Bad Barista

Bad Barista

While interviewing sources for a story I’m working on for a local publication one group accused another group of something that may or may not be true. In an effort to offer readers balance, I have spent the past two and a half days trying to track down the accused for a comment.

The accused owns a small business in a small town. Every time I call his business he has been out, just stepped out, will be right back, is running errands, just left for the day, etc.

My last three calls to his business, a cafe, went as so: call one– the barista was rude and hung up while I was in mid-sentence; calls two and three, which immediately followed, were not answered.

Because I don’t want to print an untruth, because offering both sides a chance to tell their story is important, because I am not a lazy journalist– I decided to take action.

I sent a note to my editor explaining my story would be late, but only because I felt we owe Mr. Elusive a chance to respond to the accusation made against him. I packed my laptop and drove to the cafe with every intention of sitting there until the never-around-accused showed up.

I didn’t have to do that, though, for the barista behind the cafe’s counter is a classmate who didn’t remember my name when I gave it over the phone but remembered my face as soon as I walked through the door. I think we have a class together this fall.

“You hung up on me,” I said when I arrived.

“I didn’t know it was you! People are always calling wanting donations.”

“No. I don’t want a donation; I want to give your boss a chance to respond to some accusations.”

She hung her head.

I ordered a drink and, as she whipped it up, wrote a note to the never-present owner. While writing and waiting for the sugar-free, skim, frozen vanilla thing I didn’t really want, the barista/ classmate told me Mrs.  Elusive owned the business next door.

I gave the barista the note, she apologized and disappeared in the back. I left and walked next door, arriving in time to hear her explaining to the wife– a baker– what the note was about. As it turns out, the wife gave me the evidence I needed to refute the rumor in question.

As things go, Mr. Elusive and his baker wife are only separated from Mr. Wonderful and I by one degree of separation– they are friends with another couple we know. The husband and my husband have been friends since little league.

The moral: good customer service is priceless in our small, small world.