“Sounds good. You two have a nice visit. Herman, call out if you need me up here.”
“Will do. And if you are thinking of doing something new with those cupcakes . . .” He pauses and my stomach drops as I contemplate the prep I’ve laid out in the back, including ingredients for a banana cupcake with peanut butter frosting in addition to our usual vanilla and chocolate. “You just go right on ahead.” He winks at me again, and I make my way to the back.
I look over the basic cupcake recipes, which, frankly, might as well use a boxed mix for all the oomph they have. To Herman’s credit, they are always a great texture and have a certain bland nostalgia, but the flavors don’t pop; there’s not much there there. I’ve been keeping notes, and now that I have his blessing, I’m going to make a couple of changes to the usual suspects, in addition to trying the new one. Starting with the chocolate version, I swap out some of the cocoa powder with melted bittersweet chocolate and add some sour cream for balance and moistness, as well as some instant espresso powder, my secret ingredient for anything chocolate, which doesn’t so much make something taste like coffee, but rather just makes chocolate taste more chocolaty. While the chocolate cupcakes are baking, I turn my attention to the vanilla recipe, adding some vanilla bean paste to amp up the vanilla flavor and show off those awesome little black-speck vanilla seeds, and mixing some buttermilk into the batter to prevent it from being overly sweet and unbalanced. The banana version uses very ripe bananas that I’ve been stashing in the freezer, as well as a single slice of fresh banana that has been coated in caramel and is pushed halfway into each cup of batter for a surprise in the middle of the cupcakes.
Herman’s frostings are close to the frostings of my youth, simple faux buttercreams made with softened butter and confectioners’ sugar. Nothing fancy. In my newer versions, the chocolate gets melted chocolate and chocolate milk mixed in, the vanilla gets more vanilla bean paste and a tiny hit of lemon zest, and the peanut butter gets a blend of butter and cream cheese for some tang.
“It smells good in here,” Herman says, pushing through the door. He walks over and peers into my bowls. He grabs three of the small teaspoons we keep in a jar on the worktable for tasting, and one by one he tries the frostings.
“These are good, Sophie. Better than mine.” His voice is a little sad, and I worry that I’ve gone too far, pushed too hard.
“Not really better, Herman, just more of what people expect. Flavors are much more intense for people these days, so some of the old recipes don’t stand up the way they used to. Think about what people are eating now, all kinds of hot sauces and spicy foods. Intensely spiced global cuisines. Bitter kale instead of buttery spinach, funky goat cheese instead of mild cheddar.”
He tilts his head at me, pondering. “So what you are saying is that because people are much more exposed to these things, the original recipes taste different to them?”
“Exactly! Sriracha is as common as ketchup in most houses these days, so people’s palates are used to more oomph in their flavors. Think about how it all used to be basic caramel, and now salted caramel is everywhere! When I was a kid it was all about milk chocolate, and now the darker and more intense the better. I just took your recipes, which work so well, and brought in the little extras that make them compatible with the way people eat today.”
“Do you think it will help?”
“Help?”
“With the business. To bring in more business?” I see the look in his eyes and realize he isn’t as confident as he might want me to believe. Maybe it is beginning to sink in that his days here may, in fact, be numbered.
“I think it won’t hurt.”
He nods. “They are very good. You’ll show me how?” he asks, sounding a little defeated, but resigned.
“Of course.”
He pulls over a stool and sits while I take him through my changes to his recipes, and when the cupcakes are cooled, he and I frost them together, giving each pillowy cake a generous swirl of frosting on the top. Despite the arthritis in his hands, his touch with the little offset spatula is graceful and deft, and his frosting ends in perfect little curls every time. We talk about some of the other bakery offerings that might be up for a revisit, and when we put the finished cupcakes in the case, he smiles at me.
“I’m going to get one of those chalkboard things for the front. So we can tell the world about our new cupcakes.”
“I think that would be good.”
“What else would you do, Sophie, if the place were yours?”
This makes me stop cold, because whatever Jean and Ruth may think, I am definitely not here permanently, and I don’t want Herman to view me as his succession plan. But his face is so open, and I can see that the idea of bringing the business back a bit is exciting to him, so I have to tread lightly. “Well, the most important thing about this place is that it is yours. Your energy, your family recipes, even if we are changing them a little bit. You are what makes the place special, Herman, always will be. Having said that, if you really want to try and get more business, you ought to think about the new people in the neighborhood and what they want, and try to give them enough of it to bring them in.”
“Oy, not all that vegan, gluten-free nonsense.”
I laugh. “Herman, I don’t think you need to be a vegan, gluten-free bakery. But I do think that perhaps switching out at least your basic ingredients for organic versions would appeal to them. Having special products that are only available on the weekends, when it makes sense to have more items stocked for people who might wander in. Looking into doing some seasonal items, maybe in conjunction with a few of the local farms. Creating the kind of items that make people wait all year for the brief time you bake that special summer berry tart or fall pumpkin bread.”
He rubs his chin. “I will think about it. It might be worth trying.”
I consider the specialty-cakes issue and decide that is a conversation for another time, and only if he brings it up. As I’m discovering by living with Bubbles, there is only so much change one can ask a senior citizen to absorb at one time.
“Sounds good.”
He checks his watch. “I’m going upstairs for a bit, Sophie. My son Herman Jr. is coming over. If he comes in down here looking for me instead of going right up to the apartment, you can send him up the back way.”
“Will do.” I wonder again about the son. Bubbles, who is a fount of all gossip, filled me in a little bit. Apparently there had been a second son who was killed in a car crash when he was in college. There is some fuzzy stuff about one of the boys maybe taking over the bakery, so I assume it must have been the one who died. Poor Herman. With his wife gone and one son lost, it would be so nice for him to have at least one family member he could connect with. And again I remind myself not to get too close, to make him too dependent. I would like to believe that it is about protecting him, for when I find my real job, but deep down, where I don’t like to look, I know it is more than a little bit about protecting myself.
Herman heads up the secret stairs, and I zip into the back to clean the table with a mild bleach solution, wash all the bowls and beaters, and return the kitchen to pristine condition, ready for the next round of dirtying.
I’m wiping down the tables in front when the bells on the door peal.
“Hello, Sophie.”
I turn around to see Mark in the Suit. A different suit today, though no less beautiful, with a lighter trench coat in honor of the sun. It’s still brisk outside, but there is a hint of spring in the air.
“Hello, Mark. Welcome back. What can I get you today?”
“Anything new I should be tasting?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. How do you feel about cupcakes?”
“Generally I have no feeling about cupcakes other than the fact that they are food for children and giggly young women, and that if the craze for them ended tomorrow, the world
would not suffer overmuch.”
Hmm. Mark in the Suit is sort of a grumpy goose today. “Well, I can’t speak to other cupcakes, but I assure you that ours are very much appropriate for grown-ups, and while we have no intention of launching yet another cupcake empire, we do want to be sure that when our customer has a hankering for a bit of cake, that desire can be fulfilled.”
This comes out a little breathier than I intended, which makes it sound like there are double entendres embedded in my cupcake talk.
“Don’t you just have chocolate and vanilla?”
“We do, newly revamped. And banana with peanut butter frosting.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to taste them all.”
I remove one of each cupcake from the case and pull the tasting-sample platter out from underneath the counter. I cut each cupcake into six pieces, arrange them on the platter, and then place it on the counter where Mark can reach it. He tastes the vanilla first, then chocolate, then banana. After each piece, he nods.
“As cupcakes go, these are clearly superior. I doubt it will make me a cupcake fan, but . . .”
“You wouldn’t kick them out of bed for dropping crumbs.” Oh good lord, Sophie, why on earth would you say that of all things? I clearly have lost all ability to converse with a man.
Luckily, Mark laughs. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t. Why don’t you give me a dozen, four of each. The girls in my office will love them.”
“Wonderful!”
I put the cupcakes in a box, with a special cupcake insert to keep them from falling over, and seal it with a Langer’s sticker. I ring him up, deciding on the fly to up the cupcake price from two to three dollars each, take the cash he offers, and give him change and his receipt.
“Is the owner in back?” Mark asks. “Or do you have him tied up and gagged somewhere while you make all of these fancy new changes?”
While I love a good 9 to 5 reference, I resent the implication that somehow I’m going all rogue or something up in here. “For your information, the owner is in a meeting at the moment, but he and I are making these changes together. He’s very progressive-minded, and there is more to come.”
“Really?”
“Of course. You’ll have to come back and see what we have up our sleeves.”
“I see. So all of this is his idea? The new products, the changes to the old recipes? He woke up one day after sixty years in business and thought it was time to shake things up?”
I’m starting to get annoyed at this Mark fellow. Which, frankly, feels much more manageable than the minor attraction that had been brewing. “Mr. Langer recognizes that the neighborhood has changed significantly in recent years and that he should serve the changing needs of his community. He is forward-thinking enough to know that by making a few simple changes in what he offers, he lets his customers know that he is considering what they want and is attempting to provide it with the same level of quality and dependability that have allowed him to be here for sixty years.”
“Or he’s grasping at straws to try and stay afloat in a market that has blown right by him and made him nearly obsolete.”
Now he is just pissing me off. “Any place that doesn’t change to reflect change around them is simply doomed. That isn’t grasping at anything; that is just smart business.”
“Well, Sophie, as good as they are, your cupcakes aren’t likely to save a place like this.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Langer’s has no need of saving, not by me, or anyone. Was there something else I could get for you?” I thrust the bag containing the box of cupcakes at him. He smirks at me and takes his purchase.
“Not at all, Sophie. Thank you for the cupcakes. And the business lesson.”
He turns and walks back out the way he came, and as much as we could use the kind of business that buys a dozen up-charged cupcakes on a whim for the “girls in his office,” I won’t exactly be terribly disappointed if he takes his superior, smirky, snarky business elsewhere.
I walk into Nuevo Leon promptly at noon and pass the large group of Mexican families and Chicago’s finest waiting for tables. Amelia had texted that she was already seated in the back room. The place is packed as always, and heady scents of spices and grilled meats fill the air. Amelia waves me over, and I join her at the table. She is noshing on the bowl of house-made pickled vegetables they always put on the table, and in less than thirty seconds, we are given menus, a basket of still-warm tortilla chips with salsa, and small cups of chicken soup. They always provide a little amuse-bouche of some sort of soup when you arrive, and I’m always grateful, since the minute I walk in here I get ravenously hungry.
“Thanks so much for meeting me here. This isn’t exactly Brian’s favorite spot, so I’m always looking for lunch companions who are a little adventurous.”
“I’ve always loved this place; you don’t ever have to ask me twice.”
We glance at the menu, decide to split a queso fundido with chorizo and poblanos, and then we both order the skirt steak special. The melted-cheese dish arrives quickly, lava hot and packed with spicy sausage and roasted chiles. We dig in, rolling the cheese mixture in hot fresh tortillas.
“Heaven.” Amelia rolls her eyes in pleasure.
“Amazing,” I agree, letting the flavors wash over me.
“So, I suppose you’re wondering why I summoned you here.”
I take another bite. “Nah, I couldn’t care less. I’m just happy to be eating this.”
She laughs. “Well, there’s that. But I’m coming up on some unexpected snags, and since you had such amazing advice for me before, I thought that if I bribed you with lunch, you might let me pick your brain again.”
“I don’t mind singing for my supper. Lay it on me.”
Turns out that keeping the wedding part secret and just promoting the event as a big thirtieth-birthday bash means that a few of their friends and family are creating some unexpected complications. For starters, at least three of the out-of-town guests have asked if they can stay with Amelia and Brian. They have all been temporarily put off by being told that someone else requested housing first and that there’s only one guest bedroom. But all have offered to do couches or blow-up mattresses on the floor, so now Amelia and Brian are worried that these people might not be able to afford the hotel where they got a block of rooms, and won’t come if free housing isn’t available. Under normal circumstances, they wouldn’t mind turning their town house into a crash pad, but it isn’t exactly ideal for a wedding weekend. And since the party is on a Saturday night, their friends are also trying to make plans to get together Saturday during the day, and she isn’t sure of the best way to get out of it.
I scrape the last bit of cheese out of the cast-iron skillet, and a busboy whisks it away like magic. “What was your plan for Saturday?”
“I figured we’d spend the morning and early afternoon getting the place set up and then scamper home to get ready.”
I shake my head at her just as our skirt steaks arrive. “No. No can do. You’ll make yourself crazy.”
She cuts a piece of steak, seared crisply on the outside and pink and juicy on the inside, and pops it in her mouth. “Whaddoido?”
“For starters, for Saturday you need a wedding coordinator. Not a planner; they’ll charge you an arm and a leg, and you’ve already done most of the work. You need someone to be there the day of to get everything set up, to deal with the different vendors, to manage the timing and execution of the event. And no, before you ask, I am not volunteering. But I have someone for you.”
I take out my phone and scroll through my contacts. I send her Bernie’s contact card. Bernie coordinated tons of events at the restaurant, and while we were never close friends, he did reach out after I got fired to say that he hoped I was doing alright. I’m reasonably sure he will welcome the referral. “Okay. I just sent you Bernie Tarkington. He’s a dream. He wil
l handle the day so that you can just show up and get married and enjoy your party. He’s English and charming, and he will whip your whole party into shape and take care of anything that comes up without breaking a sweat and without bothering you. That way, you could make brunch or lunch plans with pals without worrying.”
I eat a slice of my steak, wishing that I could figure out their secret marinade.
“Okay, that will help a lot, but what on earth do I do about houseguests?”
“Give them your house.”
“What?”
“Get a fabulous hotel suite for the whole weekend, and give your friends your house. Check into the hotel Friday morning with everything you need for your whole weekend of festivities, and have a cleaning service come that day to clean your place and put new sheets on all the beds, et cetera. Get a blow-up mattress if you think you’ll need one. And then just let them use your house like a hotel for the weekend. Don’t leave the hotel till Monday, and have the cleaning service come back to set your place to rights before you return. Tell your guests you are surprising Brian with a fabulous hotel weekend, so they can’t say anything to him about staying at your town house. Better yet, tell them you have booked a couples massage and some other stuff for the two of you Saturday during the day, to keep Brian out of the way and prevent him from suspecting too much about the party, so they also have to be prepared to fend for themselves until the evening.”
Amelia’s jaw flops open. “I never would have thought of that.”
I shrug. “It’s cheaper than springing for their hotel rooms, allows you to be generous with your hospitality, and also will help make your wedding weekend a little more special. Get a great suite, big enough to have the hair and makeup people come get you ready in one room while Brian is getting ready in the other, and then it is your oasis all weekend.”
“Seriously, Sophie, you are amazing. And it’s worth so much more than lunch; you have to let me pay you something.”
I shake my head. “I’m happy to help, but you have to stop offering me money.”
Wedding Girl Page 9