Accidental Lager: The Perils of Ordering Coffee in London
Growing up a relatively middle-class boy in Newcastle coffee became a treat that my mum would have to bestow on me to soothe the torture of the last eight hours of shopping I had been put through. Coffee then became not only a treat for what was a day’s work — trust me my mum could shop for England — frolicking from the TK Max gold label to the M&S food hall all whilst waiting for that sweet Hazlenut iced latte. It then transformed in my later years to a ritual which I and my mum would share, a black coffee for her and a latte from the coffee machine my mum had recently bought, the car journeys to school and the Saturday mornings were certainly upgraded from Lavassa instant.
I think I’ve made it clear that I have a profound love for coffee, since coming to university drinking a pot of coffee a day from a cafeteria is a routine I haven’t been able to escape, but it never quite hits the spot of a latte from home. You see lattes were once my chosen drink. The taste of that foamed-up milk with a double shot of coffee was everything I needed to get my work done at uni, to be transported back to a time when it wasn’t me wasting £ 3.90 on a coffee but when it was my mum. Though this has been robbed from me, well it’s really been lost from my embarrassment.
When I moved to the Big Smoke I came with what I thought was a soft Geordie accent. Yet in the hustle and bustle of London where accents of all sorts are heard, I have found mine unintelligible to everyone I have met. At first, I took this on the chin I went to a few coffee shops ordered my regular latte got a few dodgy looks, maybe had to say it twice. It was when one beautiful lunchtime in Hampstead Heath that I had one of the most embarrassing moments since moving to London. My girlfriend ordered avocado on toast — obviously- and for me, it was a full English — obviously. However when the waiter asked “Would you like any drinks” I replied, “A latte please”. His face dropped the man of fiftyish years old had a reaction like I had slapped him in the face. Then he retorted a “lager ?”. Seriously I thought in what world would I want a lager at 11:30 with my full English — to be fair that would be most but that is beside the point. This shook me I had to answer three more times before I just said the word “COFFEE!”. He eventually understood and I got a measly coffee with milk.
This would then go on to happen many times with many other waiters and baristas. Especially those barristers who love to think that making a coffee is that special I mean if I order a drink in a coffee shop that starts with a ‘La’ it really can only be one drink. As a northerner, I can’t bring myself to pronounce LAA-TAY. This finally forced me into ordering cappuccinos, which I rather dislike, just to guarantee an order but eventually, I found myself a place which not only understood me clearly, a place which asked no questions and a place which reminded me of home.
This charming place is Greggs. Nothing beats a Greggs coffee a place where people of all tongues can order.
