Despite what most think, finicky people don’t have discerning palettes. I know winemakers who can, in a blind tasting, pick out a wine’s varietal, location, vintage, and, at times, even the brand. But they still won’t snub at a Bunnings snag and a ten-dollar Sav Blanc. Or even an Emu Export, for that matter.

Although I’ve seen plenty of customers who probably couldn’t pick the difference between goon and a Grand Cru. And, yet, they’ll be in Dan Murphies, requesting a bottle of wine, which they tried once in an underground cellar somewhere in rural Europe, but can’t remember the name of.

One time, in a cafe in North Fremantle, a woman asked if we stocked organic decaf, as well as a particular organic rice milk brand.

“We have decaf. But it’s not organic. And no. No rice milk. But we have almond, soy, and oat milk?” I said.

She grunted and waved her hand, then said: “No. No. Don’t like those. I’ll just get a cappuccino.” She rolled her eyes as if I’d forced the order onto her.

Seeing as she seemed so upset, I wanted to make sure she knew we did, in fact, offer over 2000 combinations of coffees, that there were, in fact, other options.

“Are you sure?” We have—”

She waved her hand again. “No. It’s fine,” she said, which is a word that apparently means things are not fine, according to my girlfriend.

A cappuccino seemed an unlikely substitute, almost like asking for a mung bean salad and, upon realising the cafe has none left, resorting to a doughnut.

The logic has holes, for sure. But I’ve often done the same. When I want to be virtuous, there’s a part inside of me that assumes the universe is going to meet me halfway. You can't be wholly responsible, right?

"Okay, Universe. I'm given up booze for a while," I said after a recent bout of back-to-back nights of summer festivities.

And then I drove to a dilapidated pub in Fremantle to play pool with a friend. But, staying true to my intention, I asked for a diet coke—in a bottle.

“We only have Coke—on tap,” the burly bartender said.

Well, I tried, I whispered, looking up the at heavens. Then I looked at the bartender and said: “Nah. I’ll have a beer then.”

“We have other soft drinks and non-alcoho—”

“No,” I interrupted. “It’s fine. Just a beer.”

“A-a-alright, then. A middy it is.”

“No, a pint.”

You could argue that asking for a specific milk brand or a wine you once tried in Europe is fair game. After all, the venue might have what you’re looking for. But, I believe, you also have to be prepared to settle for something else. Not necessarily a cappuccino or a beer. But something.

I don’t understand customers who won’t accept anything but, like one customer who swaggered into my friend’s cafe in Perth and asked if they had Seven Seeds’ Ethopian.

The thing about speciality coffee shops is that they rotate single-origins. So you can’t necessarily count on the cafe always having a particular roaster, like Seven Seeds in Melbourne. Also, roasters source beans seasonally. So neither can you count on roaster always having a specific single-origin, like an Ethiopian.

Yet, the man was surprised when my friend told him the cafe hadn’t stocked those beans in eight months.

“What?” he said. “None?”

“No,” she said.

“Damn it,” he shouted through his teeth. “Know of anyone else who stocks it?”

“No, sorry.”

“I’ve just been to seven cafes.”

“It’ll be quite hard to find.”

“Ah, well. I’ll keep looking.” He walked out the door. “C’mon snuffles,” he said, picking up a tiny Shih Tzu. Then, he walked to a fire-engine red, two-seater Toyota convertible. He buckled in the dog, flicked on some aviators and sped down the street, showing off his discerning taste.

. . .

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