»In which we count our lucky stars

I stopped at a busy espresso counter (readily identifiable through the Seattle fog thanks to its neon "Caffeine" sign) for the second time in as many days. The long line moved quickly, and the woman at the counter recognised me as I walked up, and asked if I wanted a macchiato -- the drink I had enjoyed the day before. Wow.

(Initially, I was going to contrast this experience with another town, another shop, but Seattle gave me a great opportunity for comparison. To wit:)

A few hours later, I walked into a fancy restaurant with a sharp-dressed friend, and we asked for a table. As the hostess walked us past the (tuxedo-clad) waiters and the (informally-dressed) patrons, past the neon-lit "Boys Room" (cigars, not pole-dancers), and along the open kitchen, she turned to me and asked pleasantly, "Do you live here in Seattle?" To w. I replied, "No, I am visiting," and my companion ditto*. She said, "Well, it's fortunate that we are an informal town, and we don't have a dress code." She looked snottily (snootily?) at my grubby shirts, stained with the espresso of the day, and put the menus down on the table.

Snap.

* he actually does live in Seattle. Sort of.