Clairvoyant baristas detect puzzle pieces
Last Sunday, Aidan and I dumped a thousand jigsaw pieces onto the dining room table, our one ambition for a lazy weekend. It was a picture of Batman and the other popular characters in that DC universe, and we both went for the early wins. I worked the edges into a frame, and Aidan collected yellows and reds, making them into Robin, the greens into the Riddler, and the purple into Catwoman.
That left us with a lot of blue and a lot of gray.
Five days have passed and we still can’t eat at the table. We’re at that stage where two pieces that don’t look like they fit together suddenly do. We’re also at the point where we realize those curves make up the Penguin’s umbrella, and the two bits of green left over from the Riddler are actually the Joker’s hair. When we join any fitting pieces together, we tap them loudly onto the table so that the other one knows of the day’s little victory.
Late at night, after we’ve both gone to bed, the utility belt will mysteriously become assembled by either my husband or Bandit, we never know. We do know that Buddyboy is no help because he eats the pieces he doesn’t like.
It’s what I like about San Francisco. The pieces don’t look like they fit, but the crooked street leads to the Golden Gate, and the T line curves all the way from the doughnut shop at the edge into the very heart of downtown.
So here goes: Last Tuesday, I took the morning off, and we drove up the winding misty Bosworth to get to Starbucks. Before readers rhapsodize about Philz, Fourbarrel and Peet’s, know that we go there for two reasons:
(1.) The outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior is almost perfect in every way, but cafes are not as abundant as California lilacs. Therefore Starbucks is the shortest distance between me and caffeine. (2.) The Portola baristas are psychic. Psychic is always better than psycho when it comes to coffee-making. Brian goes in Monday through Friday, and his drink appears before he gets to the front of the line. I go in on weekends, and before I even park, Victor scalds my milk, and as I walk in, he says, “I know you were going to order a Grande this morning, but you really need a Venti.”
Brian and I never go in at the same time, but this particular morning, Jay looked us and said, “Nice to see the power couple together.”
“How do they know we’re together?”
Aidan shrugged. Brian smiled. “Puzzle pieces. We don’t look like we match, but you put us next to each other and we fit in a way that no other pieces on the board can.” Married in the eyes of Starbucks. Further proof the baristas are prescient and this is the dawning of the Age of Affogato: Last week, Victor handed Aidan a cup of oatmeal. I protested, “He always orders a cookie.”
Victor smiled and said, “He stuffs those in the cushion of the back seat of your car.” Sure enough, I found 12 chocolate-dipped madeleines in varying states of decay.
I do not have a sophisticated palate. Give me a three-page wine list and I still respond, “the white one.” But now, in any given House of the Green Siren, I order a “Venti Seven-Pump Nonfat Chai Tea Latte. No water, extra foam.”
These baristas don’t know I write for the best newspaper in the West, or that I have a badge on under the jacket. They don’t know that Brian has danced for presidents. They don’t know that the reason Aidan picks up The Chronicle every Wednesday morning is because he’s counting the number of times his name appears.
But they remember my order. My particular Venti Seven-Pump Nonfat Chai Tea Latte, no water, extra foam describes me pretty well: sleepdeprived, always on a diet, and more froth than spiced tea.
Here’s what I love about San Francisco: The cable cars don’t connect to Sutro Tower, and Lucca’s and “Beach Blanket Babylon” close for no reason, but on any given street, there’s magic. There are tiled staircases, three-story murals and cappuccino artists who read minds.
These green-aproned mystics tell the story of how I’m married to the Skinny Cinnamon Dolce, no foam, extra sprinkles, raising two hot chocolates, heavy on the whipped cream.
They know I’m gonna sprinkle nutmeg on top before I tip my cup toward my son and toast, “To the best boys in the world.” He tips back. The puzzle pieces fit together.
“We don’t look like we match, but you put us next to each other and we fit in a way that no other pieces on the board can.”