Life in California is full of head-scratching queries—like, Why is reality star Spencer Pratt a serious candidate for mayor of Los Angeles? So Alta Journal has enlisted two experts to answer your pressing questions: Stacey Grenrock Woods and Gustavo Arellano, both of whom bring decades of hard-won knowledge and laser-sharp insights into the Golden State.
Have a question of your own? Ask a Californian!
Why are baristas so snotty? I know they can’t be this haughty in Kansas.
—Cranky for Cortado
Gustavo: Isn’t all café culture snotty, or was that Friends lying to me again? The idea of sipping on something for hours while nibbling on biscotti as hard as concrete and waiting for that one person to give up the one seat next to a wall socket seems antithetical to the California spirit, which demands action—Gaspar de Portolá didn’t trek from San Diego to the Bay and back in 1769 just so the rest of us could frappé away our lives. But I’m completely a hater on this: I’ve never cared for coffee of any sort—too bitter, I’m too accustomed to tea when it comes to drinking something scalding, and the idea of paying $7 every morning for doctored-up caffeine when Folgers did just fine for my truck-driving dad is complete weak salsa. Now excuse me while I nurse my daily double dose of Manhattans—totally worth it at $30!
Stacey: Are they? This has not been my experience, either in or out of Kansas. Perhaps it’s because when I order my cortado (excellent choice, by the way), I do it with a degree of deference usually reserved for heads of state. I don’t know what a barista does any more than I know what, say, Mark Carney does, but I’m pretty sure the barista cares much more about me. Understand this: Baristas have to deal with people at their worst—hurried, undercaffeinated, and supremely fussy about their unnecessarily complicated order. And when you also consider the fact that the stereotype of a barista includes a silly beard, dirty shirt, and man bun, you can almost understand their occasionally snide disposition. So whenever you encounter one of the snotty, haughty ones, just be polite and don’t get too worked up about someone who can draw Jabba the Hutt in foamed milk but can barely write your name on a cup with a pen.
Every time we go out to dinner, my mother ends her meal with a decaf coffee. When the server arrives with her beverage, my mother always has to clarify, “This is decaf?” Yes, it’s decaf! It’s what you ordered! I equate her clarification to questioning someone’s ability to do their job. She claims she just wants to be able to catch some z’s. Who’s right?
—Embarrassed in Encino
Gustavo: Again, I don’t drink coffee, but the idea of drinking decaf is like drinking alcohol-free beer or living in Clovis—I guess you could do it, but what’s the point when there are so many better options? Besides, you’re too hard on your mom, Encino person. We journalists have a saying: Trust but verify. So your mom is just taking care of herself and isn’t trying to question the server when she double-checks her order. Are you really this naïve?! Hey, my pal who’s a Nigerian prince wants to talk to you.
Stacey: If you don’t mind my saying so, Encino, it sounds as if you might do well to switch to Sanka. Your mother’s dependable decaf refrain is indeed embarrassing but not for the reason you think. Etiquette dictates that the only caffeinated beverage you should have after a dinner is an espresso—no milk, no sugar, no lip. A milky drink at that hour is so ghastly to fine diners that noted food writer Amanda Hesser shamed someone with a whole book about it. (And decaf—black—is even worse than that. Why even go out?) The idea, I think, is that the milk won’t sit well on top of what you’ve just eaten and you need a shot of something acerbic to cut through all the heaviness and expose your acerbic wit. Why don’t you try ending your next dinner out with a double espresso (don’t be cheap). Yes, it will keep you up, but you can lie there joyfully recalling all the funny things you said, instead of just tossing and gnashing and thinking about your mother.
My partner and I recently went into a high-end retailer in San Francisco’s Mission district. Upon entering, we saw two young employees sitting at the counter, both engaged with their computers. We stopped to admire the store’s new (pricey) espresso machine. During this time, neither employee greeted us or asked if we needed help. I felt inclined to leave, but my partner gently asked if we could get some help. The employees looked at each other as if to decide which one would answer these losers’ questions. Are my expectations for service unreasonable, and is this a Mission district thing?
—A Double Shot of Attitude
Gustavo: Man, Californians are more addicted to coffee than to shrugging about San Diego! All this said, don’t blame those snotty employees on their industry or their neighborhood: They’re just classic gentrifiers. The Mission, the historical heart of San Francisco’s Latino community, unfortunately has experienced well-financed tech bros displacing its working-class residents and tenants since the bros’ parents were called hipsters and grandparents were known as yuppies. Gentrifiers as a rule think they’re God’s gift to anyone who encounters them, which means that being smug is their sacrament. So grab a sample cup of that holy espresso, spill it on the floor, ask for some napkins to clean it up, throw the napkins on the floor, and run. Amen!
Stacey: As a former indie-record-store employee, I can tell you just how exasperating it is when people come in expecting you to stop what you’re doing and help them find, like, an Anita Baker CD or whatever. I’ve looked at life from both sides (of the counter) now, and I see that there is a tacit understanding between the young person with a cool job and everyone bothering them. This is how the world has always worked, so please allow them this brief period of perceived invincibility. They grow up so fast.
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Stacey Grenrock Woods is a regular contributor to Esquire and a former correspondent for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. She writes and consults on various TV shows, and has a recurring role as Tricia Thoon on Fox’s Arrested Development. Her first book is I, California.
Gustavo Arellano is the author of Orange County: A Personal History and Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America. In 2025, Arellano was named a Pulitzer Prize finalist for his work as a columnist for the Los Angeles Times. He was formerly editor of OC Weekly, an alternative newspaper in Orange County, California, and penned the award-winning ¡Ask a Mexican!, a nationally syndicated column in which he answered any and all questions about America’s spiciest and largest minority. Arellano is the recipient of awards ranging from the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies Best Columnist to the Los Angeles Press Club President’s Award to an Impact Award from the National Hispanic Media Coalition, and he was recognized by the California Latino Legislative Caucus with a 2008 Spirit Award for his “exceptional vision, creativity, and work ethic.” Arellano is a lifelong resident of Orange County and is the proud son of two Mexican immigrants, one of whom came to this country in the trunk of a Chevy.
