Saving OJ Face

While living in Toulouse, I often went to a trendy café with yellow chairs on a big cobblestone terrace called Le Wallace. It was situated at Place Saint Georges, one of the more « bourgeois » areas with expensive boutiques and cafés (and was also the place for hangings back in the day).

It was an early winter morning and I was very happy to be by myself. I sat inside their newly renovated, very hip café and ordered a freshly squeezed orange juice, excited to sit and write for a while. The juice arrived. I took one sip and it tasted rancid. I thought maybe it was just due to the toothpaste freshness after having just brushed my teeth, so I took another sip. No, it was not the peculiar and indistinguishable OJ-mint flavor mix. The juice was not good. It had that tangy flavor that slightly pricked your tongue. It wasn’t OJ from concentrate either, that has its own thick nectar type of flavor. I stirred my juice and tried one more time and finally confirmed it was not good. What should I do? There was no way I was going to drink it.

“Excuse me,” I called over the waiter who was a very thin light-skinned Black man with an earring. He had been my server in the past and was always very snobby.

He came over and gave me a blank stare while holding his empty round tray.

“This juice isn’t good,” I said.

“What do you mean?,” he didn’t seem to understand.

“It doesn’t taste good,” I said, “I think it’s rotten.”

“Well, all of it is the same so I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“Well, I can’t drink this. Could I please have a coffee instead?,” I asked politely.

“If you want but it will be considered another order,” he said which meant I would be paying for the juice all the same.

“Fine,” I said annoyed that I was going to pay for a coffee on top of a rotten orange juice.

He took the orange juice in a huff and went to speak to his colleague. She was a dark woman with peroxide hair who I also knew to be quite unfriendly. I heard them discussing the situation. She happened to be behind the coffee bar where other customers could hear and heads started turning towards me. She quickly walked over to me wearing an expression that told me I was in big trouble.

“I pressed that orange juice myself this morning. My oranges are good,” she said to me with pursed lips.

“I don’t know,” I said hesitating, “I know what good freshly squeezed orange juice tastes like and this juice tasted rotten.”

“My oranges are not rotten,” she replied, “maybe you do not know what freshly squeezed orange juice tastes like.”

“Look. It didn’t taste good.” I said not knowing what to do to resolve this predicament.

Furious, she walked away without saying another word. I sat alone and apprehensive, not knowing what to expect next. How could I enjoy a coffee in that place now? The servers were mad at me, I was considered a bad customer by the “regulars” and I was going to pay for a rancid orange juice on top of my coffee.

I nervously glanced around the place. The server and my coffee were nowhere in sight. So, I quickly made the decision to leave, to flee.

I stood up, grabbed my coat and without putting it on (it was freezing outside) I walked quickly to the door without making eye contact with a soul and left. I was hot and shaking from my adrenaline rush. The cold air felt good. I walked down the street praying nobody would come running after me to pay for the bill. I looked over my shoulder several times in paranoia. I finally settled for another café where I knew the servers to always be very friendly.

Afterward, I started analyzing the situation. Images of the woman talking to her colleagues at the bar and the way she defended her oranges. And I realized all she was trying to do was desperately save face. All her colleagues and “regulars” at the bar were listening and counting on her and there was no way she was going to let someone tell her that her oranges were bad! I figured it out. How could I have been so naïve?

Then I began to think of ways I could have handled the situation better. I could have said to the woman, “I’m sure your oranges are fresh and the juice is freshly squeezed. Just be a sweetie and get me a complimentary coffee instead, please?”

Do you think that would’ve worked?