I’ve decided it’s time to venti a little about what’s going on at my local Starbucks.
For years, I’ve been a loyal customer. And by loyal, I mean the kind of person who will willingly pay an outrageous amount of money for a cup of coffee that I could probably make at home for about thirty cents.
But lately, I’m beginning to suspect there’s some sort of grande conspiracy designed to drive me completely insane.
Only in Americano could a company get away with this kind of silliness.
Let me explain….
For the longest time, my morning routine involved stopping at Starbucks around 5:30 a.m. At that hour, most normal people are still in bed, dreaming about winning the lottery or finding a way to retire before they’re eighty.
Not me.
I’m standing in a Starbucks, half asleep, waiting for someone to pour hot water over ground coffee beans.
And you’d think that being one of the first customers of the day would make the experience relatively painless. But you’d be wrong.
There’s usually nobody else in the store. No line. No complicated orders for triple-shot, upside-down, half-caf, oat-milk caramel macchiatos with extra foam.
It’s just me. A guy who wants a plain cup of coffee. Yet somehow, this simple transaction can become an exercise in patience that would test the Dalai Lama.
First, there’s the cash register:
Now, I realize technology has come a long way since the days when someone could simply push a button marked COFFEE and collect your money. But apparently, ordering a cup of coffee in 2026 requires a level of computer security normally reserved for launching nuclear missiles.
The barista approaches the register, taps the screen, enters a code, taps it again, waits, enters another code, and then stares at the screen as though it’s just informed them they’ve been audited by the IRS.
“Sorry, it’s a little slow this morning.”
Really? Because I’m pretty sure I could drive to Colombia, harvest the beans myself, and return home before that register finishes processing my order.
And while we’re on the subject, I’m still not entirely sure why the person pouring my plain black coffee needs to be called a barista.
I’m not asking them to create a miniature portrait of the Mona Lisa in steamed milk. I’m asking for coffee.
Then there’s the issue of the vanilla powder:
For those unfamiliar with this particular delicacy, Starbucks used to have a wonderful little selection of powders available for customers to sprinkle into their drinks. Cinnamon, chocolate, nutmeg, vanilla. The sort of things that could turn an ordinary cup of coffee into something slightly more interesting.
I was particularly fond of the vanilla. It gave the coffee a smoother taste. Or at least that’s what I told myself to justify paying four dollars for something that was essentially hot bean juice.
The problem? Every single time I reached for the vanilla powder, the container was empty.
Every. Single. Time.
Now, I’m no expert in supply-chain management, but wouldn’t you think that if customers were constantly emptying the same container, somebody might recognize that the product was popular?
Perhaps order a little more? Maybe even a latte more?
Instead, the vanilla powder seemed to be treated like some rare, endangered spice that could only be replenished during a full moon.
Of course, these days, Starbucks has changed quite a bit. The old condiment stations aren’t what they used to be, and ordering coffee can involve everything from mobile apps to loyalty points to deciphering a menu that looks suspiciously like the periodic table of elements.
And don’t even get me started on tipping.
I have absolutely no problem tipping someone who provides good service. But there’s something mildly intimidating about being handed a payment screen asking whether I’d like to leave 15, 20, or 25 percent for a cup of coffee that hasn’t even been poured yet.
Suddenly, I’m standing there wondering whether selecting “No Tip” will result in my coffee being prepared with the enthusiasm of someone cleaning a clogged toilet.
Look, I realize these are first-world problems. Nobody’s forcing me to go to Starbucks. I could make coffee at home. I could stop at a convenience store. I could even drink the coffee at work.
But let’s not get carried away. There’s a difference between being frugal and deliberately punishing yourself.
Besides, despite all my complaining, I’ll probably continue stopping at Starbucks.
I’ll wait for the register to boot up. I’ll stare at the increasingly complicated menu. I’ll wonder why a simple cup of coffee costs more than a gallon of gasoline.
And I’ll pay for it anyway.
Because apparently, my addiction to a good cup of Joe espresso-ly forbids me from doing otherwise.
I suppose the whole thing just goes to show how much things have changed.
There was a time when getting a cup of coffee involved walking into a diner, handing somebody fifty cents, and having a waitress call you “hon” while she topped off your mug.
No apps. No passwords. No loyalty programs.
Just coffee.
And the best part?
The refills were free.
Now that’s what I call grounds for celebration.
The Seventh Echo is available now from
Adverse City Publishing
© 2026 James Wood
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