Ten euro for two coffees

☕ THE MISFITS VS THE €10 CUP OF COFFEE!

Stg. Salty discovers that you might need a second mortgage just to get a caffeine fix!

BigSaltyDog – Where common sense goes to die, and the price of a coffee causes a national emergency.

There are certain things in life that should be simple.

Breathing. Walking. Putting on your shoes the correct way around.

And buying a bloody cup of coffee.

Unfortunately, in modern Ireland, even that last one has become an extreme financial activity requiring the services of a bank manager, an accountant and possibly a solicitor.

It all began on a perfectly ordinary Saturday morning when Stg. Salty decided that he and the Misfits deserved a nice coffee.

“Right, lads and ladies,” he announced, climbing out of Salty’s Tank, the magnificent Leopard 2 that had somehow become his preferred mode of transport for situations that absolutely did not require a military vehicle. “I'm buying the coffees today. We’ll find a decent café, have a chat and enjoy a quiet morning.”

The Misfits looked at one another.

Quiet?

With this crowd?

That was the first warning sign.

Ye Olde Large Lad adjusted his Hawaiian shirt, which was bright enough to be seen from the International Space Station.

“Lovely stuff, Salty. I could murder a coffee. Maybe a pastry as well.”

“Of course you could,” replied McFinleyyy. “You could murder a three-course dinner after eating a three-course dinner.”

“That's called maintaining standards, McFin.”

Whizzley was already checking his phone for the nearest café, while Winkz was looking up reviews.

Sarah and Susan were discussing whether they fancied cappuccinos or flat whites. Lucy was checking the weather, Quags was arguing that coffee tasted better when somebody else paid for it, and Dinkz had arrived with the calm expression of a man who had seen enough nonsense to last several lifetimes.

Ramadan Patel appeared carrying a notebook.

“What’s that for?” asked Salty.

“Expenses,” Ramadan replied. “I'm documenting the day.”

“Expenses? We're buying coffee, not acquiring an airport!”

The Govna arrived last, carrying a reusable cup and looking suspiciously pleased with himself.

“I brought my own cup. Environmental responsibility.”

“Fair play,” said Salty.

“The café charges extra for oat milk, though, so I may have to reconsider my environmental principles.”

Salty sighed.

They were ten minutes into the outing and already the Govna was negotiating with the planet.

THE CAFÉ OF FINANCIAL DOOM

The Misfits found a stylish little café with attractive wooden tables, plants hanging from the ceiling and a blackboard announcing the day's speciality coffee.

Everything looked lovely.

Suspiciously lovely.

A young barista greeted them with a smile.

“Good morning! What can I get for you?”

Salty stepped forward confidently.

“Two coffees, please.”

The barista nodded.

“Certainly. What size?”

“Normal size. I'm after coffee, not a bucket of industrial solvent.”

Sarah laughed.

“And I'll have a cappuccino, please.”

“Flat white for me,” said Susan.

“Americano,” added Lucy.

The rest of the Misfits placed their orders. Ye Olde Large Lad requested something substantial enough to survive the morning, while McFinleyyy asked whether there were any breakfast deals.

The barista pointed towards the menu.

McFinleyyy studied it.

His smile disappeared.

He leaned closer.

Then closer again.

“Salty?”

“What?”

“Have a look at that.”

Salty glanced at the menu.

His eyes narrowed.

He read the price once.

Then twice.

Then he removed his sunglasses, because clearly the problem was optical.

“Sorry,” he said to the barista. “How much for two coffees?”

“Ten euro, please.”

There was a pause.

A very long pause.

Somewhere in the distance, a spoon dropped onto a saucer.

Salty stared at the young man.

“Ten euro?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“For TWO cups of coffee?”

“Yes.”

Salty's mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

He looked at the cups behind the counter as though they had personally betrayed him.

Then he made a noise that sounded like a malfunctioning tractor.

PFFFFFFFFFT!

Coffee went flying.

Not a little spray.

Not a polite dribble.

A magnificent, full-bodied explosion of caffeinated disbelief.

Salty spat his coffee halfway across the counter, narrowly missing a decorative plant and giving a nearby businessman the fright of his life.

“JAYSUS, MARY AND JOSEPH! TEN EURO FOR TWO COFFEES? WHAT ARE THEY MADE OF? GROUND-UP DIAMONDS?”

The café fell silent.

Even the coffee machine seemed to stop hissing.

The barista blinked.

“I'm sorry?”

“Don't apologise to me, young man! Apologise to my wallet! It's just been assaulted!”

Ye Olde Large Lad grabbed a napkin.

“Salty, you're making a scene.”

“A SCENE? I'VE JUST DISCOVERED THAT COFFEE HAS BECOME A LUXURY GOOD!”

Quags leaned over the counter.

“Does that include the cup?”

The barista looked confused.

“The cup?”

“Yes. Do we get to keep it? Because at that price, I assume there's a deposit.”

Winkz nodded thoughtfully.

“Could be a premium ceramic experience.”

“It's a cup of coffee!” shouted Salty. “Not a bloody space mission!”

RAMADAN PATEL OPENS AN INVESTIGATION

Ramadan Patel immediately opened his notebook.

“Right. Ten euro for two coffees. That's five euro each.”

“Thank you, Professor,” said McFinleyyy. “We'd have been lost without you.”

“Now, if we bought two coffees every Saturday, that's twenty euro a month.”

“Four Saturdays,” said Lucy.

“Exactly.”

“And fifty-two weeks in a year,” added Dinkz.

Ramadan paused.

He looked at his calculations.

Then he slowly raised his head.

“That's approximately €260 a year on two coffees every Saturday.”

The Misfits stared at him.

Sarah folded her arms.

“For coffee?”

Susan shook her head.

“I could buy a decent kettle for that.”

The Govna looked appalled.

“€260? That's practically a small government department!”

“Don't get ideas,” Salty warned him. “You'll introduce a coffee levy.”

The Govna looked away.

Too quickly.

“I'm merely saying there are opportunities for public revenue.”

“GOVNA!”

“What? I'm thinking aloud!”

Whizzley, meanwhile, had discovered a loyalty scheme.

“Good news, lads! Buy nine coffees and get the tenth free.”

Salty turned slowly.

“NINE?”

“Yes.”

“So I spend forty-five euro before I qualify for a free coffee?”

“Technically, yes.”

Salty put both hands on the counter.

“THAT'S NOT LOYALTY! THAT'S A HOSTAGE SITUATION!”

THE GREAT COFFEE NEGOTIATION

Sarah decided to take a more diplomatic approach.

“Look, Salty, the café has rent, wages, electricity and all sorts of costs. There are reasons coffee isn't as cheap as it used to be.”

Salty nodded.

“Absolutely. I'm not expecting someone to work for nothing. Pay the staff properly, cover your costs, make a reasonable profit. Fair enough.”

He pointed at the menu.

“But five euro for a cup of coffee? At what point does a coffee become a financial decision?”

Susan smiled.

“When you start spitting it out.”

“Exactly!”

Dinkz leaned back in his chair.

“People will pay if they think the experience is worth it. The question is whether they feel they're getting value.”

“Thank you, Dinkz,” said Salty. “Finally, a man speaking sense.”

“Though,” Dinkz continued, “you did just launch half your coffee across the room.”

“An emotional response to market conditions.”

McFinleyyy had another idea.

“What if we split one coffee between two people?”

The table went silent.

Ye Olde Large Lad looked horrified.

“Share a coffee? Are you completely gone in the head?”

“It's called saving money.”

“It's called drinking somebody else's leftovers!”

“It's the same coffee, Large Lad!”

“Not if you're drinking after you!”

Winkz raised a hand.

“What if we order one coffee and ask for two cups?”

Salty considered this.

For the first time that morning, there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Now we're talking.”

The barista, who had been listening to this entire discussion, politely explained that an extra cup might cost more.

Salty sat back.

The glimmer vanished.

“Of course it does. Why wouldn't it? Probably a cup-handling charge and a saucer administration fee.”

Lucy burst out laughing.

Sarah was wiping tears from her eyes.

Even the businessman at the next table was smiling.

THE SHERIFF ARRIVES

Just as the situation appeared to be settling down, the door opened.

In walked the Sheriff.

He was a broad-shouldered man with a stern expression, a dark jacket and the unmistakable look of somebody who had never once tolerated nonsense in his life.

He surveyed the café.

He saw Salty.

He saw the coffee on the counter.

He saw Ye Olde Large Lad clutching a pastry menu as though it were a legal document.

“What happened here?”

Salty pointed at the menu.

“Five euro for a coffee.”

The Sheriff removed his sunglasses.

“Five euro?”

“Per cup,” confirmed Sarah.

The Sheriff stood perfectly still.

Then he turned towards the counter.

“Right. Nobody panic. I'm opening an investigation.”

The barista looked alarmed.

“Into what?”

“Possible robbery of the public's disposable income.”

Quags nearly fell off his chair.

The Sheriff continued.

“I'm going to take out the trash.”

Salty brightened.

“That's the spirit!”

“Not the staff,” the Sheriff added sharply. “The rubbish outside. Don't put words in my mouth.”

“Sorry, Sheriff.”

“And if any of you start another scene, I'll be taking out the trash inside as well.”

Everybody sat up straight.

The Sheriff was new to the Misfits, but he was already establishing himself as a man who could restore order without raising his voice.

Mostly.

THE FINAL BILL

After considerable debate, several napkins, one spreadsheet and a brief attempt by the Govna to introduce a voluntary coffee tax, the group finally paid.

Salty examined the receipt.

He folded it carefully.

Placed it in his pocket.

And declared, “I'm keeping that.”

“Why?” asked Susan.

“For evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“An economic crime against caffeine.”

Outside, Salty gathered the Misfits beside the Leopard 2.

The morning sun glinted off the tank's armour.

Ye Olde Large Lad was still muttering about the price of pastries. McFinleyyy was searching for cheaper coffee machines online. Ramadan had calculated the annual cost of the outing, and Whizzley was trying to convince everyone that a loyalty card was an investment.

The Govna had already proposed a national coffee budget.

The Sheriff told him to stop talking.

Sarah, Susan and Lucy were laughing about Salty's spectacular spit-take, while Dinkz calmly pointed out that the cheapest coffee was the one you made at home.

Quags agreed.

“Imagine what we could do with the money we'd save.”

“Like what?” asked Winkz.

“Buy another tank.”

Salty looked at him.

“Don't tempt me.”

He climbed into the driver's seat, fired up the Leopard 2 and turned towards the group.

“Right, Misfits. New policy. From this day forward, all coffee shall be consumed at home, at work, or at a location where the price doesn't require a meeting with the bank manager.”

“And what about cafés?” asked Sarah.

“We support local businesses,” Salty replied. “We tip where appropriate, treat the staff with respect and pay a fair price.”

He paused.

“But five euro for a coffee?”

He shook his head.

“Not a chance.”

Then, with the solemnity of a man delivering a national address, he added:

“THE ONLY THING I'M WILLING TO SPEND FIVE EURO ON IS SOMETHING THAT LASTS LONGER THAN THREE BLOODY SIPS!”

The Leopard 2 rumbled into motion.

The Misfits followed.

And somewhere inside the café, a bewildered barista looked at the abandoned napkins, the coffee splatter and the strange group that had just left.

He turned to his colleague.

“Do you think they'll come back?”

The colleague looked through the window at the tank disappearing down the road.

“Not unless we start accepting instalments.”

THE END.

BigSaltyDog moral of the story: Life is too short for bad coffee, and apparently your wallet is too small for good coffee. Put the kettle on, make a brew at home, and save the tenner for something worthwhile...