How Does Your Coffee Shop Spell Your Name?
I went by the name Emilio this morning courtesy of a permanent marker scribble on my white paper coffee cup. Despite the general Monday lag in my brain I’m quite certain that I spoke audibly and clearly and broke my not-unusual name down into four exaggerated syllables: AH – MEE – LEE – AH.
But nope. The barista with a nose ring decided I looked much more like an Emilio.
It’s actually quite appropriate and fitting, considering that I’ve spent much of my life nodding like a good-natured dad at the receiving end of the same, stupid joke that almost every guy performs upon learning my name:
“And I was like, EMILIOOOOOOOOOOO!”
“The Mighty Duck man,” I always respond, but no one else seems to remember that part of the Night at the Roxbury quote.
But this is not the first time someone has misspelled my name on a cup. Often times I’m Amanda, which, despite sounding nothing like Amelia does technically begin and end with an “A” so I’ll give them that.
I’ve been Emily plenty of times before. I have a few friends named Emily, don’t mind that one so much.
“Amalya” — that ones more creative. “Amlah” — sure, why not.
Charlotte just told me she recently was re-christened “Sharmelotta” by her local Starbucks, which makes me think that her server watches either a lot of Game of Thrones, a lot of Pokémon, or perhaps both.
And then, as we fell deep into a conversation of the strangest names we’ve been called by our coffees, we were reminded of an old Thrillist post wherein photos of botched names were displayed.
Here we have “Chad,” to our left, and “Paul” to our right.
Now look, I’m not here to point blame at the kind souls who brew the very nectar that wakes me up in the morning. I need them a lot more than they need me. I’ve been told I mumble before, so 9 times out of 10 it’s probably my fault, and as long as the coffee doesn’t taste like a bucket of ass or you know, so long as they actually have coffee, I suppose they can call me whatever they want.
But I do want to know what they call you, because isn’t listing all of the strange names we could have had — if only our parents consulted with a cold brew machine rather than a baby book — a whole lot more fun that whatever it is any of us are supposed to be doing this Monday afternoon?
— Emilio “The Night at the Roxbury Ruined my Name” Diamond