Starbucks strikes

Unless you live in Uzbekistan, or Cork maybe, you will be aware that the Starbucks Coffee Company is due to open its first Irish outlet on Dame Street shortly. The arrival of the caffeine conglomerate is seen by some as yet another milestone in the evolution of Dublin, and by its extension, its people.

It wasn't that long ago when ordering a coffee was a relatively simple exercise. "A coffee, please" pretty much covered it. But now it's all lattes, mochas and macchiatos. Or so I'm told. I don't drink coffee. I'll say that again: I don't drink coffee.

"Whadya mean ya don't drink coiffee?" a friend of a friend asked me when I was in New York last year.

"It's too hot. I just don't get it," I said meekly.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She slipped away and dropped a dime. Minutes later I was arrested for being anti-American, and spent a sleepless night in a filthy holding cell in the 17th precinct on 167 East 51st Street. After much high level diplomatic intervention, I was finally released, having being adjudged to represent only a minor threat to national security. I returned home, markedly chastened by the whole affair.

Not wishing to run the risk of repeating the ordeal in my native country I decided I had best get myself off to the UK. I would visit a Starbucks outlet in order to acquaint myself with the product in the hopes of being able to blend in seamlessly with the coffee cognoscenti of Dublin. And so, after a most unpleasant 57 minutes on board a moisture removal tube which had been shamelessly passed off as a Boeing 737-800, I was in London. Keeping left, as is required by law, I headed for the Kings Road in Chelsea to the location of the very first Starbucks outlet in London.

Daunted by the array of different types of coffee on offer, I followed the attractive blonde in front of me and confidently requested a cappuccino.

"What size?" the server asked.

"Regular's fine, thanks."

"You mean tall?"

"No, just a regular thanks. A small one."

"The small one is a tall one," she explained cryptically.

"Fair enough," I said cheerily, looking around anxiously to see if anyone was calling the coffee police.

Cover blown, I paid my £1.79 (€2.63!) and waited nervously while the barista did her thing to a complicated looking piece of machinery. Once ensconced at a table by the window I studied the Starbucks Beverage Order Guide, which explained to virgins like myself "how to order any Starbucks beverage".

First off you have to select what size beverage you want – tall, (small), grande, (medium), or venti, (large). Then there's the actual type of coffee you want – a caffè latte, a caffè mocha, a caffè Americano, a cappuccino, a caramel macchiato, an espresso, or a fresh brewed whole bean filter coffee. If you like, you can add a "shot" to your beverage "for a richer more intense espresso flavour".

Milk? Take your pick from whole, skimmed or soy.

Then there's the customising, where you make further selections to reflect your individuality. Like choosing "a swirl of your favourite syrup": vanilla, hazelnut, almond, caramel, Irish cream, Crème de Menthe or raspberry. Or specifying the actual temperature you want your coffee served at - extra hot or just plain old warm. Confusingly, you can then ask the barista to "ice" your coffee, so it's cold.

Finally, you can of course have your coffee decaf, which the brother reliably informs me actually negates the very reason for going into a coffee shop in the first place. Confusing isn't it?

Head spinning with new and most likely useless information, I ventured a sip of the foamy brew. Absolutely disgusting. Dismayed, I realised that yet another potential avenue for much needed social interaction was now closed forever to me. I surveyed my surroundings to see what I would be missing in Dublin in a few months time.

Fair enough, there passed before my eyes a bevy of beauties, either popping in a for a latte with a friend or ordering one to go (which in my case is reason enough for developing a liking for the core product on offer). But on the whole, the Starbucks experience didn't really do it for me. But what the hey, each to their own as they say.

Donal Ruane is a writer with too much time on his hands. His most recent book, 'I'm Irish, Get Me Out of Here!', is published by Gill &Macmillan.