This weekend, I stopped into Inversion for a caffeine infusion in my preferred format: a cortado, which is a shot of espresso cut with an equal amount of steamed milk. No foam on top, nothing fancy, no flavorings -- just the facts, ma'am.
When it was my turn, I stepped up to the counter and placed my order. The barista behind the counter regarded me with some confusion. He, in a red hoodie with the hood raised over his head, was the proud owner of a fantastic beard, many tattoos and a prominent captive bead ring through his septum. I, in my Talbots jeans and Anthropologie necklace, likely looked hopelessly bourgeois and suburban -- always have, always will.
"I've gotta say, that's not what I expected," he finally said.
"I'm sorry?" I responded, equally confused.
"That's not at all what I expected you to order," he replied with a laugh.
I turned to the guy behind me in line, who'd chuckled along with the barista. "What kind of drink did y'all expect me to order?"
The other customer -- who, like the barista, looked every bit the "typical" Montrose resident (whatever that means anymore) -- responded with: "You look like a pumpkin pie latte kind of girl."
The barista nodded his agreement. "I honestly expected you to get a pumpkin pie latte or something like that."
I didn't know what to say. Was it my ginger-esque hair? My waistline? Did I resemble a pumpkin? Or did I just look like the kind of clueless suburbanite who stumbles into a "serious" coffee shop and orders the most dessert-like item on the menu?