A toast to incompetence

A few years ago I wrote a post titled Basic bloody competency (BBC) wherein I railed against the hit-and-miss nature of buying coffee.

Yes, it can certainly be filed under First World Problem (FWPs) but it still bugs me when you buy a product, even as simple and relatively cheap as a coffee, and you get something that tastes like it's a Jack Ass sweatsuit cocktail (graphic content warning ... and one of my ten greatest moments in cinema. You know you've done well when the cameraman spews on himself).

Lately, however, it's been another breakfast staple that's been getting my goat: toast.

How many times have you ordered scrambled eggs and toast? The eggs arrive fluffy and yellow, ready to gulp down like you're a Roman senator dining on flamingo tongues but ... but ... the toast is two pieces of Turkish bread that have seen less heat than the Federal Liberal backbench.

I have a simple guide with restaurants and cafes - if I can make what you have just served me better, myself, at home, you are failing the basic tenets of your profession.

And toast? Man, I can make a piece of toast, buttered to the edges, grouted with Vegemite that will just sing in your mouth as the fat and salt and yeast explode together, unlike Brad Pitt who ate it like he was Tony Montana trying the product. 

I'm surprised he didn't wipe it on his teeth to check for numbness.

And you know what? I can do it in minutes - not even looking. See I have a toaster that cost $3.99 (made by forced labourers in the north of China) that cooks my toasts (intentional plural in deference to my daughter's burgeoning vocabulary) to just the right colour.

Then it pops up! How novel.

So how come you dudes in café land who I'm paying $7 for a piece of moderately browned bread cannot even get this right? 

Crisp corners, bordering a soft, radiantly white expanse, is not toast. It's bread that's been sunburned.

Actually, what got me started thinking about this was an absolutely pristine rant about the travails of getting a decent cup of tea by Mike Morris on his blog realreview.ie 

A sample (please read the whole thing, thoroughly worth it) is when Morris, a tea drinker, gets his "tea" delivered to him at a café:

The Internal Monologue: What the f--- is this? Seriously, what the f--- have you just brought me? If I ask you for tea I want tea, not the constituent ingredients. If I asked you for a toasted cheese sandwich, would you bring me some bread, some cheese and a Breville? No you bloody wouldn't. I don't want to assemble my tea at the table, particularly since you haven't even brought me a teapot. When a three year-old plays with their tea set they're closer to the correct preparation than you are right now.

For a start, the milk is supposed to go in first. How am I supposed to put the milk in first if you bring me a cup full of water? Where am I supposed to put the bag when I'm done with it? Where's my pot of hot water to top myself up? I mean, you might as well go the whole hog and bring it to me in a shot-glass. I was braced for my tea being shit anyway, but now you've even ruined that. What the actual f---ing f---?

Oh, and it's a tea bag. It's not even air-sealed. OK, I can live with a bag, but why go through that rigmarole of offering me different flavours and then bring me my tea in a bag? If you're going to pretend to be all high-class, then I want leaves and a tea-strainer, for pity's sake. Go away immediately and set fire to this place.

Ah, I know it's a bit fluffy, but after talking subversion in Turkey, and the historic fraud of the Mining Tax, I thought we could all just have a bit of a vent about the stuff that shits us about cafes.

Up for it?

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