Scene: A Pretentious Café in the Heart of the City
The café is dimly lit, with walls lined with obscure books and art pieces that no one could possibly understand unless they were a self-proclaimed "postmodern theorist." The air smells faintly of organic coffee and lavender, and everyone is too busy scribbling in journals to make eye contact. The patrons wear turtlenecks, berets, and glasses so small they might as well be invisible.
Enter the Costanzas.
Frank is already looking around in disgust. “What is this place? This place smells like a bookstore after a rainstorm!” He stands at the entrance, arms folded tightly, giving everyone in sight a glare that could turn stone into dust.
George, always the anxious one, follows suit, trying to keep his head down but visibly uncomfortable. “I swear, every time we go to a new place, it’s like I’m in a different world… I’m just trying to have a coffee, not a philosophy lecture!”
Estelle, ever the drama queen, gasps as she surveys the crowd. “Ooh, look at these people, Frank! They think they’re so smart, with their little journals and their tiny glasses! Are they even real people, or are they some sort of social experiment?”
Frank, still eyeing the décor suspiciously, mutters, “It’s like someone stuffed a thesaurus into a blender and called it ‘culture.’”
They approach the counter, where a Woke Hipster with a man bun and a Patagonia fleece stands, meticulously crafting a latte art masterpiece. His eyes are hidden behind oversized glasses, and he greets them with a smile that’s more smug than welcoming. “Hey, what’s up? Welcome to The Postmodern Brew. We’re all about slow coffee and fast thoughts here.”
Frank leans in, completely ignoring the pretentiousness of the situation. “Fast thoughts? Fast thoughts? What, you mean like how fast I’m gonna need to get out of here? Because this place is giving me an ulcer just looking at it!”
The hipster smiles as if Frank’s comment was a compliment, “Yeah, man, exactly. The faster we challenge conventional ideas, the better.”
Frank’s eyes widen in horror. “You challenge conventional ideas? You’re making coffee! I’ve had better coffee at a truck stop diner, and they don’t pretend to be philosophers there!”
Estelle chimes in, “What’s with all this ‘slow coffee’ nonsense, huh? My George is always ‘slow,’ but that’s because he’s just… well, you know… George.”
George immediately tries to sink into the floor, shrinking into himself. “Ma, not now. Can we just get the coffee and go?”
At this moment, a French philosopher, probably an existentialist from the way he holds his cigarette and looks at the world as if it’s a futile charade, overhears. He leans in with a knowing, disinterested air and says, “Ah, but you see, the concept of coffee itself is an illusion. It is but an extension of our consumerist desires, trapped in a cycle of perpetual non-being.”
Frank, without missing a beat, snaps back, “Non-being? The only thing that’s non-being here is my patience for you and your ‘coffee-illusion,’ pal. I’ll take a regular cup of joe, not whatever this fancy talk is trying to sell me!”
Estelle, now thoroughly offended by the vibe of the café, declares, “I came in here for a coffee, not a history lesson! If I wanted that, I’d be watching my neighbor—he’s been giving lectures on his lawn about the Greek philosophers all week!”
The Woke Hipster behind the counter, ever the ‘enlightened’ barista, clears his throat. “Well, if I may, we are also offering a new drink called ‘The Deconstructed Latte,’ which—”
“Deconstructed?!” Frank spits out, eyes bulging. “What, you take the milk and the coffee and just—poof, throw it at the wall and see what sticks?!”
George, looking like he’s about to explode, adds, “What is it with this place? Every time someone mentions ‘deconstructing’ something, it’s like the world’s about to implode! You don’t need to deconstruct your coffee, just brew it! It’s not rocket science, people!”
Estelle, who’s had enough of the philosophical nonsense, waves her hand dramatically. “Forget it, Frank! I’m out of here! I can’t stand these people who make everything so complicated. What’s next, huh? Are we supposed to analyze our existence while drinking the coffee?”
The French philosopher, who has been listening with detached amusement, shrugs and says, “It’s all just a construction of the mind, no? Coffee, existence, the very notion of reality itself. All an illusion.”
Frank whirls around to face him, “Illusion? Illusion? The only illusion here is this place pretending it knows how to make coffee! You can keep your ‘non-being’ and your ‘deconstructed latte,’ but I want my coffee simple! A cup, a brew, and I’ll leave! That’s all I need!”
As the Costanzas storm out of the café, Frank mutters to George, “Next time we pick a place, I’m checking Yelp first. This place is worse than when we went to that vegan restaurant and the waiter tried to talk to me about my ‘carbon footprint.’”
Estelle, shaking her head, mutters, “It’s just so pretentious… Just like your father, George.”
George, mortified, just sighs. “Ma, please… not now…”
