The Pygmalion Effect

As a Brit, I’ve got used to Americans fawning over my accent. I expect it, even. In the early days, whenever I was asked to repeat words or was complimented on the mellifluous tones that can only be achieved with a true British accent, I would do my best tomato impression and turn a beautiful shade of maroon. Now, though, I’m almost offended if nobody says anything.

But all that changed a few days ago. I went to a coffee shop and asked for a mocha. You Brits will know that we pronounce this particular drink mock-ka (no doubt its proper pronunciation); Americans say ‘mo-ka.’ This is obviously a very difficult thing to get one’s head around because you won’t believe the trouble I always have when ordering it. Surely it is obvious what I want. Anyway, on this day, I ordered my drink and awaited the inevitable. Sure enough, it came. The lady’s left eyebrow raised and her eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want? ‘Cos we don’t have no mock-kas here. I can give you a mo-ka [pause for effect], but I don’t know no mock-kas.’ Well, I was scandalised. Normally, I would have charmed her with my best British tones, but I defy anyone to do their best charming when faced with the most forceful of ‘What you talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?’ looks. I made myself as small as possible and meekly accepted my coffee. Except that it wasn’t what I had ordered. Not even close. I began to lift my eyes beseechingly to hers and thought about asking her to give me what I had actually ordered, but all that came out was a kind of gurgling sound.