by Cleo Coyle
Over the last six months, two major West Coast coffee chains had tried to reverse the Gold Rush by coming East to dig for consumer treasure. One of their major hurdles had been finding well-trained baristas.
This “dude” had California written all over him. Combine that with the “coffee quiz” act he’d been performing going on two weeks now, and his intentions seemed clear: he was coming here to evaluate and poach my employees.
Well, I wasn’t going to stand for it, and the way I was going to accomplish that (whether Esther understood or not) was to sit.
Gritting my teeth, I grabbed a newly vacated stool at my own crowded espresso bar. With a sound between a huff and a grunt, Esther pushed up her black-framed glasses and set a freshly pulled espresso in front of me before her ample hips carried her off again.
“What’s bugging Esther?” the man beside me asked.
When I failed to reply, Matteo Allegro’s long thumbs paused over his smartphone. His espresso dark eyes studied me from under a head of bushy, black hair.
“Okay,” he said, “forget Esther. What’s bugging you?”
“Me?”
“You’ve got that stressed look again.”
Matt was my partner in this coffee business (and former partner in the business of marriage). His great-grandfather had started this century-old concern, and over the past few years he and I had found a way to make our “new normal” work—i.e., our divorce, his remarriage, and my move from Jersey back to Manhattan to manage the family business again, this time for a piece of the equity.
No matter our past difficulties, I couldn’t deny that my ex-husband was one of the most accomplished coffee hunters in the trade, and this shop was lucky to have him as its buyer.
Last night, he’d arrived from a sourcing trip looking like the subject of a documentary on South American refugees, yet he’d spent the better part of this morning using state-of-the-art software to move thousands of pounds of green coffee beans to clients around the planet.
But then Matteo Allegro always had been a collection of contrasts, and today was no exception. Stubbly and unshaven in his natty New York style, he displayed a deep, East African tan all winter. Between his hands, he worked a top-of-the-line communications device, while around his neck the open collar of his Egyptian cotton shirt revealed a worn leather cord with a tiny charm vial from the Ayacucho region of Peru. The overall effect was an undeniably attractive cross between a counterculture hipster and an Ivy League anthropology professor (who’d gone slightly native).
“Are you really interested in why I’m upset?” I asked him. “Or is this your way of changing the subject?”
(And, yes, I admit, I was the one now changing the subject, primarily to prevent Matt’s typically hot head from causing a scene. If he knew what this golden-haired poacher was up to, he’d lose it. And with all the cell phone cameras in this place, I could just imagine the Facebook fallout: “Rumble in the Village! Coffee Hunter Takes Swing at West Coast Customer!”)
Matt’s brow wrinkled. “What are we talking about? Not all that DIY stuff you brought up this morning?”
“More like all the major repairs I brought up this morning . . .”
The wiring on the second floor was going glitchy, the building’s wood-plank floor and brick exterior needed repairs, our espresso machine was becoming a nightmare to calibrate, and my roaster’s exhaust system was begging for an overhaul.
“Given our landmark status, this is much more than a ‘do-it-yourself’ project,” I said. “I wish it could be fixed by magic, but it can’t, and I don’t want to see you treat this place like you did our marriage.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Worthwhile things require maintenance.”
“I told you, Clare, I’m overextended. Until my international clients pay up on this quarter’s shipments, the cupboard is bare; and are we forgetting the major hit I took with the hurricane damage to my Red Hook warehouse?”
“Excuses won’t fix a leaky roof. How about a short-term loan?”
“Don’t you have a credit line at the bank?”
“That line is in place to support the shop’s cash flow for stock and payroll. There’s not enough for capital improvements.”
“My mother’s still the owner. Talk to her.”
“I did . . .”
Unfortunately, Matt’s elegant mother was on a fixed income. Oh, sure, the annuity she collected, courtesy of her late second husband, was generous, but her real assets were tied up in property, and she wasn’t about to sell the Fifth Avenue penthouse she’d inherited or the artworks she’d collected over a lifetime of running this café—and I wouldn’t let her, anyway. Cashing those works in for maintenance was akin to selling your baby’s bronzed booties to get your toilet fixed.
A small-business loan seemed logical, but the bank officer suggested a mortgage instead, using this landmark town house as collateral.
Madame’s response was a visible shudder.
“Neither a borrower nor a lender be, dear, and do you know why? Because in borrowing, you give the lender power to control you. The Village Blend is my life’s legacy. I am resolved to bequeath it to you and Matteo, just as you both are resolved to leave it to your lovely daughter—my dear granddaughter. One does not cart a precious family heirloom to the pawn shop!”
“I tried talking sense into her,” I assured Matt. “I told her that she was being overly cautious, but you know her history . . .”
He grunted. (Matt-speak for: You don’t have to tell me.)
As a young Parisian girl, Matt’s mother never expected German tanks to roll past the Arc de Triomphe. But they had, and in a short, brutal window of time, Madame had lost her mother, her sister, and everything she recognized as home.
Somehow she’d found the courage to survive and the spirit to build a new life in America. Like flowers in a ravaged garden, she even found the optimism to cultivate love and happiness again. But those shockingly sudden losses had altered her. Never again would she trust the wind not to sweep in and tear up everything she’d grown. As a result, she met nearly every transaction, business and personal, with a slightly skeptical eye.
On the other hand, I needed cash on the barrelhead now, and (as I’d told her) last I checked, panzers weren’t blowing by the Washington Square arch.
“What did she say to that?” Matt asked.
“She told me to talk to you.”
Three
“WELL?”
Matt said nothing, and simply refocused on his smartphone screen. He might as well have slammed down a gavel and declared, “Subject closed.”
Maybe for him.
I was about to try again when Esther approached us.
“The Quiz Master’s getting closer to the counter,” she said in a whisper that wasn’t. “What humiliation does he have in store for us today, I wonder?”
“Who are we talking about?” Matt asked, swinging on his stool.
“That dude in the Yank-me cap,” Esther replied.
“Stop staring, both of you,” I whispered (in an actual whisper).
Matt made a strange face then turned to me. “Come on, Clare, you don’t know this guy?”
“No. Do you?”
Matt didn’t affirm or deny it, just asked: “What’s his game?”
Esther leaned in. “He started showing up two weeks ago, armed with a mean game of Stump the Barista. Every day, he asks us if we know how to prepare a collection of obscure, off-the-menu coffee drinks—then he orders a double espresso.”
“Why would he do that?” Matt asked.
“To make fools of us, but . . .” Esther snapped her fingers. “I pity the tool / who thinks he’s cool—”
“Without the rap, please.”
“The dude’s got mental health issues, IMO, a chronic need to feel superior.”
I could see why Esther held that opinion, but in my “O,” the Quiz Master had stumped her the previous afternoon, and she was still smarting from the encounter. S
he wasn’t the only one, either, judging by the speed at which Nancy Kelly, my youngest barista, scurried off to scour the bathroom.
Esther jerked her thumb in the wake of the girl’s flying wheat-colored braids. “You can’t blame Nancy for running. The Quiz Master took her down on his very first visit.”
“What did he ask her?” Matt asked.
“If she knew how to make Norwegian Egg Coffee.”
Matt glanced at me. “You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course. It’s just Cowboy Coffee with an egg broken into it.”
Esther gawked. “Why break an egg into a perfectly good pot of coffee?”
“If you do it correctly, the proteins in the egg help the grounds to flocculate—”
“To what?”
“Clump together,” Matt supplied.
“Yes, but why would you do that to good coffee?” Esther pressed.
“You wouldn’t,” I assured her. “That method should only be used for less expensive coffees that are brewed in large quantities. The egg removes bitterness by binding to the polyphenols—”
“Ex-squeeze me!” Esther pointed to her Edgar Allan Poe tattoo. “But do I look like a chemistry major?”
“Ladies,” Tuck excitedly interrupted, “he’s getting closer!”
Lanky Louisiana-born Tucker Burton was my assistant manager—by day, anyway. When moonlight came, he was a cabaret director, playwright, veteran of off-off-Broadway, and occasional PSA announcer. With showbiz on the brain, Tuck was convinced the Quiz Master was an undercover talent scout hunting for a new reality show cast—that, or he was a Food Network producer. Either way, our resident thespian was determined to pass the audition.
Esther waved a finger at him. “You are waay too confident.”
“He can’t stump me.”
“The dude who thinks he knows it all / is doomed to take the hardest fall.”
“Oh, stow it, DJ Jane!”
Matt elbowed me. “Come on, Clare, you must know something about this guy?”
I studied him. “You say that like I should.”
Before Matt could explain, Tuck waved for my attention. “How do I look, CC?” He flipped back his floppy brown mop and smoothed his apron. “He could be recording me with a hidden micro camera.”
Esther rolled her eyes.
By the time the Quiz Master reached the front of the line, our coffeehouse was the picture of normalcy (as normal as we could get, anyway). Esther quietly stacked demitasse cups. Matt was hunched over his glowing smartphone screen, and a beaming Tuck greeted the ball-capped mystery man.
“Welcome back to the Village Blend, sir!” With a lilt sweeter than a pecan praline, he began rattling off some of the obscure drinks the Quiz Master had requested.
“How’d you like a Chocolate Dalmatian today? Or maybe a Lillylou? Perhaps you’d prefer a Green Eye or a Café Noisette? I pour a mean Peppermint Affogato . . .”
The Quiz Master’s response was a dispassionate smile and a completely different request. “I’ll tell you what I’d like—if you know how to make it.”
“I’m sure I can. Hit me!”
“One Yuanyang, please.”
Tucker’s confident expression fell, and his narrow shoulders sank. The Quiz Master had scored another victory. He’d finally stumped my assistant manager.
Looking suddenly helpless, Tucker glanced in my direction.
Matt nudged me.
“It’s all right,” I whispered, rising from the stool. “I’ve got this.”
“I know you do,” Matt replied, looking strangely amused.
I ignored him, threw Tuck a nod, and approached our so-called challenging customer.
It was time the Quiz Master met his match.
Four
“EXCUSE me,” I said in my best customer-friendly tone. “If you’ll step out of the line, I’ll assist you.” Gritting my teeth, I motioned for him to follow me to the other end of the shop—far away from Matt.
“Yuanyang is a coffee drink,” I explained to the man, “but it doesn’t happen to be on our menu.”
Though I’d judged the Quiz Master’s age as thirty-something, the superior grin he flashed looked more like the smirk of an adolescent boy—and, brother, did I want to slap it off.
It took me three months (at least!) to train a rookie barista. Factor in the years of knowledge I’d shared with my people about what a Manhattan clientele loved (from music to muffins) and what they loathed, and you had an extremely valuable employee crop, ripe for the picking.
Stealing that human investment out from under me would be a blow, but it wasn’t what boiled my soup. I had great affection for my staff. I cared for them like my own kids, and I didn’t want to lose them.
“How about a Ying Yong?” the Quiz Master countered with a look that said, You’re stumped, admit it.
“Sorry,” I said, “but we both know it’s the same drink.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Three parts coffee; seven parts Hong Kong–Style Milk Tea, and to save you the effort, we don’t serve CoffTea or Tea Espress, either, since they’re also the same beverage.” I shrugged.
He laughed. “I’m Eric.”
“Clare.”
The shake was firm. The cold superiority in his expression had tempered into something warmer, yet far from warm.
“So, Clare,” he said after a pause. “If you don’t serve coffee-tea mixes, does that mean you won’t make me a Zebra Mocha? Unless”—the challenging smirk was back—“you’ve never heard of it?”
I met his gaze. So you’re officially quizzing me now? Well, bring it on. When I’m done with you, you’re going to make me a job offer—and I’ll have the grounds to kick your designer denim–clad derrière out of my shop for good!
“The Zebra is a simple mixed mocha,” I told him flatly. “You start with quality dark chocolate and blend it with white chocolate.”
“Fun drink,” he replied. “Like those old deli counter black-and-white milkshakes—but with an espresso kick.”
“Some customers call it a Penguin Mocha or a Marble Mocha. Add raspberry syrup and you’ve got a Red Tux.”
“Thanks, Clare, but I think a Bombón might be worth a try. Do you know how to make it?”
“It’s an espresso served with sweetened condensed milk.”
“An Antoccino?”
“A single shot with an equal amount of steamed milk—the drink will give you the taste and texture of a double-shot latte without the high caffeine level.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
His smile was real now, too, displaying openly amused interest, but the quizzing didn’t stop. We covered the Gibraltar, Cortado, and Shakerato. Then we came to the Guillermo.
“The drink consists of an espresso shot or two poured over slices of lime. It’s very good sweetened; it can also be served on ice and with a touch of milk.”
He made a face. “Coffee with lime? Who likes that?”
“You never heard of Aguapanela?”
He shook his head.
“It’s practically the Colombian national drink—a hard, brown sugarcane is grated into boiling water. It’s delicious cold or as a base for coffee or hot chocolate, and sometimes lime is added. In the summer, I do a chilled version. Or I’ll use lime sherbet and do it as an eiskaffee.”
“You mean ice coffee?”
“I mean eiskaffee.”
His confident expression faltered. “I’m not familiar with—”
“It’s a popular coffee drink in Germany that includes ice cream.”
“Oh? Germans aren’t tea drinkers, like the English?”
“Per capita, Germans consume more coffee than Americans. But they’re not number one in world coffee consumption. Do you know who is?”
Eric blinked.
“Scandinavians,” I informed him.
For a prolonged moment, he stared intensely at me with an almost rude fascination, like a little boy pinning a new butterfly to hi
s board. “Do you do that a lot?” he finally asked.
“What?”
“Invent new drinks based on existing ones?”
“It’s a standard technique for recipe development.”
One eyebrow rose. “A barista heuristic?” he said, almost to himself. “Intriguing . . .”
Oh, please, I thought. Make me an offer already. Better yet, beg me. Beg me to work for you, Eric. Then I’ll pin you—right to the wall.
But he didn’t make me an offer. He reached for his smartphone. “Excuse me a moment . . .”
Forcing a smile, I waited. One minute . . . two . . .
“How about I make you that doppio now?” I offered.
“What’s that?”
“Isn’t that one of the things you always order here? A double espresso . . .” (To test the most basic abilities of my baristas? That seemed the obvious reason.)
“Just a sec . . .”
“Our machine’s a bit temperamental today,” I went on, trying to provoke a reaction. “Of course, if I had a Slayer, I wouldn’t mind . . .”
His head jerked up. “What did you say?”
“Just thinking out loud—when it comes to a Slayer, more like wishing out loud.”
He gawked, looking less than pleased. “You’re wishing for a killer?”
“A killer espresso. That’s what comes out of a handmade espresso machine.” What kind of coffee pro has never heard of the Slayer?
“Oh, I see . . .” he said, looking almost relieved. “The Slayer is a brand of espresso machine.”
“More like a dream machine.”
“Why is that?”
“A barista can adjust it on so many levels that it can make the same handful of coffee beans taste completely different with every espresso pull.”
He began staring again. “I wonder, Clare, have you heard of a rare, single-origin coffee called Ambrosia?”
Was he kidding? I was the one who’d coined the name—after Matt had sourced the exquisite cherries and became the exclusive world supplier. Unfortunately . . .
“Ambrosia was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Sorry, Eric, but you missed it. The farm that produced it is on lockdown, courtesy of the Brazilian authorities and the DEA.”