American-Sized Coffee — My Guiltiest Pleasure

A short essay on my love-hate relationship with Starbucks

I have a confession; I like Starbucks. But it’s more than a little embarrassing for me to be anywhere — especially abroad — strutting down the street holding a Big-Gulp-sized supercharged caffeine beverage. I try to cover that world-famous logo with my hand and fight the urge to explain to everyone I pass that I am not drinking a triple-shot caramel macchiato with whip cream, it’s just a simple latte.

There’s no need to be embarrassed. It is just coffee. And who the hell cares if I’m drinking some extra sugar whipped peppermint mocha frappuccino hot mess of a beverage. I can drink whatever the hell I want. But I just can’t help but think, “what would my uncles say?”

The answer: “That’s a great-looking amaretto vanilla frappe with extra foam and chocolate sprinkles, tough guy.”

I’m only ordering a coffee with some milk but stepping foot in yet another Starbucks and seeing that green mermaid bitch looking at me brings existential dread.

There’s an inner rural Michigander in me that fights those urges and thinks I should forever simply drink my whiskey straight, my coffee black, and avoid all those fruity umbrella drinks and order a cold beer.

But I fight through it, especially when it comes to coffee because I need an epically large one. European espressos just don’t warm the soul like a twenty-four-ounce belly hug of perfectly brewed java. After all, I’ve been drinking it by the gallon for two decades.

My brothers and I were crushing pot after pot of coffee before middle school, took full thermoses on the bus, and we didn’t even think twice about it. If we went to our grandmother’s, there’d always be a drip pot of Folgers as my massive family came in and out and my grandfather, when he stopped working, perched on the edge of the kitchen island with a mug and a Marlboro.

Pop into our childhood home in the late morning during summer break and you’d find an eleven, nine, and seven-year-old reading comics and chipping away at their third pot of strong coffee. We didn’t have soda in the house, but our mother bought decent Starbucks or Caribou Coffee beans, french vanilla creamer, and even got the real canned whip cream.

So my brothers and I would wake up, put on a pot, and have massive mug after massive mug with a healthy pour of creamer, some whip swirled on that bad boy, and we’d post up for a few hours.

We’d get freaking wired and then rush outside to the forest behind our house for a friendly construction project. Our house was miles from town, and we had a proper national park-sized expanse of trees to roam in. We’d take our father’s tools and some pieces of scrap wood from the garage and try to build a bridge over the creek, a tree house, or a fort that we’d inevitably beg our mother to let us sleep in. When she said no and the thousands of milligrams of caffeine had finally coursed through our tiny bodies, we’d forget about the project and leave our father’s tools strewn about the forest — we still will get the odd hammer for Christmas from my mother with a ‘for all those ones of your dad’s that ya left out there.’

That’s the rush of childhood nostalgia a massive piping hot cup of joe does for me. It’s not simply a burst of energy; it’s a carefree summer morning at home.

But it’s still difficult for me to fully embrace my XXL caffeine habit. And I recently got the full judging eyes of a much more masculine flannel-wearer.

That’s the rush of childhood nostalgia a massive piping hot cup of joe does for me. It’s not simply a burst of energy; it’s a carefree summer morning at home.

It started when I had to pick up a light fixture from Ikea. I was on a time crunch, couldn’t wait for the delivery, and needed to get my ass all the way to the outskirts of Prague, which feel very American with massive highway turnoffs, KFC drive-throughs, and shopping centers.

I had to pick up a white Mandolin pendulum lampshade because, as I was taking off my sweater, I somehow reached the height of a basketball rim and knocked mine onto the floor and it shattered into 10,000 pieces. I was changing apartments and needed to get my deposit back but was also flying to America the following day.

My apartment was a mess of boxes, and I was pressed for time, trying to magic pen the stains from the wall, hide the scuff marks in the wooden flooring, and replace this damn lampshade.

I slept on the forty-five-minute metro jaunt to Ikea and walking back to the station after a smooth pick-up, I saw a McDonald’s. I didn’t have any food or coffee in my house, had a mean hangover from a multi-week-break-up bender, and needed something cold, large, and caffeinated.

I ordered an iced coffee with soy milk. While waiting for it to be made, a short fit man in tight jeans and patterned button-up strolled in. He was as close to a cowboy as I’ve seen in the Czech Republic, with his super short haircut, five o’clock shadow, his well-fitting shirt tucked into his jeans, a thick brown leather belt on, and I for sure thought I was going to see cowboy boots when I looked down, but he was wearing matching brown leather shoes.

He looked like he belonged in a Wrangler jeans commercial with Brett Favre, having just come from herding cattle, the rodeo, or a Kenny Chesney concert. I pictured his diesel Ford F-350 super duty parked in the lot with a Stetson hat on the dash and a Diet Mountain Dew bottle he used as a spittoon in the cupholder.

But I’m in Prague. “Does the Czech Republic even have cowboys?” I thought. “There are, of course, farmers and they’re a people that eat pork with most meals, but cowboys? I know some friends who spend their weekends riding horses. Maybe he raises and sells horses or maybe pigs. Or he probably came from a construction site and took off his boots, threw on his clean tight jeans and better shoes for a meeting with some city official because his contracting company is bidding on a project.”

He sauntered up to the McDonald’s counter, ordered a double espresso, used his McDonald’s rewards card for a discount, and paid for his order with a single fifty crown coin.

As he stepped back, a worker turned with my iced coffee in hand, placed it down, and I stepped forward as she shouted “iced latte se sójovým mlékem!”

Mr. Czech Cowboy looked at the massive plastic cup, the dark coffee settled at the bottom, and the cloudy soy milk swirling down the ice. He looked at me as I said, “děkuji” and picked it up. His eyes made a quick dart between me and the iced latte in my hand. Then he gave a little smug smile and exhale and subtly shook his head.

I casually strolled by him, tossed the straw into my huge plastic cup, and made my way to the metro, but was quietly fuming. It was one of those ‘here’s what I should have said to that prick’ moments.

In my ideal fantasy scenario, I would have paused in front of him and said, in flawless Czech with an ever so slight Wallahian accent, “Excuse me, sir, are you judging me? Mr. McDonald’s Reward Card User? You’re going to give me a shruggy dismissive smile for liking coffee, milk, and ice? I’m all about a snug pair of jeans but yours are tighter than the lead singer of an emo band. Please, take your wannabe Wyoming European metro ranch hand vibe and fuck off.”

I would have said the last sentence in English just to make sure he knows I’m a Yankee. The perfect Czech grammar, spot-on accent, and effortless flip to English would have left him dumbfounded and searching for words as I confidently strolled out the door.

Unfortunately, I didn’t say any of that and couldn’t if I tried. I know how to say “Don’t judge me, asshole” in Czech, but that just comes across as aggressive when the energy I would like to have portrayed was incredibly clever and passive-aggressive.

But it didn’t happen. After all, it is just coffee. And it’s just the judging eyes of hyper-masculine men hiding an inner child who would love to have admitted they wanted to take tango lessons after seeing Dirty Dancing, would kill to be able to order something fruity and coconut-y at the beach on a hot day, are tired of lowering the volume to their Katy Perry when coworkers walk in and were really hurt when they excitedly showed their friends an art project and got made fun of.

I’m sure some of them want an iced latte too.

Personally, I don’t have a choice. Ten-year-old me chose this life. It is too late to turn back. I need massive American-sized coffees.

I’m just working on accepting that fact, and in a way, accepting myself and all my grande vanilla mochaccino flaws.