killer kiwi in a cup

The last time I explicitly remember ordering a kiwi beverage was in Southern Spain, or possibly Northern Morocco, and it was fantastic. I didn't know what was in it, and I didn't ask, but when the opportunity again presented itself, albeit in a slightly less exotic locale, I seized it. Lemon and lime soda with kiwi syrup was how the waitress described it, and, though I knew this was different from the previous concoction, it still rang fond enough bells I was eager to give it a try.

Imagine then my great excitement when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a huge (finally something sized appropriately for its price!), sparkling, bubbling neon green drink. It, contrary to possible assumption here, did not look like a science experiment gone wrong. In fact, it most closely resembled a lava lamp and my friend Melissa and I stared at it awe as we waited to see the pretty blobs move. After a few minutes during which nothing particularly out of the ordinary happened I broke down and tried some.

It was at this time that any possible relation to the exotic kiwi juice, or indeed to any kiwi plant, or indeed to any naturally occurring liquid, ceased to exist. I was bombarded with messages from whichever biological system it is that transports issues of taste from one's tongue to brain. The overriding one went along the extremely eloquent lines of "YUCK!" but competing messages included "she wasn't joking about the SYRUP" and "is this liquid or is it slushie or is it undiluted green sugar concentrate?" along with the red flag "BANANA ALERT! BANANA ALERT! BANANA ALERT!" (I don't happen to like bananas, but perhaps you picked up on that.)

"Mmm," I said in reply to the details of Melissa's recent weekend away at a monastery, partly to show I was still listening and partly as I couldn't manage anything more eloquent myself. She took this as a signal to plow onward, and before I knew it we'd solved most the major problems of the universe, finished her mocha and managed three polite sips (give this girl a prize!) of killer kiwi in a cup.

"Melissa," I finally said, "I know it looks so cool, but I just don't like my kiwi drink."

"Oh no," she said, "but it looked so pretty!"

"I know," I sighed.

"You could ask if they'd exchange it," she suggested.

This was really what I'd been hoping all along, but it felt disloyal somehow to suggest it myself. A betrayal of my new-found kiwi drink, you know.

I hemmed. "Do you think so?"

"Give it a try," she said.

I fidgeted, toying with the idea of getting a Lovely Cup of Tea.

"Go on," she coaxed, and my arm was twisted. Off I marched the counter, which was staffed by two people, neither of whom happened to notice me until my waitress walked by and directed their attention.

"Yes?" asked the guy, who was approximately my age, but approximately 85% less fluent.

"Um," I said shyly, gesturing to the emerald exuberance I'd brought up with me, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't like my drink at all. I'm sure you made it fine and everything, it's just that I really don't like it."

The guy was consolatory, but firm. "We cannot give new drink," he decreed.

"Er, yeah, I was just wondering if maybe I could exchange it. Like for a tea?"

"No," he said. "Once you get, no take back. It like beer, when you open, we no take back. This same."

"You're sure?" I pressed. "The boring old tea is less expensive than the kiwi extravaganza. Less expensive," I repeated, in case he hadn't understood.

"No," he said. "I sorry."

Shyness had evaporated into irked resignation. "Okay," I said, "I'd like the tea still."

"Okay," he said, "but we charge ..."

"Yes, yes, I understand that part," I said. "English breakfast with milk and sugar."

By the time I made it back to Melissa, I was mumbling something that sounded a lot like some shops sure wouldn't be hurt by taking a hint from Starbucks and customers always being right in America. She'd overheard the situation and was consolatory, and tactfully did not mention that it never made anyone look better to rant about how much better their country is when traveling abroad.

My tea arrived shortly, sans sugar and quite weak. I borrowed the extra sugars from Melissa's mocha, but was too spent to argue the weak tea point. We chatted until we'd solved all the remaining world ills (except, of course, for shoddy service, which shall, I'm afraid, remain as long as the earth and the no-need-to-tip-in-Australia protocols endure).

We got up to pay, and the guy quoted me the price of the kiwi extravaganza. Grumpily honest, mostly because the monastery conversation had led us down significantly spiritual paths and I didn't want them to think a Christian couldn't be trusted to pay even a bum bill, I reminded him that, actually, I owed the price of the tea on top of it.

"No, no," he said. "It okay. I call manager. He say you just must pay for one drink." He smiled in a way that clearly meant he was relived, that all along he hadn't wanted to charge me, but that it wasn't his position to decide, but that the manager had risen to the occasion, and now we could all leave happy.

"Really?" I asked, suddenly chagrined and immediately grateful. "Thanks."

And I tossed two bucks in the tip jar, and felt entirely better. Except for a slight taste of banana.