The Café Incident

The Café Incident"

There’s this café downtown—"The Roasted Bean"—one of those fancy places where the baristas wear suspenders like they’re going to audition for the role of “Best Dressed Prohibition-Era Bartender.” You know the type. They roast their own beans, make their own almond milk, and serve everything with a side of disdain. It’s the kind of place where people sit with laptops but never seem to actually type anything.

Now, I don’t fit in at this café. I wear jeans that don’t have a backstory, I don’t use words like “notes of citrus,” and I think latte art is just foam doodles for people who are too cool to admit they like cartoons. But, you know, the coffee is good, the Wi-Fi works, and I enjoy the thrill of ordering a “large” and being corrected: “You mean a tall?”

One Tuesday afternoon, I step inside and immediately regret it. The place is packed. Every table is taken by people who look like they’ve been cast in a Netflix show about misunderstood geniuses. There’s a guy in the corner with a handlebar mustache typing furiously on a typewriter. I’m pretty sure the loud clacking is just him typing “Dear Diary, today I annoyed everyone in a café.”

Across from him, a woman is sketching. I sneak a peek at her notebook as I walk by. It’s a stick figure holding what might be a flower or possibly a sword. She’s squinting at it like Michelangelo deciding if the Sistine Chapel needs more clouds.

Finally, I find a seat at one of those tiny tables by the window. You know, the kind of table so small that even breathing feels like a risky move. I squeeze in, trying not to knock over the succulent in the center. Because, of course, every table has a succulent. A tiny, overpriced plant. For “ambiance.”

Just as I’m settling in, a waitress approaches me. She’s got bright purple hair, a nose ring, and a name tag that reads Aura. Now, I don’t know what her real name is, but I’d bet my next paycheck that her parents didn’t name her Aura.

“Hi there!” she says, her voice dripping with that kind of cheerful hostility you only find in retail. “Have you been here before?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Last week. Ordered a coffee, drank it, and got a lecture from a guy in a beret because I put my stir stick in the wrong bin. You guys have, like, five different recycling bins. Paper, plastic, compost, existential crises…”

Aura doesn’t laugh. Not even a pity chuckle. Tough crowd.

“Well,” she says, “we’re proud to offer a sustainable environment here. Everything we use is compostable, biodegradable, or locally sourced.”

“Great,” I say. “I’ll take a coffee. Locally sourced, preferably.”

“What kind?” she asks, whipping out a notepad like I’m about to order wine at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

“Uh, black?”

She tilts her head like I just told her I don’t believe in Wi-Fi.

“We have single-origin Ethiopian, Guatemalan roast, or our house blend, which is made from beans grown by a cooperative of farmers in Honduras who also build schools for children in their spare time.”

“Wow,” I say. “I’ll have the heroic coffee. Do they also rescue kittens, or is that extra?”

Aura stares at me like I’ve insulted her entire family.

“One Guatemalan,” she says flatly and walks off.

As I wait, I pull out my laptop and pretend to work. Really, I’m just scrolling through old emails and deleting spam. But in a place like this, you can’t just sit there doing nothing. You’ll get judged.

Next to me, a guy is wearing AirPods but still manages to laugh loudly every thirty seconds, like he wants everyone to know he’s enjoying his podcast. Across the room, someone else is doing a Zoom call in public, which, frankly, should be illegal.

The door swings open, and in walks this guy. He’s loud, brash, and wearing sunglasses indoors, which is always a bold move. He’s got on a leather jacket that’s trying way too hard. You know the type. It’s shiny, but not in a cool, James Dean way. More like “I bought this on sale at a gas station” shiny.

He struts up to the counter, looks Aura dead in the eye, and says, “Hey, sweetheart, gimme a cappuccino. And make it snappy!”

Aura doesn’t flinch. She’s been waiting for this moment her whole life.

“We don’t serve cappuccinos,” she says. “We have cortados, macchiatos, and flat whites.”

The guy frowns like she just told him his dog ran away.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll take a cortado.”

“What size?”

He grins. “The biggest one you got.”

Aura smiles sweetly. “Cortados only come in one size.”

Now, at this point, I’m fully invested. My laptop is closed, and I’m watching this interaction like it’s a live episode of Judge Judy.

A few minutes later, Aura brings him his cortado. And let me tell you, folks, it’s the tiniest cup you’ve ever seen. It’s so small it makes espresso cups look like Big Gulps.

The guy stares at it, confused. “What’s this?”

“Your cortado,” Aura says, her voice dripping with faux sweetness.

“This?” he says, holding it up like it’s evidence in a courtroom. “This is a sip of coffee. Where’s the rest of it?”

“That’s the size of a cortado,” she says, blinking innocently.

The guy shakes his head. “Unbelievable. Back in my day, coffee was coffee. You didn’t need a dictionary to order it!”

From across the café, someone pipes up. “Yeah, but back in your day, cigarettes were healthy, so…”

The whole place erupts in laughter. Even Aura cracks a smile. But the guy isn’t done.

He slams the tiny cup down on the counter. “This place is a joke! I’m never coming back here again!”

And then he storms out, leaving his leather jacket flapping behind him like a defeated superhero cape.

You’d think that would be the highlight of my day, right? Wrong. Because five minutes later, a pigeon flies into the café.

Not through the door. Through the window. One of those big, fancy windows they keep wide open because apparently fresh air is more important than keeping pigeons out.

The bird swoops in like it owns the place, flapping around and knocking over cups. People are screaming, laptops are falling, and one guy tries to shoo it away with a rolled-up yoga mat.

And here’s the best part: Aura doesn’t even blink. She calmly grabs a croissant from the pastry case, holds it up like a peace offering, and says, “Hey, buddy. You want this?”

The pigeon, mid-flight, stops dead in its tracks. It lands on the back of a chair, tilts its head, and stares at the croissant like it’s considering its options. Then, slowly, it hops over, grabs the croissant in its beak, and flies back out the window.

The café erupts in applause. People are cheering like they just witnessed a miracle. Aura takes a bow, and someone actually throws a napkin in the air like confetti.

Eventually, I finish my coffee—lukewarm, because that’s just how things go in places like this—and leave the café. But I can’t stop thinking about that pigeon.

Somewhere out there, there’s a bird sitting on a power line, telling its friends about the time it walked into a hipster café and walked out with a fresh croissant. Honestly, I respect that pigeon. It came in, caused chaos, and left with the prize. It’s probably the most productive thing anyone did in that café all day.

So, what’s the moral of the story? I don’t know. Maybe it’s this: Never underestimate a pigeon. Or a barista named Aura. Or maybe it’s that cafés like The Roasted Bean aren’t just about coffee. They’re about the drama, the spectacle, and the moments of absurdity that make life worth living.

Either way, I’ll be back next Tuesday.