As goes the neighborhood, I’ve watched my shop get overrun with the kind bougie new-age people that make shopping at Whole Foods the most painful experience ever.
This one regular would always come in and ask us about the nit-pickiest details of our food -- whether or not the tomatoes in the soup were organic, the washing method of our single origin beans -- and obviously this woman was gluten-free for no good reason.
It turns out she was pregnant for most of the time when I first started noticing her, because she resurfaced a month later with a baby strapped to her chest in some kind of handmade sash she bought for $200 off Etsy.
This woman was always bugging us about our alternative milks, none of which were up to her standards.
She asked for a latte one day, and before I could ask her if she wanted to give our hemp milk a look, she started to slide a mason jar of off-white fluid across the counter. It was breast milk.
It took everything inside me to suppress the urge to jump into traffic and politely tell her that this was the most unsanitary thing anyone has ever asked me to do in my long life as a barista. She was pissed, and I haven’t seen her since then.