The management had changed. In place of opera music a hybrid of disco and salsa blared from strategically located speakers. In place of the raspy old Mafioso who normally presided over it a young woman stood behind the hammered copper counter. Her flushed cheeks looked freshly scrubbed; her eyes bore the shocked look I had come to equate with transplanted Midwesterners, fresh off the Greyhound from Broken Bow, Nebraska. To this farm-fresh barista I was reduced to explaining my order: a latte with two-percent milk, no foam, and a half shot of decaf espresso (my urologist having urged me to cut down on caffeine). I tried to be clear and precise, the same qualities I urged upon my Metropolitan students.
The new barista gaped at me. I repeated my order, more slowly this time. Caffellate. Smal
