French Pressed cm-6

by Клео Коул

  Keitel stared at me for so long, I thought perhaps he’d been flash frozen. Did the man think I was completely nuts? I glanced at Dornier. He was still sipping the Kenyan, apparently waiting for his chef de cuisine to make the decision.

  “Look…” I pressed, “why not at least try a dessert pairings menu with my coffee? Give it one week. I promise you’ll not only sell my coffee at premium prices to people who would have declined more alcohol anyway, you’ll sell more desserts.”

  Dornier sat up a little straighter. “Did you hear that, Tommy?”

  Keitel grunted once. He stared for another few silent moments, then without any discernable articulation of words, turned and stalked back toward his kitchen.

  Crap.

  I figured that was it. I was dismissed. Time to pack in my French presses and go—until I realized Keitel hadn’t disappeared through the swinging gateway to his domain. Instead, he was holding one door open and sticking his head through it.

  “Janelle!” he bellowed into the busy kitchen. “Come out here!”

  An attractive, full-figured, African American woman answered the command. She wore a burgundy chef’s jacket and a flat, burgundy baker’s cap. Beneath the cap, her shoulder-length ebony hair was styled in rows of beautiful tight braids. Her skin was mocha, and her roundish thirtyish face displayed Creole features.

  “What is it, Chef?” she called, wiping her hands on the white towel that was thrown over her shoulder.

  Keitel held the door open for her. “Come with me, please,” he said, his voice softer and much more polite as she moved toward him.

  “Janelle, this is Ms. Clare Cosi,” he said, leading her to our table. “Ms. Cosi is Joy Allegro’s mother. She also happens to manage a coffeehouse downtown, and she’s proposing a contract with us to supply gourmet coffee.”

  Janelle’s face immediately brightened. “Are you asking my opinion, Chef?”

  “I am.”

  “By all means, let’s taste what she’s brought!”

  He speared me with his gaze. “Clare, I’d like you to meet Janelle Babcock, our pastry chef. If you’re proposing a dessert pairings menu with your coffee, you’d better win her over.”

  I held out my hand. Janelle shook it with surprising fervor. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Ms. Cosi—”

  “Please call me Clare.” I smiled at the woman, realizing this was the Janelle that Joy had mentioned to me weeks ago. She was a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu in Paris and had come to Solange not from France but from the pâtissier position in a New Orleans restaurant that had been destroyed by Hurricane Katrina.

  According to Joy, Janelle had been the kindest to her of all the line cooks in Tommy’s kitchen. The woman had lost everything in the storm: her job, her home, her dream of opening her own bakery. Apparently, when Tommy Keitel had heard about her plight from a colleague, he’d gone out of his way to make a place for her on his staff. She’d started as an assistant to the existing pastry chef but quickly assumed the lead position when that chef moved along.

  According to Joy, Janelle was saving up her money to move back down to Louisiana and start again. But she was beginning to get nervous, because the desserts at Solange weren’t moving—the very reason her predecessor had left.

  From my own sampling of her cuisine the previous evening, I knew the quality of her confections wasn’t the issue. Her desserts were being sabotaged, it seemed to me, by the lousy, palate-poisoning coffee that the waiters had been permitted to serve with those amazing creations.

  I pressed another pot of the Kenyan for Janelle. Then I pressed the Yirgacheffe as a single-origin. The brightness, floral aroma, and citrus finish blew her away. But she hadn’t tasted anything yet. Next came the Colombian, a micro-lot produced by the indigenous Guarapamba tribe.

  “They live on a reservation high in the Colombian Andes,” I explained.

  Janelle sampled the coffee. Dornier did, as well.

  “I taste layers of vanilla in this one,” Janelle remarked, her voice betraying only the slightest traces of that syncopated New Orleans lilt. “Sweet cherry and raisin…”

  “There’s a dark chocolate in the finish, as well,” Dornier added. “Very nice, Ms. Cosi.”

  “The coffee’s grown from older plant varieties,” I explained, “and the tribe of fifty families that grows it uses traditional agricultural methods, planting and harvesting by the phases of the moon.”

  Janelle’s long-lashed eyes widened. She faced Keitel, who’d been watching in silence, declining to taste anything more. “Chef, we have to serve this.”

  Keitel rolled his eyes toward the dining room’s laughing gargoyles. “Don’t get yourself sweet-talked by some tale of ritual harvesting. The proof is in the pudding.”

  “But you haven’t tasted the pudding,” Janelle pointed out.

  I cleared my throat. “Chef Keitel, I’ll make you a deal,” I said, summoning the bravado of a serious salesperson. “At least try this next coffee. If it doesn’t impress you, even a little bit, I’ll pack up my things and leave you in peace.”

  Keitel folded his arms. “Bring it on.”

  I ground the beans coarsely and measured them into the bottom of a clean press (two tablespoons of coffee for every six ounces of water). Then I poured in the hot water (just off the boil) from my electric pot, stirred the grounds to begin the brewing process, and set my digital timer to four minutes.

  “Mmmmm,” Janelle said. “I already smell something floral…”

  “It’s lavender,” Keitel said.

  I nodded. “You’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right, Ms. Cosi. Who do you think you’re dealing with?”

  A man with an ego the size of New Jersey?

  I cleared my throat. “This coffee comes from a family farm in the mountains of Honduras called Finca el Puente—”

  “The Bridge Farm,” Keitel abruptly translated.

  “A colleague in the trade, Peter Giuliano of Counter Culture Coffee roasters, calls this coffee the Purple Princess, and it’s the perfect moniker. This coffee is elegant enough to be served to a princess, and it’s greatly desired at coffee auctions.”

  My timer went off, and I pushed down the plunger, forcing the spent grounds to the bottom of the glass press. Then I began to pour out the sample cups. “It’s a testament to the savvy of our own Village Blend buyer that he’s been able to secure lots of the Purple Princess for us year after year.”

  Keitel grunted. “Quite a speech. But let’s sample it, shall we?”

  I nodded and zipped my lips, knowing the taste of this coffee alone would sell it for me.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Janelle said after a few sips. “I didn’t know there were coffees like this.”

  “It’s full-bodied, and there’s a juiciness to the finish,” Dornier described, his voice quick and excited. “But I’m especially impressed with the level of lavender aroma and flavor. It’s absolutely bursting with it…and there are other fruit flavors here, too.”

  “Plum,” said Keitel. He sipped again. “And grape…”

  “With a note of something else, I think,” Janelle said.

  “Raspberry,” Keitel added flatly.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised by Chef Keitel’s spot-on description of the underlying flavor characteristics. You don’t get to be a world-class chef without a world-class palate—and, apparently, a world-class ego.

  “Coffee gets its character from thousands of aromatic chemicals,” I pointed out. “This Purple Princess is probably the best illustration I’ve ever come across for that particular notion.”

  “It’s a remarkable coffee,” Janelle said. She glanced hopefully at Keitel. “Don’t you think so, Chef?”

  Keitel sipped more of his coffee, said nothing.

  Damn. The man was one tough sell. But I refused to go down in flames.

  “These and other Village Blend coffees can be paired beautifully with items on your dessert menu,” I pointed out. “The Guarapamba tribe’s Colomb
ian, for instance, would have paired very nicely with Janelle’s modern take on the tarte Tatin that I enjoyed last night. My dinner companion ordered the profiteroles; the Kenyan would have been delightful paired with that. Its note of black currant would have resonated magnificently with the blackberry sorbet inside the pastry and black currant flavor in the casis coulis. And, of course, you can also offer a tasting of cheese and coffee pairings. If you sold an entire table on the idea, you could move as many as four presses of coffee to go with your cheeses.”

  “Excuse me? You did not just suggest that coffee and cheese go together.” Keitel shook his head. “Too bad, Cosi, and I was just beginning to give you the benefit of the doubt on your gastronomic judgment.”

  “Excuse me, Chef Keitel, but when it comes to coffee, you’re out of your depth.”

  Keitel’s flummoxed expression was priceless.

  “Hear me out,” I quickly added. “People have been eating fresh cheese and coffee for a long time. A cup of java with a morning bagel and cream cheese is practically an institution in this city, and who eats a New York cheesecake without a hot pot of joe?”

  Janelle giggled.

  Dornier murmured, “She has a point.”

  Keitel shot them both unhappy glances.

  “Not every cheese pairs well with every coffee,” I admitted. “But like wine and beer, there are coffees that pair beautifully with certain cheeses. Given the right pairing, a cup of coffee can highlight special notes of flavor in a cheese, helping it shine like a jeweler putting a black backdrop behind a white diamond.”

  Keitel said not a word. He simply stared at me like he had before. Then he turned abruptly and began striding toward his kitchen.

  Dornier exchanged a disappointed glance with Janelle and sighed. Then he faced me. “Well, Ms. Cosi, I’m very sorry, but—”

  “Sign her up!” Keitel bellowed over his shoulder.

  Dornier’s eyes widened. He turned his head. “For how long?”

  Keitel stopped at the kitchen doors and spun to face us. “Seven weeks.”

  “No more?” Dornier asked.

  “Seven weeks from Monday,” the chef called. “After that, who knows…”

  Then Tommy Keitel pressed his back against the swinging doors and disappeared into his kitchen.

  Eleven

  Napoleon Dornier suggested that I come back again the next day to discuss the contract details.

  “I just can’t do it now,” he told me, checking the digital schedule on his PDA. “I have a vintner coming in twenty minutes, reservations to review, specials to go over with my staff—”

  “Of course, I understand how busy you are. Perhaps I can just take a look around the kitchen on my own—”

  “Oh, no,” Dornier said. “Janelle here will show you around.” He turned to the pastry chef. “You don’t mind, do you, Janelle? You two will be working together soon enough anyway.”

  Janelle smiled. “I’d be happy to show Ms. Cosi the ropes; she probably just saved my job.”

  “Great,” I said. This is going well. Now I just need Janelle to agree to one more thing. “I’m actually looking forward to meeting the kitchen staff. You know, getting the lay of the land.”

  “Of course!” Janelle said. “Just give me a moment to wrap up my pâte sucrée and get it into the fridge.”

  “No problem,” I said, nodding. “Sweet pastry dough is so much easier to work when it’s cold.” That much I knew from my own trial and error—a lot of error.

  As Janelle headed back into the kitchen, I slipped off my suit jacket, hung it on a chair, and began to clean up the table. Loud voices caught my attention as two men slammed through the kitchen doors and into the dining room. One was Tommy Keitel. The other I didn’t recognize. He was younger than Keitel by at least ten years. Shorter, too, but not by much. The man was fit, tanned, and far more polished than Keitel. He had thick black hair styled into a perfect coif, and his attire was obviously expensive. The charcoal gray suit appeared finely made and sharply tailored to his tall, lean form. He wore no tie, just a white dress shirt, open at the collar.

  “Tell me again, Tommy,” the man was practically shouting, “because I can’t believe it!”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, Anton. You may own this place, but it’s a shell without me. I run the kitchen. I hire the personnel. I make the decisions about who stays and who goes. That was the deal five years ago. That’s always been the deal!”

  Anton? I thought. So this is the owner of the restaurant.

  The men’s voices were loud, and they didn’t appear to care who was listening. I stepped back and stayed quiet, hoping to hear more.

  “Brigitte Rouille was your second-in-command,” Anton said. “She knew every recipe. She was running your kitchen—”

  “She couldn’t hack it. She was cracking under the pressure. I did her a favor and let her off the hook.”

  “You fired the one person who can run your kitchen when you’re not here!”

  “That’s not true,” Keitel said. “I’ve just promoted someone who’s quite capable of doing Brigitte’s job—without the drama.”

  “Who?”

  “Henry Tso.”

  “The sauté chef?” Anton shook his head.

  “Henry’s a graduate of Cordon Bleu London. He trained under Marco Pierre White, and he knows every single dish in my recipe book.”

  “But aren’t there issues with Henry? He worked only eight months as executive chef for Petite Bouchée, and they let him go.”

  “The only issue Henry has—and I hate to say it—is his lack of aptitude in creating new dishes. That’s really the only reason he couldn’t hack it as a chef de cuisine. But that’s not a problem here, because this is my kitchen, and all he has to do is re-create my dishes. Nobody’s better than Henry in repetition of technique. He’s the best mimic I ever met. No one will ever know I’m not in this kitchen.”

  Anton sighed, ran a hand over his face. “I’d like to see him in action.”

  “Then come back for dinner service. I’ll let him run the show.”

  “You’re bailing again?”

  “Not tonight. I’ll be here to back him up, take care of any problems. We’ll call it a trial run.”

  Anton rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen, Tommy. About that other matter—”

  “You know how I feel. End of story,” Keitel said, cutting him off.

  “I still don’t understand your problem with it, Tommy. All of the marquee chefs are doing it. It’s the wave of the future.”

  “Not my future,” Tommy replied. Then he turned on the man and strode back into his kitchen.

  Anton hesitated a moment, shook his head, and followed his chef through the double doors. A second later, the doors opened again, and Janelle Babcock came out, smiling.

  “So, are you ready to meet the staff, Clare?”

  “First, I have a question for you.” I leaned close, dropped my voice. “Is it true what I overheard? Was Brigitte Rouille really fired?”

  “Uh-huh, girl,” she whispered, her professional tone loosening for a little old-fashioned gossip. “I can’t say as I’m broken up about it, either. That woman was a holy terror. But you already know that, don’t you? I saw you in the kitchen last night, defending Joy.”

  “When was Brigitte let go?”

  “I’m not sure. Tommy and Nappy got into a hell of a row about her. Dornier was defending her. Why? I don’t know. But it’s Chef Keitel’s kitchen, and he made that clear. He must have called her late last night or pretty early this morning to tell her she was fired, because Brigitte, she hasn’t been back since she ran out of here last night.”

  Janelle held the kitchen door open for me, and I walked through. Savory scents enveloped me as I moved around the high service counter: simmering wine reductions, freshly cut vegetables and herbs, yeast breads baking in the oven.

  Four Latino men in white aprons were moving quickly around the banks of heavy gas stoves and metal prep tables, ye
lling in Spanish to one another. They carried trays of chopped vegetables, pots of sauces and extractions, delivering them to the various cook stations that needed stocking or replenishment.

  I recognized a short, squat man directing the Hispanic workers. It was Ramon, the gracious swing cook who’d filled in for Joy the previous night while she’d spoken to me in the break room.

  “These guys are the prep crew,” Janelle explained. “They come early in the morning, and most of them will be gone by the time we open for dinner, usually to shift jobs at other restaurants and cafés. Ramon here is our prep supervisor, swing cook, and unofficial translator.”

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Ramon. Nice to see you again.” I smiled. “Don’t you ever go home?”

  He laughed, revealing a gold tooth. “If I ever left this place, it would fall down around all of their ears. That would be sad, because then I’d have to get a job with Robbie Gray.”

  Seeing the way Ramon ran his staff, I had no doubt what he told me was absolutely true.

  Next, Janelle led me over to a commercial sausage machine and pointed to a line of black plastic ring binders on the shelf above it. All the volumes were dated and covered a six-month period from the day Solange opened to the present. I counted ten of them.

  “These binders hold the daily menus and recipes for every dish ever served at Solange,” Janelle explained.

  I was shocked. “You mean the recipes Tommy spent years perfecting are just sitting out here, where anyone can take them?”

  “The line cooks need to be able to prepare what the chef wants on a given day. When in doubt, they look it up.”