N. has lived in the Midwest since 2003. Still, he doesn’t seem to understand what the area is about. Every time we go to a restaurant here, he asks for a cappuccino.
“A what?” a waiter asks, looking as mystified as if we requested blinis with caviar.
“A cappuccino,” N. responds, undaunted.
“Erm. . . we don’t have anything like that,” the waiter always says uncomfortably. “We might have some decaf, though.”
Time and again, I have tried telling N. that we are in the Midwest and all that restaurants serve is a strange, sad-looking liquid with a smell of burnt day-old coffee grounds they proudly pass for coffee.
N.’s faith in humanity is such, though, that he keeps looking for a cappuccino at Midwestern restaurants.