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WHO DO YOU HAVE TO WORSHIP TO GET A COFFEE ’ROUND HERE?
Some coffee houses are serving more than just lattes and long blacks, writes Phil Scott.
I hadn’t seen the girls since they headed to Europe five years ago, but the other day I bumped into Jemma and Tam on the street. They looked great: tanned, happy, just as much in love as ever. We were outside a café and decided to step inside for a quick catch-up.
It was one of those franchise joints – coffee flavoured with caramel or pesto or whatever. “This is so American!” Tam said, rolling her eyes.
“They have to flavour coffee in the US,” Jemma explained. “It’s got no taste at all, otherwise.” The place was full of hetero couples (unusual for this area). One or two cute guys sat alone.
We’d been through their stories of Italy and were onto Barcelona when the waitress came to take our order. She wore no make up and had a pale, pudgy look about her.
“Hoi,” she whined. “What can I get yue?”
“Two flat whites and a long black,” Jemma replied.
“Any flavouring?” the girl asked.
“Coffee flavouring, please.”
The girl looked momentarily puzzled, then shrugged. “Sumpthink to eat?”
“Just the drinks,” Tam answered.
“OK. And, uh, have you ever been involved in a same-sex relationship?”
We were taken aback. Jemma answered. “One or two. As you can see.” She gave Tam an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
The waitress turned away in fright, then resumed. “Um, have you ever been involved in witchcraft, drug abuse or bisexual activities?”
“Sorry?” said Tam.
“It’s a kind of survey,” the girl explained. “I gotta ask it.”
“I worked in Witchery …” mused Tam.
“Bring the goddam mother-fucking coffees,” Jemma suggested with a sweet smile.
A little while later, a man who seemed to be the manager approached our table. He had neat and shiny hair, and wore a short-sleeved polyester shirt, stained under the arms.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“No, no,” he gushed. “Not at all. But before we serve you ladies, I must ask you to sign a separation agreement. It’s standard practice.”
“A what?”
“It restricts touching and so on, on the premises.”
“I don’t think so,” said Jemma.
He frowned and glanced around the room. “Oh well … look, there are two boys on their own. Perhaps each of you girls could join them?”
We sat in stunned silence. I realised why the other couples weren’t speaking to each other. They were total strangers!
I piped up. “I’ll sit with him,” I said, pointing. “He’s hot.”
A vein in the manager’s neck began to pulse, and his face grew very red. “There is no place for the aberration of homosexuality in God’s kingdom.”
“Isn’t that in Disneyland?” I quipped.
“I must ask you to leave.”
“No,” snapped Jemma, “we must ask you to leave: leave people alone! Take your crap American coffee and your fucked American evangelism and shove the lot up your sweaty little arsehole.”
We were about to go when I saw it. “Oh, look! Can’t we stay? They have heaven and hell cake. I love that!”
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