We can often tell what someone will order just by looking at the uniform. The Canadian troops usually just want a double-double, known as a NATO Standard over here. Sometimes we tempt them into an apple fritter.
The Americans prefer honey dips with a regular coffee, whereas the Brits can’t turn down a Boston cream or a Canadian maple. They’re also partial to French vanilla cappuccinos. When the cappuccino machine is temporarily out of service, we almost have a mutiny on our hands.
“No French vanilla?” a group of four British soldiers gasp and moan. “What are we supposed to do?”
“What will you do when you go home?” I ask. “You’ll have to start a franchise in Sussex.”
“Oh, we’ll just order the French vanilla online then.” They grin and buy two cans of the mix to tide them over.
I enjoy seeing our regulars as well as the new faces that arrive all the time.
“Good mornin’, m’love! And how’re you today?” one of the older soldiers from Newfoundland lilts. His face is tanned and his blue eyes sparkle as he smiles. I return the smile and say, “Just great! And you?”
“Oh, livin’ the dream,” he laughs and orders his morning coffee. I know he’ll be back three or four more times before the day’s end.
The Tim Hortons caps we wear are perhaps the most in demand.
“Can I have six double-doubles and a hat?”
“How much for your hat, darlin’?”
We hear these questions all day long. Conversation is mostly casual and lighthearted.
“Make my coffee better than his,” one soldier jokes, pointing to his friend. “Give him the old stuff.”
“Are you still here? I thought you’d be home by now! When do they let you out?”
‘We’re prone to rocket attacks’
Of course, we’re the only Tim Hortons where the majority of customers come in fully armed. But by now I’m used to the sight of a soldier with a rifle in one hand and a coffee in the other. We’re also prone to rocket attacks on the base, and when the alarm sounds, we have to get all the customers out of the store and sit in the back until the all clear sounds. There’s a heavy thud, a feeling of impact and then the eerie wail of an old air-raid siren. That’s the signal to get to a bunker, or to the back of the store, if I’m working.
The first time I experienced this I wasn’t really scared, but it gave a note of seriousness to my job that hadn’t been there before. We sat on the floor and waited until the all-clear alarm went off like a British police siren.
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