Scarab insisted to the surly waitress that the coffee waiting at the bar, and no doubt going cold, was her flat white. The waitress condescendingly agreed to check, and then came over with it.
"Great!" said Scarab, beaming insincerely, "That is my drink."
Then, because she'd ordered two sugars and got only one, she waved the solitary sachet back and forth, still smiling, still insincere, and asked, "And could I trouble you for another of these?"
She raised her coffee to her lips. "If this is cold, it's going straight back." A sip, then, "Dammit, it's still hot."
We agreed that given we didn't have a spare week to sit around waiting for a replacement drink, the appropriate temperature was probably a satisfactory replacement for the pleasure of complaining.