptious! Coffee Cake Ever! b/c they didn't have any.

I won't deny that I have done what she did to me. Sometimes, I'm very sure of myself; too much for my own good on occasion. I would like to think, though, that I try to find out a little more information from whomever I'm talking to, before I correct them, or steer them in another direction. If not, I apologize and you are now authorized to bip me in the future. When I then give you a "wtf?" look, just say, "Remember the cinnamon roll, asshole."

End rant.

1 Comments:

At 1/28/2006 10:56:00 PM, Anonymous ennea999 said...

That was probably Angie, the manger. She's nice! Probably gets a lot of clueless college kids as customers & just thought you were one of them. The cinnamon rolls at the flightpath are fucking kick-ass! I love the gooey, rawish dough center. Mmmmm, may walk over there & get one right now.

 

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