Birthday Cakes
Wednesday was my last day in the coffee shop until late September. Fortunately it was marked by oddness.
At about 8am a distracted looking man in a cheap suit and tie came in and started examining the contents of the pastry cabinet.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Do you do birthday cakes?” He enquired.
“No, I’m sorry. This is a coffee shop, not a bakery.” I replied.
“I need a birthday cake.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t sell birthday cakes.”
“What about that cake there? The mocha crunch cake.”
“I’m sorry, we only sell that by the slice.”
“Have you got a whole one?”
“I’ll have a look, but we only ever have one in stock at a time.”
I went to the freezer to check. There was half a mocha crunch cake, already sliced into convenient portions.
“No, sir, I’m sorry, we only have half a mocha crunch cake.”
At this point he appeared to give up on finding birthday cakes in coffee shops.
“Well, where else can I get one?” he demanded.
“You could try the Village Bakery just down the road.” I suggested.
“Will they have birthday cakes?”
“I’d imagine so. It’s a bakery.”
“I need one today.”
“Good luck, sir.”
I feel sorry for his children.
That’s not really that strange. The first time I walked into Mishka’s, I was looking for a rebuilt transmission for my car. Though I was expecting there to be some miscellaneous car parts on display next to the rugulach, the helpful young lady at the counter suggested that I go down the street to a different shop. Apparently, Volley’s Tennis Shop has the best prices for rebuilt transmissions in town. For carbureutors, however, I’ve had better luck at The Avid Reader.
Aaargh! The Potter-child is on the front page of the Avid Reader website!
This surely is a good time to retell my experience of an Amercian female tourist who came into a shop in Sorrento, where I was buying a belt, and asked if they did “holy water”.
Dad.
Ah, now holy water *is* something we sell at the coffee shop. I make it myself.
You know, by referring to “it” as the “Potter-child,” you’re giving it a power and standing that it might not deserve. In particular, by naming it a child, you’re probably giving it rights under the Geneva conventions. Perhaps you should stick to the “Potter-figment-of-someone’s-imagination.”
In case anyone was wondering what rugulach is (I know I was) here’s a link: Rugulach.
I think I’ve seen you make holy water in an alley after a long night of drinking. I felt blessed by it.
Toot toot! Beep beep!
The Potter-Enemy-Combatant?
I had a similar story of inappropriate merchant requests, but I forgot it.
I do my best to have jobs that avoid dealing with the general public. They can be quite scary. When I was working for my local radio station we did routinely get all sorts of random folk calling in to tell me the most weird things, dull trivia or to make strange requests. Thankfully I’ve blanked most of them. Sometime though, the flashbacks wake me in the middle of the night.
Speaking of Americans walking into shops and saying stupid things:
One late night at the bookshop, approaching 9pm, a rather good looking 19 year old American girl walked in. I could tell she was American from the open and slack jaw that seemed determined to trap flies. And the stupidly inappropriate and layered clothing.
She walks up to me and, looking over my shoulder at our display of Harry Potter audio-books, intones nasally “Isn’t the first Harry Potter book called ‘Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone’?”
To which, feeling pulled between the desire to charm her with my Belfast brogue, or insult her with my wit, I chose the latter:
“I’m afraid not. It’s ACTUALLY called ‘Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone’.”
This got a “Huh?!”
Feeling buoyed up by her obvious bovine ancestrally inherited mental faculties, I drawled:
“They called it that in America because they didn’t think Joe Public would get the Alchemical reference.”
Another “Huh?” from her. Leaving me with no option other than:
“Exactly!”
I felt simultaneously cheapened and amused by this act of arrogance on my part. What the hell though, she didn’t even have the wit to ken she was being slagged off.