Fair Yorkville...ye of breast augmentation, fashion yetis, and a seemingly endless parade of daddy's BMWs. Yorkville...where pedicured toes, that smell of twisted peppermint, walk on cashmere infused sidewalks. Yorkville dysons dumb money. Hear that sucking sound? Yup, that's your money....whirled and gone!
Spending money in Yorkville is like having a Boeing 727 for a private jet. You either have to be extremely rich, extremely stupid, or Donald Trump (see points 1 and 2). Of course this isn't true (but it is!). Let me make my point by discussing my two recent trips to the Nespresso café; a coffee shop inspired by Cornelius (the *D-FOP) Vanderbilt's parlour and bigger than the Beaverbrook Art Gallery, I think.
* D-FOP: dog-faced old prick (reference: Bill Bryson, The Lost Continent)
Before you think me stupid, let me just say that both visits included the redemption of a free drink voucher that Wendy and I were given, on the street, about three weeks prior.
Visit one: sometimes when you see something for the first time, you're unable to absorb the details. This was the case for my first visit. I ordered a $7 latte macchiato (I think that's a gay Italian mob coffee, in the witness protection program, trying to look like a French parfait). I surveyed the scene superficially, drank my CLB (coffee-like bevvie), and departed hoping no one would see me.
I felt like I had just scratched the surface, but enough to grow a scab. I had to return for more redemption.
Visit two: this time I came prepared. I was smugly relaxed, observant, but anticipating incredulity. I walked through the double glass doors (I actually opened them, then walked through). I was greeted by Greeter #1. She did her best to appear upscale and concerned for my well being. Greeter #2 wished me well as I made my way to the expansive café bar where Barista #1 did, what else, greeted me. For my first visit I ordered one of the most expensive coffees. This time I ordered the least expensive coffee, an Americano, on purpose. I wanted to know if their bare bone coffee was worthy of my palatal patronage.
Rather than sitting down on the abundant and trendy leather settees and chairs, I decided to walk around the café to see what they were hawking. Though I'm still not certain what they're selling, it looked to me like they've taken our efficient Tassimo/Keurig concept of coffee in a capsule, put some cosmetics on it, then sold it back to us. They sell the delightful capsules (now available in designer colours, and in limited-time-only designer prints...yippee!) and the Nespresso machines here, I think. I swear that I don't know exactly what they do there...it's not obviously retail, therefore I suspect a subterfuge (see 'sucking sound').
Oh, yes, Greeter #3 smothered me with affection as I perused the various hardware being sold(?) that allows mucky mucks to brew their own Nespresso at home, or in their private 727s. I sat down on a lovely leather couch. Oh, my apologies, it wasn't a couch...it was a settee. Couches are for potatoes and other low-flying New Brunswick vegetables. Stop the turnip truck...I want back on!
Barista #2 delivered my Americano after a fashionably long wait (think Tim Horton's Monday morning drive-thru wait in a military town). Did I get a coffee? Yes, and then some. Here's a tally of what it took to get me a coffee: three greeters, two baristas, one coffee cup with Americano, one pot of hot water, one pitcher of cream, one glass of water (with lemon!), one spoon, one stick of sugar, one napkin, one chocolate.
All of this so I could have a coffee that was no better than a Keurig. I felt like a criminal.
Mr.Varty, we find you guilty of crimes against humanity. For your abuse of natural resources and utter lack of respect for anything that really matters, you will be sentenced to twenty years of wearing cashmere and enjoying the indecency of valet parking.
Kill me now.
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