Starbucks Barista Quotes

Brighid’s eyes flashed with a blue flame, and I wondered if she had learned to do that just so she could compete with the Morrigan’s red flashes. Maybe I should try to figure out how to make my eyes flash green so I could freak out the baristas at Starbucks. “No, you foolish mortal,” I’d say as my eyes glowed, “I ordered a nonfat latte.

For more than three decades, coffee has captured my imagination because it is a beverage about individuals as well as community. A Rwandan farmer. Eighty roast masters at six Starbucks plants on two continents. Thousands of baristas in 54 countries. Like a symphony, coffee's power rests in the hands of a few individuals who orchestrate its appeal. So much can go wrong during the journey from soil to cup that when everything goes right, it is nothing short of brilliant! After all, coffee doesn't lie. It can't. Every sip is proof of the artistry -- technical as well as human -- that went into its creation.

Noise is everywhere in America. Waitresses shout orders to the cook. Bus drivers shout at passengers. Checkin-in clerks bark: "Next in line!" Baristas at Starbucks shout: "Conchita, your order's ready!" (I prefer not to give them my real name.)

Lately, he'd been looking at Starbucks baristas and wishing he had their jobs. Tall, grande, latte, cappuccino, skinny, whatever. Not much complexity there. And when you left work at the end of the day you didn't have to think about a fucking thing. Who cared if they made shit for money? At least they wouldn't have to pay much in tax.

She stopped for a decaf latte at a Starbucks and was struck by the barista’s brilliant green hair. “Your hair’s beautiful,” she said, and the barista smiled.

I work at T-Town, which is about ninety-nine percent men, and all of them either are alpha personalities or think they are. That said, what we have here is the standard dynamic for sexual tension. I'm moderately good-looking. I have big boobs, and I get hit on by everyone from the pastor of my church to baristas at Starbucks, and by every single guy at T-Town except for my boss and the range master. I don't blame them and I don't judge them. It's part of the procreative drive hardwired into us, and we haven't evolved as a species far enough exert any genuine control over the biological imperative. You, on the other hand, are a very good-looking man of prime breeding age. Old enough to have interesting lines and scars--and stories to go with them--and young enough to be a catch. You probably get laid as often as you want to, and you can probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times women have said no to you. Maybe--and please correct me if I've strayed too far into speculation--being an agent of a secret government organization has led you to buy into the superspy sex stud propaganda perpetuated by James Bond films." "My name is Powers," I said. "Austin Powers." She ignored me and plowed ahead. "We're in the middle of a crisis. We may have to work closely together for several days, or even several weeks. Close-quarters travel, emotions running high, all that. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not spend the next few days living inside a trite office romance cliche. That includes everything from mild flirtation to sexual innuendo and double entendre and the whole ball of wax." She sipped her Coke. The ball landed in my court with a thump.

Pernah ngga sih kamu ngerasa seperti penipu. Pandai memberi saran kepada yang lain soal menjadi bahagia, tapi sebenernya kamu sendiri jauh dari bahagia.. Seperti barista starbucks yang nulis “Be Happy & Be Grateful" di cup plastik kopi orderan kamu, padahal saat itu dia sebenernya sedang muak sama hidupnya sendiri.

Starbucks Training. I had just read a book about habits and one of the most interesting sections in the book was about a guy who worked for Starbucks as a barista. He had a fly-off-the-handle kind of personality and part of his training at Starbucks was to go through exercises simulating how he would react to difficult customers. He anticipated both external and internal problems before they happened and was ready with a response for each one, so when those things happened, it wasn’t the first time he’d thought of how to deal with them.

Peter and I are at Starbucks, sitting side by side, studying for our chemistry exam. Idly, he puts his arm around my chair and starts twisting my hair around his pencil and letting it unfurl like a slice of ribbon. I ignore him. He pulls my chair closer to his and plants a warm kiss on my neck, which makes me giggle. I scoot away from him. “I can’t concentrate when you do that.” “You said you like when I play with your hair.” “I do, but I’m trying to study.” I look around and then whisper, “Besides, we’re in public.” “There’s hardly anybody in here!” “There’s the barista, and that guy over there by the door.” I try to discreetly point with my pencil. Things have been quiet at school; the last thing we need is another meme flare-up. “Lara Jean, nobody’s going to film us if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re not doing anything.” “I told you from the start I’m not into PDAs,” I remind him. Peter smirks. “Really? Let’s not forget who kissed who in the hallway. You literally jumped on top of me, Covey.” I blush. “There was a purpose for that and you know it.” “There’s a purpose now,” he pouts. “The purpose is I’m bored and I feel like kissing you. Is that a crime?” “You’re such a baby,” I say, pinching his nose hard. “If you stay quiet and study for forty-five more minutes, I’ll let you kiss me in the privacy of your car.” Peter’s face lights up. “Deal.

Let us now take a moment to reflect on the plight of the Starbucks barista, that patient indulger of obsessive-compulsive customer requests, that tireless dispenser of forced smiles, that hapless victim of a never-ending parade of indignities. Any brave soul who dons the green apron must endure annoyances that would crush the rest of us - or at least send us into a cup-throwing, syrup-spraying rage.

But the raw sex appeal of the star coffee-fixers notwithstanding, it's hard to imagine a less entertaining spectator sport than a barista competition.

Behind every cup of Starbucks is the world's highest-quality, ethically sourced coffee beans; baristas with health-care coverage and stock in the company; farmers who are treated fairly and humanely; a mission to treat all people with respect and dignity; and passionate coffee experts whose knowledge about coffee cannot be matched by any other coffee company.

It is not the fault of the baristas working behind the counter. It is the responsibility of the leadership team to keep our culture alive, growing and thriving.

We do not know that drinking more caffeine puts women at higher risk for miscarriage. We only know that women who ingest more caffeine are more likely to miscarry. It might be the caffeine, or it might be the aggravation caused by their local Starbucks’ barista.

There were guys in this world who were actual dukes? How bizarre was that? I wondered if they introduced themselves that way. Did they have the barista at Starbucks write it on their cups?

The Starbucks Experience "Tea in a teacup are now extinct," said the barista at Starbucks, as she winked. "How about an iced Frappuccino from our blender?" suggested the slender, hot coffee vendor. "Hmm...fuck oolong tea, I surrender.

She overslept, was rude to her barista at Starbucks, and had an inexplicable craving for Baskin Robbins. She moped. She pouted. And even though she’d hexed a man to fawn over her, repeatedly going, “Hey, you look familiar, can I buy you a drink?” with no recollection of the ten previous times he’d done it, she found no pleasure in the hijinks. She was in a funk. It bothered her.

There is a well-known joke—at least well known in mathematics—about how mathematicians work. A mathematician and a Starbucks barista are each placed in front of a stove with a kettle and a nearby faucet and told to make boiling water. Both do the same thing. They fill the kettle with water from the faucet, light the stove with a match, and place the water-filled kettle on the stove. Mission accomplished. The mathematician and the Starbucks barista are next placed in front of a stove with a kettle that they are told is filled with clean water and told to make boiling water yet again. The barista lifts the kettle off the stove for a moment, lights the stove, and puts the kettle back on. The mathematician lifts the kettle off the stove, pours out the water into a sink, puts the newly emptied kettle back on the stove and says, “The problem has been reduced to the previously solved case. Q.E.D.

CUSTOMER: I thought Dylan Thomas died while he was at a bar in New York. BARISTA: We like to think that if he was alive today he’d choose to die at Starbucks, enjoying the Starbucks Evenings menu.

Just have coffee with me. With an old friend.” He wanted to say no, but the past had too strong a pull. He nodded, afraid to speak. They drove in silence to Starbucks and ordered their complicated coffees from an artist-wannabe barista with more attitude than the guy who works at the local record store. They added whatever condiments at the little stand, playing a game of Twister by reaching across one another for the nonfat milk or Equal. They sat down in metal chairs with too-low backs. The sound system was playing reggae music, a CD entitled Jamaican Me Crazy. Emily

looking for the cosy armchairs that had originally made Starbucks’ name, back in those distant days of the early 1990s when the hand-written blackboard signage and pierced noses of the baristas deluded people into thinking the cafés were vaguely alternative, even grungy – what with the Seattle connection and all – rather than a corporate chain bent on global domination. The

The difference between these two alternatives couldn’t be starker. At Starbucks, the drink sizes are Italian words, not English ones. The array of coffee concoctions that one can choose from takes up multiple boards above the barista’s preparation station. There is, by contrast, no “barista” at Dunkin’ Donuts. Until recently, there weren’t an awful lot of choices at Dunkin’, either. Small, medium, or large. Cream, sugar, or both. (James usually goes with a medium coffee with sugar. It is practical and costs about two bucks. It gets the job done efficiently.) You’re unlikely to walk out of Starbucks with a two-dollar cup of coffee. But that’s not what the Bleus are looking for. Starbucks offers a kaleidoscope of options, many of them daringly offbeat, and the company’s ethos clearly aligns with the priorities of fluid people—even if it occasionally stumbles, as with its #RaceTogether campaign, which was intended to foster conversations about race among its customers, but which drew a harsh and speedy backlash from across the political spectrum. But that hasn’t stopped the Bleus from frequenting the chain. Indeed, the fluid’s love of nuance, the less traditional, and the pursuit of individual fulfillment is on full display at Starbucks (or any of the other cutting-edge coffee shops in the Bleus’ neighborhood, which are full of people expressing their individuality with lots of tattoos and piercings).

Affective labor (or feeling work) engages what the Italian theorist Paolo Virno calls our “bioanthropological constants”—the innate capacities and practices that distinguish our species, like language and games and mutual understanding. A psychologist is doing affective labor, but so is a Starbucks barista.

This can’t be a regular thing because you don’t fuck employees.” I nodded, firm on that. Or… firmish, considering the position we were currently in. But he hadn’t technically started work for 7th yet, so… Lucas gave a small shrug. “Tuesday is two days away, Hayden. Maybe I’ll get a nice barista job at the new Starbucks across town instead.” I couldn’t fight my grin. “And waste all your god-given talent for a fraction of the pay? Wash your mouth out, Lucas.

Some young black men sitting in a Philadelphia Starbucks tell the barista they’ll wait for their meeting to start before they make a purchase. She calls the police. Someone sees a black man moving into his New York City apartment

Când barista de la Starbucks îți zâmbește și-ți urează o zi grozavă, își face datoria, nu-și dezvăluie sentimentele.

A 2014 New York Times profile of a Starbucks barista so clearly demonstrated the serious negative consequences of her frequently changing work schedule (especially on her ability to find quality child care), and how common irregular and volatile schedules were for Starbucks workers, that the company announced changes to its scheduling policies within forty-eight hours.46

All right. I’ll do it. Tonight while he’s sleeping. If he wakes up, I’ll kill him.” He was so matter-of-fact, as though Malek were simply an obstacle that had to be removed. “Just tell me where his room is and—” “Malek isn’t like most masters. He’s different.” “He’s human. How different can he—” “He doesn’t age,” she said. “He was born over a hundred summers ago, but you saw him at the party—he hardly looks older than you or I.” Nalia shrugged at the question in Raif’s eyes. “I have no idea how this is possible. His whole life is one big secret; I know more about the baristas at the Starbucks on Sunset than I do about Malek.” Raif furrowed his brow. “I have no idea what you just said.” I’ve become far too human. “Starbucks is this place where humans get coffee.” Raif cocked his head to the side. “Which,” she continued, “is this drink that makes you . . . happy? It gives you energy and—oh, never mind.

Jannette Navarro, a barista at a Starbucks in San Diego, showed the New York Times her upcoming algorithm-produced schedule.33 It involved working until 11 p.m. on the Friday, reporting again at 4 a.m. on Saturday, and then starting again at 5 a.m. on Sunday. She rarely learned her schedule more than three days in advance, causing havoc for her childcare arrangements – and forcing her to put her associate degree in business on hold.

All that being said, we have a tendency to underestimate the pleasure that can come from conversations with strangers. For instance, a field study by Gillian M. Sandstrom of the University of Essex in England, and Elizabeth Dunn at the University of British Columbia, asked customers buying coffee in a busy Starbucks to either have a genuine social interaction with the barista, as they would with an acquaintance, or to make their interaction as efficient as possible, avoiding unnecessary conversation. Guess who enjoyed their coffee run more? The people who connected with the person who took their order.

From my bag, I took out a Moleskine notebook and a pen that I always carried for essay ideas and made notes on the setting. The clothes and attitudes of the passersby, the kind of shops that populated the hallways, the cakes in the case, so different from what I'd see at Starbucks in the US- these heavier slices, richer and smaller, along with an array of little tarts. I sketched them, finding my lines ragged and unsure at first. Then as I let go a bit, the contours took on more confidence. My pen made the wavy line of a tartlet, the voluptuous rounds of a danish. The barista, a leggy girl with wispy black hair, came from behind the counter to wipe down tables, and I asked, "Which one of those cakes is your favorite?" "Carrot," she said without hesitation. "Do you want to try one?" If I ate cake every time I sat down for coffee, I'd be as big as a castle by the time I went back to skinny San Francisco. "No, thanks. I was just admiring them. What's that one?" "Apple cake." She brushed hair off her face. "That one is a brandenburg, and that's raspberry oat.

Maybe I should try to figure out how to make my eyes flash green so I could freak out the baristas at Starbucks. “No, you foolish mortal,” I’d say as my eyes glowed, “I ordered a nonfat latte.

If you want confidence and don’t know how to get it, a really good way is to be confident in other people. When you walk into Starbucks, think, “damn, that barista’s hair is da bomb!” Or when you go to school, think, “my teacher is rocking that skirt!” When you start seeing everyone as being beautiful, at some point you realise that you’re everyone too.

I have nothing to do...nothing with which to distract myself. Most days I occupy myself with housework, counting down the minutes until the distraction of my next mealtime. I water my plants. I arrange my mugs...I envy the barista at Starbucks...at least they can while away the days with their dignified menial labor.