At a beachside cafe, I had an order up that said: 6 extra hot flat whites. I heated each mug with boiling water, steamed the milk until my hands began to burn on the aluminium jug, then swiftly delivered the coffees to a group of middle-aged men around a timber bench outside.

The sky was winter grey and there was a biting off-shore wind that made your fingers turn white.

“How’s the water?” I asked the men, placing the coffees on the table.

“Bea-u-tiful,” one of them said.

_

Earlier that morning, at dawn, I’d watched the men congregate at the beach and, in tiny budgie smugglers, bodysurf for an entire hour, a very long time, I thought, to spend in the ocean at seven degrees Celsius, especially in bathers that barely covered the loins.

After swimming, the men swaggered back up the sand dune to the cafe. And here, they sat, chests puffed out, legs spread, still only wearing budgie smugglers, those flamboyantly coloured ones that make bulging genitals even more self-asserting.

_

Ten minutes after I delivered the coffees, one of the men returned to the counter, coffee in hand, and ordered me to remake his flat white.

“How come?” I said.

“It’s cold,” he said, plonking the mug on the bench. He was excessively annoyed at me as if I’d gone to an effort to ruin his morning.

“Sorry,” I deadpanned. “I’ll do it again.” I did try to muster a grin but my lips couldn’t move, possibly because of the suppressed rage. It was a lofty expectation, smiling for the man, like asking The Joker to perform light-hearted slapstick for a 7-year-old.

I wasn’t entirely to blame, either. He only took a sip after letting the coffee sit for five minutes, allowing heat to escape into the open winter air. I mean, you wouldn’t stick a hot pie in a freezer for that time and blame the oven for the pastry being room-temperature.

The statement ‘it’s cold’ is also very definitive, very black and white. I didn’t believe him. To gauge the temperature, I dipped a finger in the flat white, much to the disgust of customers who observed it.

I remade the coffee, only this time I steamed the milk to about one degree below evaporation. I turned the steam wand off only because the milk was turning slightly yellow and was making high-pitched screaming noises, disturbing the customers.

After pouring the milk into a heated cup, I used two tea towels to pick up the scorching mug onto a saucer.

To compare temperatures with the first flat white, I dipped a finger in the jug with the leftover steamed milk. “Shit,” I yelped. “That’s hot.” My colleague gave me that look you give when a friend yelps the same self-evident truth after sticking a hand in a fire.

After running a hand under cold water, I proceeded to deliver the coffee. I was placing the coffee on the table when the man said: “Better be hot.”

I wasn’t expecting such a threatening comment. “It is,” I said nervously.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said.

“It’s true,” I said, becoming panicky. “I dipped a finger in it.”