Andy curled his hands into fists and then straightened them. “If you’re right, Jules, I want another shot. I want to make my signature drink for Benson.”
“But you’re already through to the next round.”
“Barely. The only reason I’m through is because I got high marks from the two other judges. Benson gave me a zero. A zero. That stings. I saw the score sheets. The barista who made the red velvet latte scored a ninety-seven. I scored a ninety-eight. The only thing that saved me was that none of them liked his drink. It was way too sweet. Although was it? Maybe someone snuck a bunch of sugar into his drink.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“I’m going to make another drink for Benson. I want him to know what I’m capable of. I don’t want to go into tomorrow with a zero.” Andy brushed the dirt I’d seen earlier from the edge of his table.
“Do you think he’ll go for that?”
Andy reached for a paper to-go cup. “There’s only one way to find out.” He began prepping another hot honey latte.
I left him to it. I wanted to warn him that I doubted Benson would be willing to give his signature drink another try, but he was right. He didn’t have anything to lose. As I went to meet up with Mom and the team, I took one last look at Diaz and Sammy. Could one of them have intentionally ruined Andy’s drink to ensure he wouldn’t go through to the finals? I hated to suspect them, but it was the only logical explanation.
Chapter Eight
Mom and I spent some time exploring the vendor booths. There was a considerable showing of the latest coffee trends from equipment to independent coffee roasters as well as artisans who provided every accoutrement imaginable for coffee production and shops.
“It might be time to up our coffee game.” Mom studied a pour-over coffeemaker and a porcelain coffee filter.
Even with the theatrics of the competition, attending the event made me think that we needed to work more trade shows into our future. It was critical to stay on the forefront of the industry. In fact, setting coffee trends was in Torte’s DNA. When my parents opened the bakeshop back in the eighties, Torte had the first espresso machine in the Rogue Valley. Coffee had evolved at a breakneck pace over the last few decades, and I didn’t want to get left behind.
“Maybe we need to budget to send Andy to more events like this.”
Mom sampled a taster of macadamia nut milk. “You read my mind.” I studied a refresh system that dispensed purified, sparkling, chilled water.
My phone vibrated. I removed it from my purse to see a string of texts from Carlos.
A BIG GROUP JUST ARRIVED. OKAY IF I SERVE THEM?
OF COURSE. I’LL GET A RIDE WITH MOM. MEET YOU AT TORTE IN JUST A BIT.
He answered with three heart emojis.
I knew that Carlos would never turn down an opportunity to serve guests. Service was in his blood. Much like Andy’s speech to the judges, Carlos believed that sharing wine, food, and coffee was his life’s mission. I couldn’t picture him sending potential wine tasters away without offering them an opportunity to linger in the vineyard and regale them with his wine knowledge.
After the whirlwind of the competition, I wanted to check in at the bakeshop and clear my mind by kneading some dough or whipping up a batch of peanut butter brownies.
“Are you ready?” Mom asked. Her arms were loaded with samples of dark chocolate, pretty little packets of lavender latte instant coffee, and barrel-aged bourbon coffee beans.
“Let me help you.” I took some of the items off her hands as we exited the hotel.
On our way to her car, I spotted Benson getting into a ride-share.
“Mom, look.” I grabbed her arm and pointed to Benson. He was holding a paper coffee cup in his hand. “I wonder if that’s Andy’s drink? Maybe Andy was able to convince him to give him a second shot after all.”
“If anyone could do it, it’s Andy.” Mom smiled. “How could you say no to his sincere face?”
I felt relieved. If Benson tasted Andy’s drink without a handful of salt, I knew that he would love it.
Mom dropped me at Torte before going to meet the Professor for dinner. “We’re meeting Thomas and Kerry tonight. They want some suggestions on their wedding plans.” She glanced at A Rose by Any Other Name, which sat adjacent to the bakeshop. “Do you happen to know anything about Kerry’s family?”
Thomas was my childhood friend. We had grown up together and dated through high school. Things ended between us when I left for culinary school, but when I had returned home to Ashland we had rekindled our friendship. At first, I had been worried that Thomas still had feelings for me. That changed when Detective Kerry arrived in town. Thomas had fallen for her—hard. They had recently gotten engaged, and I loved seeing Thomas so happy.
“No. Why?”
Mom frowned. “I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it exactly. It’s just a feeling. Doug doesn’t know anything about her family or her past. When he asked about her parents—if they were coming to the wedding, that sort of thing—she got quiet. She said she doubted it, but didn’t elaborate.”
Kerry wasn’t the most forthcoming person. In fact, when the Professor had hired her, I wasn’t sure that her steely exterior was going to be a match for our warm and vibrant community. With time, I had come to have more appreciation for her less effusive style, and to understand that the walls she put up were protection. Thomas had found a way to break down some of those walls. Could part of Kerry’s reserved nature be due to her past? Come to think of it, I had never heard her speak of family or friends.
“I told Doug that I want to take her under my wing,” Mom continued. “Can you imagine getting married without people who love you to stand up for you and support you? Doug and I want Thomas and Kerry to know that we will fill those roles for them.”
“That’s so sweet, Mom. I’m sure that Kerry will appreciate the offer.”
Mom waved to an elderly couple sharing a malted shake at one of Torte’s picnic tables. “I hope so, and I hope she’ll feel comfortable sharing if she needs someone to talk to.”
“Well, like you said about Andy, if anyone can put Kerry at ease, it’s you.” I kissed her cheek and hopped out of the car. “Say hi to everyone for me. See you at the competition tomorrow?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Mom smiled as I got out of the car.
I had to stop for a minute and take in the bucolic sight of the plaza. Tourists meandered between the shops, their arms loaded with bags. Kids on scooters zoomed past me on their way to Lithia Park. A group of teenagers sat near the fountain in the center of the plaza, strumming on guitars. Two monarch butterflies fluttered between the potted Japanese maple trees in front of the bakeshop.
The only eyesore was the Merry Windsor Hotel, which sat on the far end of the plaza. Its fake Elizabethan façade and bellhops flanking the front entrance wearing pantaloons and puffy shirts tried to give guests the appearance of elegance. However, I knew that inside, the hotel was in dire need of updating with its green shag carpets and dated décor.
Just my luck. Richard Lord stood next to his ice-cream cart, peddling his wares like a snake oil salesman. He caught my eye and bellowed, “Juliet Capshaw, I want a word with you!”
Before I could duck into the bakeshop, he lumbered toward me. Richard was either an avid golfer or simply fully committed to bad fashion choices. I couldn’t recall ever seeing him in anything other than ill-fitting golf attire. Today he wore a pair of aqua blue shorts with a shark pattern. His neon blue collared shirt had a similar collection of shark teeth. He completed the ensemble with sandals and black ankle-length socks.
“Not so fast, missy.” Richard spat as he spoke. “You’ve been avoiding me for days.”
“How have I been avoiding you?” I stepped away from his spray.
“You’re jealous that my ice-cream cart is doing so well. Admit it.” He shot a glance behind us at the street-side stand, aptly named Shakes’ Screams, which in my opinion perfectly c
aptured Richard’s tacky approach to all things Shakespeare. The cart was designed to resemble an Italian gelato stand, except instead of red-and-white-striped awnings above the two-wheeled cart, Richard had opted for a brown and white Tudor-pattern canopy.
“I’m happy to hear that your new venture is a success.” I plastered on a smile.
“Don’t toy with me, Juliet. I know that you can’t stand the fact that Shakes’ Screams is seeing so much success. Look at the line over there now. What, did you and your mother think you were going to have a monopoly on ice cream in town? Sorry to prove you wrong.”
“I never suggested we did.” I shifted my body position, inching closer to the door. “Did you need something?”
Not only was Richard notorious for his outrageous golf outfits, he was also known for long, lengthy outbursts on his preconceived imaginary grievances.
“Yeah, I have a bone to pick with you.” He wagged his finger in my face. “It’s about Brady.”
“What about him?” Brady had been hired to take over as head chef at the Merry Windsor after the hotel’s previous chef had met an unfortunate and untimely death. Actually, to refer to any of the Windsor’s kitchen staff as “chefs” was very generous. Brady was by far the best employee Richard had been lucky enough to land. I had taken him under my wing and given him some quick tips and easy recipes to implement at the hotel, not because of Richard but out of loyalty to Lance.
Lance was the artistic director for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and beloved by the community not only for his visionary talent but also because he had a penchant for drama and for drawing everyone into his world.
“You’ve gotten into his head. He keeps insisting that his food budget isn’t big enough. He wants to purchase produce at the farmers market. That’s ridiculous. I told him that the Merry Windsor has had valued relationships with our regional distributors for decades. Being the incredible businessman that I am, I have negotiated the lowest rates around and I don’t need you putting these crazy hippie ideas in his head, got it?”
I wanted to ask Richard how procuring locally sourced products and supporting family farms was a hippie idea, but I didn’t have time to debate with him. “Noted. I’ll be sure to recommend that Brady continue to order inexpensive, low-quality items from your distributor.”
“Good.” Richard gave me a gruff nod. Then he must have realized my meaning. “Hey, I don’t buy low-quality items. We serve only the best at the Merry Windsor, and don’t you forget that.”
“Never.” I moved even closer to the door. “Gotta run, Richard. Nice chatting with you as always.”
I didn’t give him a chance to respond before yanking the handle and scurrying inside the bakeshop before he could get another word out.
Torte was nearly empty. Sequoia and Rosa were wiping down tables and the coffee bar. I gave them a quick recap of Andy’s performance, including the gory details about Benson spitting out his drink. While they finished cleaning upstairs, I went down to check on the kitchen. Marty had scrubbed every square inch of counter space. Steph was boxing up an order of two dozen lemon blueberry cupcakes. Sterling had already filled them in about Andy’s roller coaster of a day via text updates.
“So our boy did well, except for a run-in with some salt.” Marty tossed a dish towel into the hamper.
“He was great.” I twisted my hair into a ponytail. “We all felt terrible about how things ended, but I think he may have convinced Benson, the judge who spit out his drink, to give it another try.”
“He did,” Steph said. She tucked in the edges of our white craft boxes with the teal and red Torte logo stamped on the top. “Sterling texted. He said that Andy managed to get his drink in Benson’s hands on the way out the door.”
“That’s great news.” I knew it wouldn’t change the outcome of his fourth-place finish, but I hoped that it would give him a confidence boost.
“I’m taking these across the street to city hall,” Steph said, holding the box of cupcakes that had been frosted in a pale purple blueberry buttercream and topped with candied lemon slices. “Then I’m meeting everyone for burgers.”
“Sounds good. Have fun. Make sure you give Andy a pep talk.”
Steph snarled. “Yeah. You know me. I’m the pep-talk queen.” Her darkly lined eyes gave the faintest hint of glimmer.
Marty chuckled as Steph left with the delivery box. “She puts on a tough face, but you know she’s going to be cheering the loudest for him tomorrow.”
“In her Steph way—yes. If that means internally screaming and externally acting as if she couldn’t care less.”
Marty reached for a bag of bread. “Yep. That sums up our Steph.” His tone turned serious for a moment. “I can’t thank you enough for giving me this job. I didn’t realize how much I needed it. These young kids have breathed new life into me. It doesn’t take away my sadness, but it sure is nice to be connected, so thank you.” His voice cracked.
“Thank you, Marty.” I placed my hand on my heart. “You offer such wise guidance to our team. Everyone loves you.” It was true. Marty’s wife had died a few years ago, and I felt lucky that he had decided to come out of retirement. He was a grounding force in the kitchen and a fabulous role model for our young staff.
“What’s on your agenda tonight?” I asked, moving to the sink and regretting that I hadn’t thought to bring a pair of comfortable shoes to change into.
He patted the bread. “I’m making bruschetta for my neighborhood potluck.”
“How fun. Your neighborhood has a potluck?” I took off my sweater and hung it on the rack with the aprons.
“It’s a new thing. One of the women on my block thought it would be a way for us to get to know each other better. Nothing says ‘get to know you’ like bruschetta.” Marty grinned.
“I will not argue with that.” I returned his smile. “Have fun.”
“You too. See you tomorrow.” He headed for the back stairs.
I took a minute to soak in the quiet of the bakeshop. Marty’s bruschetta had given me an idea. I would make a panzanella salad with fresh herbs and mozzarella for Carlos and me. I started by slicing a loaf of day-old bread into squares. Then I tossed the bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I diced heirloom tomatoes, onions, garlic, and basil and mixed them in with the bread. Then I finished the salad with big chunks of mozzarella. The salad would be best after the flavors had time to mingle and permeate the bread. I set it aside and removed a pork loin from the walk-in fridge. I massaged the tender meat with salt, pepper, olive oil, and more balsamic. Then I butterflied the meat, bundled some herbs with baker’s twine, and placed it all in the center. I preheated the oven and set the roast to bake on low for an hour. The panzanella salad would pair well with the herbed roast. Now I needed something for dessert.
I checked our stock of concretes. There were tubs of ricotta with burnt sugar, dark chocolate with fresh mint, basil lime, horchata rum, banana pudding, caramel praline, and the current summer favorite—strawberry custard. Since strawberries were currently in season, Sterling had made a double batch of the strawberry custard concrete. I decided to make a twist on a classic strawberry shortcake with the rich and velvety ice cream.
I started making the shortcakes by combining butter, flour, and salt in a mixer. Then I added baking soda, sugar, and a splash of heavy cream and let the mixer do the heavy lifting. Once a dough had formed, I spread the batter into an eight-by-eight pan and slid it into the oven to bake for twenty minutes. Next, I sliced fresh strawberries and combined them with lemon juice and sugar. I would leave them to macerate while the shortcakes baked.
Soon the aroma of buttery shortcake filled the kitchen. One piece of advice I always offered new bakers was to trust their senses, especially when it came to smell. Most breads and baked goods emitted a wonderful scent when they were done. The artistry of baking relied on connecting to our sight, smell, taste, and feeling. A light finger tap in the center of a cake could easily tell me its doneness, as could a pi
e’s bubbling juices, and a bread’s fragrant aroma.
I checked the shortbread. It had risen nicely, with firm edges and a set center. I removed it from the oven and allowed it to cool. When it was time for dessert, I would assemble the shortcakes, layering the golden biscuits with strawberries and strawberry concrete.
Carlos arrived as I was taking the pork loin out of the oven. “Mi querida, what smells so wonderful? You have been cooking, si?”
“Si.” I showed him our dinner. “Shall we plate up and go sit on the Calle next to Ashland Creek?”
“But of course. I want to hear about today and Andy.” Carlos poured us glasses of wine, while I sliced the juicy pork loin and added generous scoops of the panzanella to our plates. We took our dinner outside to a creek-side table. Torte sits on the Calle Guanajuato, a cobblestone pathway running parallel to the creek. Most restaurants on the plaza had outdoor seating in the back. Dining on the Calle reminded me of Paris with its brightly colored bistro tables, a canopy of conifer trees, and the heady scents of climbing roses and wisteria.
As I took a seat at one of Torte’s two-person tables, I spotted Mom, the Professor, Thomas, and Kerry dining al fresco at Puck’s Pub not far down the pathway. They appeared to be in a deep conversation, I assumed about their upcoming wedding plans. I didn’t want to interrupt them.
Carlos swirled his wine as I relayed the day’s events. It was hard not to stare at him. He had rolled up the sleeves on his crisp white button-down shirt, revealing his naturally tanned arms. Hours spent tending to the vines had left his skin sun-kissed.
“This judge, he sounds like a terrible person. Who would take such pleasure in making Andy, or any of the competitors sweat? I am glad that I was not there. I would have had words with this Benson.”
That I didn’t doubt. Carlos wasn’t confrontational in nature, but he was a champion of the underdog. If he saw an injustice in the world, he had to say something. Perhaps it was his Spanish upbringing. He was confident in both who he was in the kitchen and in the world.
Mocha, She Wrote Page 7