by Cleo Coyle
After a few minutes catching up, she pulled her wavy chestnut hair into a work-ready ponytail and announced—
“I better get into that kitchen!”
“Go ahead, honey. I’ll be right there.”
And she was off again, striding through the swinging doors with the kind of confidence that comes only from experience.
Before I even knew my lips were moving, I heard myself saying, “I’m so proud of her . . .”
Joy may have inherited her father’s height—and fearlessness—but from me she got her stubborn streak, which, I admit, made her hard to handle in her teen years, but it served her well in adulthood.
It was Joy’s stubbornness that kept her from quitting after being expelled from her Manhattan culinary school. And when her grandmother arranged a lowly position in Paris, she dug in, tirelessly working until she’d proven herself with that male-dominated kitchen brigade. She’d not only risen in their ranks, but earned their respect, contributing dishes to the menu that helped Les Deux Perroquets earn its first-ever Michelin star.
That star had become Joy’s ultimate goal while in Paris, and I was relieved she’d achieved it before moving back to New York.
With my move to DC, she knew her family needed her, so she’d agreed to pitch in and help Matt run our busy Greenwich Village coffeehouse.
But the family business wasn’t Joy’s only reason for her return home. A certain young, streetwise NYPD detective had used his influence to entice her back, as well. His name was Emmanuel Franco and for reasons too numerous to mention, including Matt’s animosity toward anyone with a badge, Joy’s father couldn’t stand the sight of him.
But that was another battle, for another day.
“I’m proud of her, too,” Matt assured me. “And I’m glad we’re working together . . .” He looked away a moment, gaze going inward. “I missed a lot of years . . . you know, as her father.”
“I know.”
“So it’s been nice having this time with her. And I know she’s enjoying the break.”
“Break?”
“That Paris kitchen was a pressure cooker, Clare. She says compared to that, coming back to Greenwich Village has been a vacation . . .”
The revelation worried me. Matt made it sound like Joy was planning to return to Paris.
And there it was again—that familiar ripping down my middle, half of me wanting to give my daughter the freedom to do as she pleased; the other half desperately wanting her to stay close to home, close to me.
“Oh, and speaking of our New York shop,” Matt blithely went on, “Tuck and Punch are bringing down a surprise.”
“Surprise? What kind of surprise?”
“I don’t know. Hence the word surprise. They said you and Gardner should be thrilled. Speaking of which, did you know Mother’s putting the whole gang up at your temporary digs?”
“On N Street? Tell me you’re kidding.”
Forty-nine
“DON’T worry. Mother brought her maid along so you won’t have to deal with linens and towels and getting everyone settled into all those bedrooms—”
“Six,” I pointed out. “There are six bedrooms—and eight guests, nine if you count me. Ten if you count Mike.”
“Quinn?” Matt shook his shaggy head. “Tell the flatfoot to find another place to crash.”
I felt awful kicking Quinn out—especially after promising the man a rain check on our ruined morning. “Does he really have to bunk back at his apartment? It’s all the way across town.”
“We’re a full house tonight, Clare. Joy even recruited an old friend from culinary school. She’s coming down in the van, too—”
“That’s more than a full house!”
“I guess some of us will have to double up.” Matt arched a dark eyebrow. “How about it? You and me? For old times’ sake?”
“The finished basement has a pullout couch,” I informed him flatly. “And there’s always a hastily purchased air bed. I suspect you have enough hot air to inflate it.”
“Well, if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
“We’ll see . . .” His brown eyes flashed with mirth as he checked his watch. “Tuck should be pulling in around three o’clock, long before the Jazz Space opens, and I’ll help behind the bar.”
“Thank you.”
“So you’re set.”
“Not by a long shot. I can’t keep our pastry case stocked. We have a limited time to prep our supper club menu, and we’re stuck creating it from the food Tad Hopkins already bought . . .”
By now, Matt had heard an earful about Hopkins’s shortchanging our customers to launch a catering business on the side. My anxiety must have shown on my face because he put a hand on my shoulder.
“Clare, you did the right thing. You shouldn’t second-guess it.”
“What I should have done is fire him sooner. Or found some other way to—”
“Stop! My mother has some things to say about that, but I’ll leave that for her to discuss with you.”
Great. “I really didn’t want her to find out this way.”
“She’s a tough old girl, you know that.” He squeezed my shoulder. “And so are you.”
“I’m a tough old girl?”
“No . . .” He stroked his beard. “You’re more of a scrappy MILK.”
“Milk? As in Harvey?”
“As in Mother I’d Like to Kiss.”
“You sure cleaned that up, didn’t you?”
“Hey, no need to be vulgar. And there’s no need for panic. We’ll get through this like a family should. Together.”
“I appreciate family. I really do. But to get through this, we’ll need more.”
“What?”
“Some of Gardner’s musical talent.”
“You want us to play jazz?”
“Absolutely. Today is the day the Village Blend learns how to improvise.”
Fifty
“THAT’S an awful lot of cream cheese,” Joy observed, twenty minutes later. “What do you suppose Hopkins planned to do with it?”
The three of us (my daughter, my new chef, and I) were standing in the walk-in, taking stock of what we had—and what we didn’t.
Luther Bell shook his head. “I hesitate to share it with you ladies.”
Joy and I exchanged glances.
“Come on, Chef Bell,” she teased. “Now you have to tell us!”
Luther folded his big arms. “Japanese-Style Crepes . . .”
“That’s not so bad,” Joy said. “What did he plan to fill them with?”
“Flaked Halibut and . . .” He sighed. “Miso-Infused Cream Cheese.”
Joy blanched. “For this club? Really?”
“Really.”
“Farfelu!” she cried.
Luther tilted his head. “What is that, Ms. Allegro? A French recipe?”
“No, no!” She laughed. “It’s what my brigade used to say to our chef when his menu suggestions became so pretentious they entered the realm of harebrained. Usually he would listen and wise up.”
“Well, Ms. Allegro, not Tad Hopkins.”
I nodded. “Now you see what I was up against, honey?”
“Mom, I feel for you. You, too, Chef Bell . . .”
Luther and I exchanged relieved glances. After the smug Chef Hopkins, Joy’s positive energy and cooperative attitude were like a breath of fresh air in this kitchen. It energized us both.
“So what should we do with this cream cheese?” I asked them.
“Cream cheese with butter makes a nice smooth chocolate frosting,” Luther suggested. He snapped his fingers. “How about we use it to frost my Black Magic Cake?”
“Awesome idea!” Joy nodded. “That will go fast.”
“How many?” I asked.
; “Eight slices per cake, one hundred servings,” Luther calculated. “Make a baker’s dozen . . .”
I nodded, jotting 13 down on my notepad. We’d already agreed to turn Mrs. B’s catering kitchen into our own little bakery. It was up to pro code, and Luther would get us started (as the law required). Madame, her maid, and I would then work on the dessert menu while Luther and Joy prepped savories and main dishes in the Village Blend kitchen.
Now Joy snapped her fingers. “Mom, why don’t you make your favorite cheesecake, too? The one you adapted from that old New Yorker recipe.”
“The New Yorker may have published it, but the recipe came from the CUNY Graduate Center cafeteria . . .”
The light and creamy cheesecake became so popular with students that it continually sold out, becoming the talk of the town. I smiled, remembering the legendary Emilio, the cafeteria chef who’d created that recipe. He had a lot in common with our Luther Bell.
“That version bakes and chills fast, too,” I noted. “Good idea, honey.”
“You know, I like to use cream cheese in my Southern Pimento Cheese. It’s my secret to getting it nice and smooth. How about we offer little plates with black pepper crackers and celery stalks—for the light eaters?”
“Pimento cheese has made a real comeback,” I agreed, nodding happily. “We’ll need a light main dish, too.”
“What about the halibut?”
“We can grill it simply with lime butter,” Luther suggested. “I did that for the U.S. Senate Dining Room and it sold out the first hour.”
“Done!”
Joy’s face lit up. “When did you work in the Senate Dining Room?”
“After the CIA cafeteria.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Boy, I was glad to get out of Langley. The security there was crazy!”
The sound of tramping boots made us all look up. Two Secret Service agents in combat vests were moving toward Agent Cage’s command post in the back of the kitchen. Joy and I tensed at the sight of the huge rifles slung over their shoulders.
Chef Bell didn’t bat an eye.
“Well,” I said, “I’m glad at least one of us is used to cooking around live ammunition.”
Fifty-one
WE continued going through ingredients: blue cheese, local honey, Vidalia onions, lots of heavy cream, day-old baguettes, apples, frozen puff pastry shells . . .
“Joy, what about your Mini Tarte Tatins? Madame and I can prep ramekins with caramel and apples—and since there’s no time for scratch puff pastry, you can use the frozen shells and bake them to order.”
“Good idea.” Luther nodded. “And if they’re tarte Tatins, I assume you flip them onto dessert plates?”
“You got it,” Joy said. “They’re foolproof, too, one fast flip out of the oven and they’re ready for service. The caramel sauce looks amazing, flowing over the baked apples and pastry—as if you’ve sauced them with care.”
“One problem . . .” I tapped my chin with the pencil. “Individual tarte Tatin doesn’t fit with the Great American Food theme we’ve got going.”
“Well, apple pie is about as American as you can get,” Luther argued.
“A rose by any other name?”
“As long as the rose is something the customers enjoy. That’s my motto.”
“Mine, too.”
“Mine, three!”
Like one of Gardner’s Open Mike trios, we continued improvising what we could with what we had. Finally, I pointed to the flank steaks. “What was Hopkins going to do with those?”
“Stew them in a curry,” Luther said, “with pecans, dried figs, and blueberries.”
“Blueberries?!” Joy and I cried together.
“To be served on a bed of herbed polenta and topped with caramelized fennel foam.”
“For a relaxed, coffeehouse jazz club?” Joy smacked her forehead. “Ahh! Farfelu!”
“How about my Bourbon Sugar Steak instead?” Chef Bell offered. “I’ll slice it nice and tender, against the grain.”
“Beautiful,” I said. “Your Sugar Steak is one of my favorites.”
“With shoestring fries, Chef Bell? Pretty please? I’ve been missing my steak frites!”
He laughed. “Okay, then.”
“I know Mom’s making good use of those blueberries. I can smell them baking in her muffins. What about the pecans and figs? Shall we use them for dessert?”
“I’ll have a savory in mind for the figs,” the chef promised. “As for the pecans, how about my pecan pie? Or we could do Pecan Sandies?”
“Your pecan pie makes my knees go weak,” I confessed, “but let’s make it in slab form and cut it into bars. We can make the sandies, too, and sell both at the outdoor stand tonight.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Joy whispered as Chef Bell stepped away. “I’ve been out of the country awhile. What exactly are ‘Pecan Sandies’?”
“Sables,” I whispered back.
“Oh!” She clapped her hands. “Give that job to Grandmother. She can make sables in her sleep!”
“Done,” I said, and our menu was complete.
Fifty-two
AFTER sending Matt and Freddie out for last-minute supplies and ingredients, I called my music director to the kitchen.
“We’ve got it, Gard.”
“Got what?”
“Your new Jazz Space menu . . .”
Village Blend, DC
Jazz Space
SWINGIN’ HEADLINERS
Bourbon Sugar Steak, freshly seared and sliced, served with Crispy Shoestring Fries, Smoked Tomato Ketchup, Truffle Oil Mayo
Fresh Halibut, grilled simply with Lime Butter, served with a side of Roasted Vegetables, Lime-Garlic Bruschetta
Buttermilk Fried Chicken Wing Plate, dipping side of Alabama White BBQ Sauce, Cheddar-Corn Spoon Bread, Luther’s Hard Cider Green Beans
California Cobb Salad with juicy Grilled Free-Range Chicken, sliced avocado, crumbled bacon, House-Made Garlic-Parm Croutons
BEBOP BITES
Trio of Steak Burger Sliders, topped with melted Cheddar, and slices of Seared Pork Belly
Southern Pimento Cheese served with black pepper crackers and celery stalks
Bacon-Wrapped Bourbon Figs stuffed with Iowa’s Maytag Blue & Texas Pecans, drizzled with local honey
Pile of Crunchy Vidalia Onion Rings served with Smoky Chipotle Dip
DESSERT DUETS
Mini Caramel-Sauced Apple Pie with a scoop of No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream and a pressed pot of Hawaiian-Grown Kona
Birthplace of Jazz New Orleans Beignets served with our dipping-sized cup of café au lait
Luther’s Black Magic Cake, a dense, moist, coffee-kissed chocolate cake, made and served with our famous Village Blend espresso
The famous Light & Creamy New Yorker Cheesecake, served with a shot of Fresh Strawberry Sauce and a Clover Cup of Toraja Sulawesi
Cookie Plate of Luther’s Pecan Pie Bars & Pecan Sandies made with Honey-Gingered Texas Pecans, served with a personal Chemex of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, or our special Ginger Tea with local honey
TONIGHT’S DRINK SPECIALS
Bloody (Proud) Mary served with bacon strips cooked down to crispy perfection in an iron skillet with coffee, brown sugar, and cayenne
Espresso Martini served with Dark Chocolate–Covered Espresso Beans exclusively made for the Village Blend by J. Chocolatier of Washington, DC
See our printed beverage menu (at your table) for our full range of hot and cold espresso drinks, pressed pots of our handcrafted coffee blends, wines, beers, and specialty cocktails.
Luther Bell, Executive Chef
Gardner Evans, Jazz Space Manager and Music Director
Clare Cosi, General Manager, Food & Beverage Director
Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, Owner
Gard whistled loud as he read.
“Y’all are going to sell out of everything on this baby!”
Chef Bell grinned. “How about we get some stationery especially for Abby’s big night? Maybe something with red, white, and blue stripes across the top and bottom?”
“Where do we get something like that?” Gard asked.
“Groovy, DC,” I told him. “It’s a gift shop on Capitol Hill. They share the building with J. Chocolatier—we use her for our chocolate-covered espresso beans.”
“I’m on it,” Gard said, heading out.
“One last thing, ladies . . .” Chef Bell looked very serious all of a sudden. “And this is important to me.”
Joy and I exchanged concerned glances and huddled up.
“In the heat of the action tonight, I’m afraid there might be a very big problem . . .”
“What?” we asked together.
“If you ladies call out, ‘Chef Bell,’ I’m afraid I won’t know who you’re talking to. Can we please go back to calling me Luther?
I could see that Joy, who was used to the French brigade system, didn’t like the idea at all. But it was Luther’s kitchen—his rules.
“All right,” my daughter finally said. “I’ll call you Luther. But no more Ms. Allegro. You will call me Joy—”
“And I will call you Goddess!”
We all turned to find Tito Bianchi gawking at my daughter’s heart-shaped face. “Bellissima,” he murmured and kissed his pursed fingers. “Joy, you are a joy to look at.”
“Excuse me,” my daughter replied in Italian. “What is your name?”
“Tito.”
“Well, I’m happy to meet you, Tito, but I’m taken.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Engaged?”