Blaglash.com

It’s the same every morning.

I hit up Los Amigos Deli in Long Island City for a morning cup of coffee due to its proximity to the train I take to work. And every day I order the same thing.

“Large black coffee,” I say, already nervous, knowing, shivering. “No cream, no sugar.”

I shouldn’t have singled out Los Amigos. Because what happens next is typical of all bodegas (which is to say, any place that sells coffee that isn’t a hangout for white hepcats).

First, the inquisitive look in thier eye.

“No milk, no sugar?” They ask every day, convinced as they are that I have surely misspoken.

“Yep, that’d be wonderful.” I say, wondering how this morning’s cup will turn out.

The final result is one of the following every single morning:

1. There is milk in my coffee. This pisses me off so much that I will usually smile smugly, thank the kind coffee pourer, tip an extra dollar, and throw it away when I am out of their view (usually underground where nobody will notice). I’m such a pussy.
2. There is sugar in my coffee. Note: there is never both milk and sugar in my coffee together. The rationale here I can’t seem to explain. This usually appeases me just fine and it takes until the half-way point to work for me to make a sour face at my cup for several minutes. I still carry the cup with me but it usually ends up becoming cold and unfinished on my desk as I work*.
3. My coffee is handed to me black. This usually pisses me off the most because it becomes a spectacle. Like, “Hey, check out the white guy. He’s off to work with his coffee and it doesn’t have milk or sugar in it! Fucking idiot!” So of course when my coffee is poured the way I like it, I drink the whole thing (why wouldn’t I?) and then plot my revenge. “Those evil Senors and/or Senoritas,” I say at my worst, “I shall burn their corner store to the ground.” “I shall not rest until the fire has spread and has engulfed the neighborhood.” “Only then will I, after stoking the flames with reams upon reams of yesterday’s New York Post take my final revenge.” Then I imagine myself holding some kind of weapon (the weapon varies day to day, though usually a blunt object like a mace or a blunt/edged weapon like a battle-axe) and allowing myself behind the counter to pour my own God damned coffee.
4. The coffee is inexplicably not coffee at all, but rather tea (I mean what the fuck).

_{* Write blog posts about ordering coffee}