I understand why some people want to be a regular at a café. Every morning, in you plop, like clockwork, and you sit at your nice dimly lit table – just enough light to keep reading Jane Eyre even though for the first 150 pages, that bitch is a draaaag, but not too much for the spunky barista to see the bags under your eyes and those bobby pins that you’ve had stuck in the same piece of hair for over a week, as he serves you your Turkish bread toast.
And here is the first problem with being a regular at a café.
I cannot understand the idea of ‘I want to go to this place everyday cos I just love the way they make vegemite Turkish toast’. Vegemite Turkish toast is the easiest thing in the world to make. And Turkish toast plus butter? Taste party in your mouth, with everyone who’s an amazing party animal: invited.
And this is the paradox. Most ‘regulars’ at cafes order really normal daily breakfast foods. A simple muesli, a simple toast. Things you really can make at home and save $9. And therefore in my head, there is only one reason to be a regular at a breakfast café –
You are in love with the barista.
There’s no other justification for coming in every day. There’s no other reason to get out of bed 30 minutes earlier than you have to. There’s no other reason to pretend you read the Financial Review over breakfast, rather than laughing at the conservative shit Georgie says on ‘Girls on the Grill’ on the Today show.
8am is too early to be hot and mysterious, and everyone knows baristas are usually such premium property that the odds are they’re not interested in you and you’re wasting your $9 when you could PIGGY BANK that shit for a trip to Thailand over Christmas or maybe more gourmet dinners “with the girls”. I’m sorry I had to say that, I know it was harsh, but IT IS WHAT IT IS, these stereotypes exist for a reason, it doesn’t mean life is fair, AND THE BARISTA IS NOT IN LOVE WITH YOU BACK, HE IS ONLY DOING HIS JOB AND TRYING NOT TO BURN YOUR MILK so really you should just save your $9 and maybe your pride too and Try. Again. Later.
Here’s my advice, because you asked for it or something. Stay at home, make your own buttery toast, and save your café-flirting for at least lunchtime – when you can be sure your clothes aren’t inside out, you don’t have crusty bits of sleep in your eyes, and there’s a much more accessible strain of barista on duty.