The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  My phone rings. I virtually send it flying into the water in my eagerness to answer it.

  “Krista!”

  “Gosh. You sound pleased to hear from me!”

  “I thought you were Cirque du Soleil-ing tonight?”

  “I am, we got here early. I just wanted to see how you’re getting on. What’s the scoop?”

  Where to begin?

  I bring her up to speed, at speed, including a rapturous account of my time with Harvey.

  “Should I worry that the most romantic encounter I’ve had with a man involves watching him dancing with another woman?”

  “Not at all!” she tuts. “I would have felt exactly the same way. He sounds so masterful-yet-cute!”

  “He is! And his mind . . .”

  “You fancy his mind?” Her voice lowers.

  “I really do!”

  “Now we’re in trouble!” Krista laughs.

  “The thing is, I’m being ridiculous really. It’s not like he’s a real possibility . . .”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Well, let’s be frank. He is rather out of my league.”

  “You know, I don’t even think that’s a thing anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, ever since I got together with Jacques, I’ve realized you can’t say someone is out of your league because you don’t know what they are looking for. You might presume certain things based on their looks or their status, but in actual fact you could be the very thing that is missing from their life.”

  I smile. “I suppose you’re right. All the same, I probably should try not to get too carried away. I don’t want to set myself up for another fall.”

  “Oh, fiddlesticks to that! Why shouldn’t you enjoy this stage, no matter where it leads? At least he’s an improvement on your usual taste—I mean, with Charles as a father, he practically comes with a Certificate of Excellence!”

  “I know!” I laugh. “Oh, I wish I could trade places with Ravenna right now!”

  “Do you feel at all weird about him being out with her?”

  I pause. “I did have this moment when I first saw her go all googly-eyed at the sight of him and I thought, ‘Oh no, he has this effect on everyone, I’m just another sucker!’ but, you know, honestly, the weirdest part of all is how nice she’s being. She’s like a different person!”

  “Huh,” Krista muses. “And you think Charles is the key?”

  “I don’t know how else to explain it! I think he must be having an impact on her on some deep genetic level.”

  “She feels safe with him, cared for . . .” Krista continues the theory.

  “He’s got this way with her.”

  “Brings out the best?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Krista is quiet for a moment and then says, “Can you imagine if our dads came back into our lives at this age?”

  “It’s pretty unfathomable, isn’t it?” I reply. “I think I’d be even more mad if he was as nice as Charles—all those years missing out on a positive male role model!”

  “Yeah, at least our dads are duds to the end.”

  “Consistent,” I laugh.

  “Oh! Music’s starting! Gotta go!”

  “All right, enjoy the show and say Bonjour to Sebastien for me!”

  “Will do! Bye!”

  Sebastien is Jacques’ half-brother and one of the featured acrobats with Cirque du Soleil. I am utterly in awe of his talent. All the miracles his honed, toned body can perform.

  I look down at my foil tin, dripping with red oil and minced beef debris, and drop it into the bin.

  Where to now?

  I decide to have a mooch down Newbury Street, buzzing with young people having fun. The boutiques are open late but for once I don’t feel like shopping. Instead I find myself drawn down the quieter side streets, feeling as though I’m stumbling onto the set of The Age of Innocence. I stop to take in the iconic elegance of the brownstones, picturing Harvey coming down the steps to greet me in a wing collar and jaunty felt hat, maybe even carrying a cane. And then I feel oddly sad because, whatever Krista says, I know I’m reaching for the moon with him.

  Yes, he did ask to see me tonight and it would have flowed so effortlessly from our afternoon together, but now what? To see each other again would require advance planning and travel and way too much thinking on my part. I run my hand along the black gloss railings and sigh. I despair of myself at these times—turning a perfectly lovely encounter into a source of anxiety. I think it might have something to do with getting a taste of something I’ve convinced myself I don’t want anymore. It just brings up all this wanting in me. Well. No more on this topic tonight. I have to move on . . .

  I walk and walk some more. It’s dark now and not a little chilly. Perhaps it’s time to head back? Tired and throbbing of feet, I attempt to hail a taxi, but each one I spy is occupied. I take out my phone to find out exactly where I am and discover the battery has died. Oh great. There’s no one around here to approach for directions and all the shops I pass are shuttered closed; I must have crossed over into some kind of business district. I’m getting a teeny bit spooked now, but try to act nonchalant while lengthening my stride. I just can’t believe I didn’t pack a map as backup. Or my phone charger. Or a cardi.

  It really doesn’t do for the travel expert to get lost. I wonder for a moment if I might cry. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to do so. To just let go and let it all out. I feel it welling up inside of me now. If I think of how much fun everyone else is having while I’m wandering the streets like a stray dog, I think I could push myself over the edge . . .

  But then I see a glimmer of hope in the distance: chocolate-brown lettering and a cupcake motif.

  “Sweet”—the sign cuts to the chase.

  As I draw closer I see a haven of tufted pink banquettes and white marble tabletops. My pace quickens. I open the door and, once inside, heave a sigh of relief. All is well with the world. Nothing bad can happen to you when you are surrounded by cupcakes. And these are pristine with plump rounded frosting and innovative flavors like Honey Blackberry (filled with blackberry jam and New England’s Carlisle honey) and Peach Cobbler (laced with cinnamon sugar and topped with streusel crumbs). Oh, this one is so Krista: Pina Colada—pineapple filling and coconut-cream icing, with its own paper umbrella! There’s even cupcakes for her dogs—or should I say pupcakes!

  “May I help you?”

  “Could I just have one of the Boston Cream Pie cupcakes, please?” Well. When in Rome . . .

  “For here or to go?”

  “Well, that depends,” I begin. “I don’t suppose you could direct me to the Omni Parker House Hotel from here?”

  The server grimaces. “It’s tricky,” he says, coming out from behind the counter and leading me to the door.

  I brace myself for a sequence of “left at the statue of Benjamin Franklin, third turning on the right after City Hall, if you get to Bunker Hill you’ve gone too far,” when he says, “It’s there!”

  “What?” I squint up the street. “Oh my god!” I laugh. “The cupcakes led me home!”

  The question now is: will there be anyone to come home to?

  Chapter 36

  The answer is no.

  I get into my pajamas, make a cup of hotel room tea (which always tastes weird), grab my cupcake and Charlotte au Chocolat book and climb into bed.

  For the most part I am cozy and absorbed, reading about the charmingly eccentric characters that worked Upstairs at the Pudding. Not least Charlotte’s mother, eternally sporting giant sunglasses, moving in a haze of Joy perfume and Coco Pink kisses. The description of her shoe collection seals the deal: “Jeweled satin evening boots . . . stacked Lucite slippers, heels with feathers, heels with ribbons lacing ballerina-style up the ankles.”

>   She would even cook in them: “Her heels dug into the cutout holes of the rubber mats behind the stoves as she swept through the grease and flames and grunting men.”

  I am so there!

  But every now and again, my eye strays to Ravenna’s empty bed and I get a “She’s still not back!” jolt of anxiety.

  What if the truth accidentally slipped out? How would she react? I just hope she’s not traipsing the streets alone like I was. Not that Harvey would let anything bad happen to her, I’m sure of that.

  It can only have been a matter of minutes after I give in and switch off the light that the door creaks open.

  “Laurie? Are you awake?”

  “Mmmmf.” I decide to play groggy in case she starts telling me a bunch of things I don’t want to hear and thus can pretend to have fallen back to sleep.

  “I had such a brilliant time!” she trills. “He took me to an old prison!”

  “He what?” This statement rouses me a little too much.

  “A hotel that’s an old prison. We went to the restaurant there, it’s called Clink!” she giggles. “I’ve even got pictures in one of the cells.”

  She perches on the end of my bed and shows me her jailbird poses.

  Oddly my mind goes back to Consuelo Vanderbilt, but Ravenna is clearly a far more willing prisoner.

  “Do you know that in the 1930s the mayor of Boston was incarcerated there and he actually got reelected while he was still behind bars?” Ravenna hoots. “And Frank Abagnale Junior, you know, the con artist from Catch Me If You Can? He was there in the Sixties. Harvey knows all the most interesting stuff!”

  If Krista were here she’d say I’d met my tour-guide match in Harvey. And listening to Ravenna quote him I almost feel like I am reliving the evening with them. I can even picture his expressions and get a warm feeling hearing that he ordered the chocolate fondue for dessert. When she says, “I think he’s got a sweet tooth!” I think, “I know he has a sweet tooth.” As if I have prior claim just because we shared afternoon tea. I can’t help it! She’s reminding me of his loveliness and how much fun he is to be with.

  “He’s just such fun to be with,” Ravenna echoes, making me feel a teeny bit foolish.

  It’s then I remember my mum telling me that you don’t want a man with obvious appeal or everyone will be after him. I’m sure every woman who meets Harvey is instantly smitten—what’s not to love? Maybe he’s just universally charming? I mean, even his own flesh and blood seems to have a crush.

  Of course Pamela could be right, Ravenna could be admiring him in a purely platonic way. Lots of people hum while they’re taking off their makeup. I turn away from the bathroom light and settle back down into bed, reminding myself that this is not my concern. But as I lie there I finally put a title to the song she’s humming—“I Could Have Danced All Night . . .”

  Chapter 37

  The next morning, as Pamela emerges from the lift, I finally see the family resemblance between her and Ravenna: both have identical walking-on-air love glazes.

  “I take it you had a nice evening with Charles?”

  “Oh, it was heaven,” she swoons, hand to heart. “He took me to his place, cooked me dinner—”

  “He can cook?”

  “Actually no, but the wine was wonderful!” She giggles. “We sat out on his little terrace and just talked and talked . . .” She drifts off for a second’s reverie and then asks, “What about you?”

  “I really just walked and walked.”

  “Oh, like the explorer you are!”

  I give an obliging smile.

  “And Ravenna? How did she seem after her time with Harvey?”

  I take a truth breath. “In a word? Smitten.”

  “Oh isn’t it lovely that they’re getting along so well?”

  “Um—”

  “I think everything is just going to work out perfectly. Is she coming to the demonstration?”

  “Actually, she was just about to Skype Eon when I left.”

  “See? Everything is still on with those two, I knew it.”

  “Pamela—”

  Before I can grab her by the shoulders and shake her out of her blissfully delusional state, hotel manager John Murtha steps up to greet us.

  “I don’t know if you’ve had much time to look around the lobby, but there are a couple of things I would like to point out before we go down to the kitchens . . .”

  “Absolutely,” Pamela follows his lead, away from me and my words of caution.

  I heave a sigh. Well, I suppose nothing can really worsen in the next hour or so. Perhaps I’ll do a Pamela and postpone all nagging concerns and concentrate on the cake.

  • • •

  Not only is Boston Cream Pie the official state dessert of Massachusetts, Mr. Murtha shows us a framed proclamation from the mayor declaring October 23rd Boston Cream Pie Day, each and every year! The Parker House has its own day, too, on account of being the longest continually operated hotel in America. Though, interestingly, the Parker Restaurant opened on this site long before the hotel.

  “So food really does come first here!”

  Down in the kitchens we are introduced to Tuoi, the resident Boston Cream Pie expert—she’s been making them fresh here every day for the past fourteen years.

  “Imagine that!” I whisper to Pamela. “The same cake every day for over a decade!”

  Originally from Vietnam, the petite yet perky Ms. Tran is apparently a big hit with dignitaries visiting from her homeland and often helps with translations. She’s certainly following an esteemed tradition, since Vietnam’s former prime minister and president Ho Chi Minh used to work here as a pastry chef. And if you think that’s crazy, Malcolm X was a busboy in the hotel restaurant.

  “That’s also where JFK proposed to Jackie,” the manager tells us. “Table Forty, under the window.”

  “Oh,” I laugh. “Apparently we’re doing things backward—we just came from where they were married!”

  “Newport?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Beautiful there.”

  Pamela and I share a look, our thoughts going to Gracie. There’s a good chance that we should be able to Skype with her today, fingers crossed.

  So. The Boston Cream Pie was created on this very spot in 1856 by a French chef named Sanzian. The description is a little misleading, since it is actually a cake, but the sponge layers (two of them) were made in shallow pie tins.

  We watch with amazement as Tuoi takes a long, razor-sharp knife and trims away the millimeter of golden crust from the surface, revealing the palest, most delicate sponge within.

  “To make it extra light,” Mr. Murtha explains. “It’s also nice and moist on account of the rum.”

  I flash back to the Dark and Stormy cupcakes for a second, wondering if Ravenna might one day fess up and apologize for the Tabasco fiasco. Mind you, that confession seems pretty small in the grand scheme of things today.

  “Now the custard.”

  Tuoi heaps cool dollops on the base layer and smoothes it out like a plasterer. The final layer rests gently on top.

  “Chocolate ganache.” She reaches for the silky mix of melted chocolate and heavy cream.

  Apparently chocolate was considered a delicacy back in the 1800s and people weren’t used to having it on a regular basis (can you imagine?), but no doubt it helped this cake quickly become a signature item.

  “Originally the ganache was simply poured over the cake,” John explains. “There wasn’t much artistry to it, and in fact that look is coming back in. However, Tuoi is going to show you our distinctive style.”

  This is where it becomes a Generation Game challenge. I can only imagine the mess I would get into trying to apply the perfect chocolate gloss without drippage, let alone create the spider’s-web effect on top.

  S
he takes a small cone and pipes a white chocolate spiral from the center out—no wobbles or splurges, just a perfectly fine continuous line.

  “Wow.”

  Then she takes a knife and pares across the surface, again from the center out, as though creating demarcations for the slices. It conjures the most exquisite pattern.

  “Now that’s an expert hand,” we applaud her.

  The last touch are the shaved almonds coating the outer edge of the cake. These are an addition to the original recipe, just to make it extra special.

  Mr. Murtha tells us that they also make scaled-down individual Boston Cream Pies. “Pastry chefs today want to be on trend and decorate the plate—after all, people eat with their eyes first.”

  So very true. I’m already visually devouring the BCP.

  “Ready?” Pamela invites me to take a forkful at the same time as she does. “Mmmm.” We savor the soft, subtle flavor.

  Despite its dark chocolate cloak, it really is supremely light. One might even go so far as to say “Babycakes light.”

  “It’s the kind of cake you could have two slices of and still get up and move around after eating,” is my official word.

  “So I’m guessing this is your most popular dessert at the hotel?” Pamela inquires.

  “We even offer it on the breakfast menu!” John laughs. “And of course people come in and have a slice for afternoon tea.”

  Pamela takes that as her cue to set up her wares, apologizing that she cannot invite Tuoi onto the bus as planned. Then again, there’s a lot more room to maneuver here.

  “I think in my next house I’m going to get a bigger kitchen,” she decides.

  Interesting! Sounds as if she’s now willing to let the house go to Brian and start anew. Possibly not a million miles from where we’re standing today . . .