Once I would have squirmed if a barista knew my order. But I’m learning to love being a regular | Emma Beddington
It’s nice to be known – even as someone who’s utterly predictable, cake-dependent and often unwashedWe went to the same cafe almost every day during our month-long trip to Venice. It was the same one as on my last trip, its windows stuffed full of dry-looking biscuits, slices of Barbie-pink nougat and souvenir tins with Rialto views, while pigeons milled around the door as if daring each other to enter. Inside, there was a display case of pastries, a shelf of never-touched aperitifs and an overworked coffee machine behind a high counter. It’s always packed: pensioners, dog walkers, office workers, the postwoman, dithering tourists and the bravest pigeons, cruising for crumbs.I recognised the staff though obviously they didn’t recognise me, what with 2.1 million tourists trudging past every year. But gradually we infiltrated the morning ecosystem and, after 10 days, the tall guy who operated the machine started saying: “Normale e lungo?” when we reached the front of the coffee crush. In week three, one particularly busy morning, he caught my eye as I queued and gesticulated at our already-made coffees, waiting on the counter. Cutting through to claim them, I felt like, I don’t know, George Clooney? Or at least a pigeon with recognisable markings that they don’t bother kicking out. It was a special moment: the gift of a brief sense of belonging. Continue reading...
It’s nice to be known – even as someone who’s utterly predictable, cake-dependent and often unwashed
We went to the same cafe almost every day during our month-long trip to Venice. It was the same one as on my last trip, its windows stuffed full of dry-looking biscuits, slices of Barbie-pink nougat and souvenir tins with Rialto views, while pigeons milled around the door as if daring each other to enter. Inside, there was a display case of pastries, a shelf of never-touched aperitifs and an overworked coffee machine behind a high counter. It’s always packed: pensioners, dog walkers, office workers, the postwoman, dithering tourists and the bravest pigeons, cruising for crumbs.
I recognised the staff though obviously they didn’t recognise me, what with 2.1 million tourists trudging past every year. But gradually we infiltrated the morning ecosystem and, after 10 days, the tall guy who operated the machine started saying: “Normale e lungo?” when we reached the front of the coffee crush. In week three, one particularly busy morning, he caught my eye as I queued and gesticulated at our already-made coffees, waiting on the counter. Cutting through to claim them, I felt like, I don’t know, George Clooney? Or at least a pigeon with recognisable markings that they don’t bother kicking out. It was a special moment: the gift of a brief sense of belonging.
