Yogurt

The Deep End #9

This morning, I decided to go out for a cup of coffee. I decided on this even though I have not one, but two coffee and/or espresso makers in my apartment. Sometimes you need to shake things up. You know?

So, I arrived at a coffee shop. Inside of that store was a line (or queue, for all our foreign subscribers). It was a line (or queue) that I promptly got on.

It was a standard coffee shop.

You know the one: Brand new faux rustic tables that are too small to support a laptop. Sloped chairs that provide lower back pain after fifteen minutes of sitting. A nice and sticky wooden counter standing on a navy-blue support. To the right of the counter a tantalizing pastry display. And of course, the loud and steaming espresso/latte maker looming behind the counter, standing over the shop like Big Brother watching you from a screen. Hey, someone needs to make sure us plebs get our caffeine intake for the day.

I breathe in a gulp of air, which must have contained particles of floor cleaner from the night before.

The woman in front of me attempts an order, settles on the most complicated thing on the drink menu, and the sole barista embarks on her seven minute and forty-three second side quest of making this woman’s beverage.

So, I waited. My drink order was already well thought out. It had existed somewhere in infinity. Before I woke up. Before I left the house. And before my hand reached for the handle that opened the door to the coffee shop.

It was an order that would take under fifty seconds to fulfill.

Yet I waited. You can’t be mad about these things. I made the conscious decision to get on this line, and this is America. The customer in my lead had every right to order as many outrageous beverages as her heart pleased. Our fearless barista, though, did not seem to be aligned with her lot in life in that moment. She wasn’t having much fun making this woman’s drink or being at the establishment in the first place.

That’s when my eyes were drawn to something in my peripheral. A glint of sunlight hit plexiglass. Suddenly the pastry display was glowing; its insides were illuminated, lit by a spotlight. Every item behind the glass was begging me to order them.

Toasted blueberry scones. Flaking buttered croissants. Little frosted cupcakes, the kind you can just pluck right in your mouth. There were fruited pastries and chocolaty ones. The dopamine flowing through my body was beginning to percolate. Trying as hard as it could to be released. My adrenaline was sky high. I needed something. But I was strong enough to withdraw myself from the display. I had only gone in the store for a coffee, damnit.

Until. The unthinkable smacked any sense I had left completely out of me.

There they were. In all of their glory.

Muffins. My one true weakness.

These muffins were at the top left of the display. Right next to where the barista’s face will pop up when she finally finishes making the drink from hell and takes my order. This place knew what they were doing. They had placed the most tempting of baked goods right in your line of sight.

Wrapped in parchment paper that swooped up and folded into itself in intricate designs, they looked to be the pinnacle of muffin craftsmanship.

They were brown. The tops of them looked soft. The texture was the type that if you touched it with a finger, the sticky residue would leave a lasting imprint on your skin. The silky muffintop sloped off to a more rugged toasty edge, that turned a steep ninety-degree angle into the folded parchment to the bottom of the muffin body. Tiny bits of browned sugar granules and some type of finely shaved nut garnished it.

I was about to give in. But there was one thing missing.

A name for the face.

Someone had forgotten to put the placard which would denote the muffin type. The flavor profile. The ingredient that would put this bad boy over the edge.

I couldn’t just order an unknown muffin. I needed to know this thing’s name.

The barista snapped me out of my daze. Slurps came from the counter next to me. The woman had been given her freshly concocted coffee drink. It was my time to order.

“I’ll have a medium black coffee please,” I said. In my head I had fully accepted the fact that the muffin was going to be dissolved in a pool of my own stomach acid within the next few minutes.

“Will that be all?” the barista asked. Her uninterested gaze burned at me.

“Actually,” I said, prepping for the order. “What kind of muffin is that?”

No one could have prepared me for what came next.

“Yogurt.”

For a second, I didn’t respond. I looked at the muffin. The granulated sugar, the shaved nuts. The deep brown color.

“Yea, um. What flavor is it?”

No one could have prepared me for what came next.

“Yogurt.”

I couldn’t help but burst out into an awkward laugh. Was I missing something? Certainly, she was. I know what a yogurt muffin is. But even they had flavors. I realized I needed to dig deeper.

“OK, but what flavor is it. Blueberry? Banana nut? Chocolate?”

“It’s just yogurt.”

I was at a loss for words now. I burst out into another laugh. I was literally dying at this point. It was honestly hilarious. My foe across the counter was not in the least bit amused.

“There’s seriously no other flavors in there?”

“Nope.” A death stare burned into my soul. The universe had saved me from six hundred calories and seventy grams of sugar that I didn’t need.

“I’ll just take the coffee.”

“Coming right up.”

I quickly received the coffee and was still cracking up as my credit card tapped the machine. My finger clicked a generous tip to make up for the fact that it seemed like I was laughing at this person. I wasn’t, though. It just… didn’t make any sense.

Yogurt is white. The muffin is brown. What is making it brown? was what I really wanted to ask.

But as I burned my tongue on the first sip of coffee, I walked away, lighter and with a few more laughs than I had intended when my eyes first caught sight of that “yogurt”-flavored muffin.