In my mother’s most recent visit to Las Vegas, she and I trekked out to Sambalatte, the city’s boutique coffeehouse where aged German gentlemen philosophize about the meaning of life, Asian graduate students have blind dates masked as study sessions over textbooks, and hipster high schoolers spend more time Instagram-ing their latte art than they do drinking it.
As we approached the cashier, my mother’s decade of employment with Starbucks kicked in as she perused the menu with fervor.
Me: A Nutella cappuccino for myself, please.
My mom: Yes, what is the difference between your “mocha cappuccino” and your “cafe mocha”?
The barista behind the counter launched into a brief tutorial regarding the difference between the two items that I did not bother to pay attention to because quite frankly, I did not realize that this would evolve into a blog-worthy encounter. My mother asked him to repeat himself as she tried to process what he was saying about the ingredients in each drink. She paused, as she debated what to order.
My mom: Okay. I’ll have a cafe latte.