If you're a caffeine fiend like me, you'll be accustomed to strange shapes appearing in your morning cappuccino foam, crafted with love by your local barista.
Over the years, Sydney's baristas have crafted unicorns into my cappuccinos. Hearts. Swans. Leaves. Constellations. Foam beasts too beautiful for this world.
Did I really want to risk the embarrassment of accusing the barista of cultural barbarism?Credit:Getty Images
And now we can possibly add "penises" to the list.
In truth, male members have been appearing in coffees around the world for a few years now. There is an entire Instagram account devoted to "dick latte art", whose images are startling in their graphic nature and the creator's skill. There's even been a penis latte art competition in Paris.
Tapping into the zeitgeist, Amy Schumer made fun of phallic "latte flirting" during a Comedy Central skit (although in her cautionary tale, the image of a foam engagement ring is seemingly more terrifying than that of a foam phallus).
So perhaps it is no surprise that the trend finally reached Sydney … and my own coffee cup. Recently, my barista drew what appeared to be a male member in my cappuccino. My friends and I glanced at the cup as we sat in a trendy Sydney cafe.
When the waitress left, we all leaned in for a closer inspection.
"Is that?" I began. "No, it can't be."
Yes, it is, claimed the table as one. "It's not a heart gone wrong?"
I argued. "Look how busy the staff are. Maybe they tried to create a heart as big as Phar Lap's."
"That's no heart," argued Jack.
"Look. It's not just the shaft. It has the … um … other equipment, too."
"The pillar and the stones, as Daenerys Targaryen says on Game of Thrones," I said.
"It's even tumescent, with only a slight hang to the left," said Bill. "That's a one-eyed monster all right."
The size, the shape, the detail, the contrast to the surrounding foam … all the evidence pointed in one direction.
This was a penis
Now we had established what it was, we had to consider motive.
Was this a random event – or deliberate? "It's the infinite monkey theorem," I said. "Leave enough monkeys alone at keyboards for long enough and by pure probability one of them will eventually bash out Hamlet."
"So," argued Jeremy, "of the millions – nay, billions – of cappuccinos made worldwide, at least one of them will be topped by a foam phallus."
"Correct," I argued.
That was the charitable explanation. The other explanation was far more sinister. That I had been deliberately targeted. I was the only cappuccino man at the table full of flat whites, cold drips and triple espressos.
The staff knew me. They knew my habits. They knew this was my coffee. If I was indeed deliberately targeted, how had I earned the cafe's wrath? Was the barista trying to imply that I was a poor tipper? Did I have a habit of failing to make eye contact with the wait staff? Were "please" and "thank you" absent from my vocabulary? Was I perceived as some kind of inner-city wanker who barely gave a second thought for the hard-working baristas slaving over the steam?
Or perhaps I hadn't been singled out. Perhaps I was merely the victim of a random joke, perpetrated by a frustrated employee. Perhaps anyone could have ended up with that frothy John Thomas.
The cappuccino remained undrunk on the table.
"Go on, complain," whispered Jack. "Say something!"
"DO IT!" chorused my mates. The Five Angry Men at my table had already tried and convicted the barista. Would I go along? Or would I be the lone voice of conscience that ultimately sways the guilty verdict? I stopped and considered the evidence for a moment.
I raised the cup. I raised my other hand to flag down a waitress. But then I lowered it. Because a good cafe is hard to find. Did I really want to risk the embarrassment of accusing the barista of cultural barbarism? What if it had all been an innocent mistake?
I couldn't be sure. In legal terms, in the court of cappuccino opinion, we had a case of "probable doubt".
Twelve men and women would never convict my barista on all the available evidence. And neither could I.
This article appears in Sunday Life magazine within the Sun-Herald and the Sunday Age on sale January 27.
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