It all started with my dad’s jet lag.
After landing in Amsterdam that morning, my American parents had one mission: find coffee. Strong, black, American-style coffee. None of that “tiny European cup” nonsense.
“I need a venti something,” my mom said, rubbing her temples. “I don’t care what it is. Just large and full of caffeine.”
We walked past a charming little café, the kind with homemade pastries and a proper espresso machine. I pointed at it.
“No, no,” Dad waved me off. “I want a real coffee shop. Like a place where locals go.”
And that, my friends, is where everything went horribly, hilariously wrong.
The Wrong Kind of Coffee Shop
It didn’t take long for Dad to spot a promising sign.
“Look at that!” he said, gesturing toward a small, cozy-looking storefront with “The Green House Coffee Shop” written in friendly, neon letters. “That looks authentic.”
I hesitated. Very authentic.
Inside, the first thing we noticed was the overpowering smell. Not of coffee, but… something else. Something herbal.
The second thing I noticed? The walls were covered in Bob Marley posters, psychedelic murals, and little signs listing strains like White Widow and Amnesia Haze.
Dad inhaled deeply. “Wow. That’s some strong coffee.”
The guy behind the counter, a Dutchman with long dreadlocks and indoor sunglasses, gave us a lazy grin. “Yeah, man. Some of the best.”
Mom grabbed a menu and frowned. “Huh. These coffee names are weird. ‘AK-47’? ‘Girl Scout Cookies’? Where’s the hazelnut latte?”
The Menu Mix-Up
Dad, always the curious tourist, squinted at the menu. “What’s a ‘space cake’? Some kind of Dutch cheesecake?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but the barista beat me to it.
“Oh yeah, space cake is real nice,” he said, nodding. “Super mellow. You want one?”
“Maybe just a small one to start,” Dad said, like he was ordering a breakfast pastry.
“Wait, hold on,” I finally interrupted. “Guys. This is not a Starbucks.”
Silence.
Then my mom gasped, clutching her purse like someone had just tried to sell her meth in a Walmart parking lot.
“Oh my God. This is a DRUG den.”
The barista looked mildly offended. “No, ma’am, this is Amsterdam.”
The Rapid Exit Strategy
Dad, now realizing his mistake, turned to leave. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s get out of here before we end up on an episode of Locked Up Abroad.”
Mom was already halfway out the door.
The barista shrugged. “You sure? We have regular coffee too.”
Mom spun around. “Oh, thank God. Just an espresso, please.”
The barista nodded and, with the most serious face ever, said, “That’ll be €3.50. Unless you want it extra special.”
Mom didn’t even ask what that meant.
We got our normal espresso (I made sure), and as we stepped back onto the Amsterdam streets, Dad muttered:
“From now on, let’s just stick to Starbucks.”
And that, my fellow Americans, is the story of how my parents almost ordered a joint instead of a cappuccino in Amsterdam.
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