I’m sat at a bar on the waterfront in the quaint Gallic town of Akaroa. I’m quietly enjoying my rare Steinlager Pure when couple of American gents pull up stools next to me. They place down their number five table marker, presumably indicating that food or hot drinks will be arriving shortly. Sure enough, moments later a waitress appears carrying what looks like a coffee.

“Cappuccino?”, enquires the waitress.
“That’s mine”, waves American tourist #1.

And so the hot, tasty beverage is laid down before him. The waitress disappears to collect the next drink.

“Latte?”
“Err. Nope. Not mine”
“You are table 5?”
“Yes, but I ordered a coffee with milk.”

In fairness, at this point I completely understand that a request for a “coffee with milk” is totally different from a latte and so have no quarrel at this point. The waitress gently insists that the latte is indeed his coffee with milk.

“That’s right, it’s a latte.”
“Oh, ok. I’ll take it.”

The punchline came next, after the waitress disappeared back behind the bar.

American tourist #1 blurts, “I hate it when they use a French word to make things sound more exotic!”