by Cleo Coyle
“I think I should make them all,” I said.
“All?”
Am I trying too hard? I thought. Probably. Then I remembered tomorrow was March 19, the feast day of St. Joseph (patron saint of pastry chefs). Every year my nonna would fry up crunchy sweet bow tie cookies and set them out with hot, fresh, doughy zeppolinis in her little Italian grocery. That’s it!
“I’ll make champagne cream puffs!”
“Champagne cream puffs?”
“Zeppole dough baked in the oven and filled with Asti Spumante-based zabaglione!”
“It’s a bake sale, sweetheart, not a four-star dessert cart.”
Just then our shop bell rang and a young woman with fluffy, crumpet-colored curls walked across our main floor. “Hey, everyone!” Vicki Glockner waved at me.
“Mike, I’ve got to go. My relief is here.”
“Okay,” he said, “but that’s why I called. It’s my turn to relieve you. Don’t worry about cooking tonight. I’ll get us takeout.”
BY the time I drove down the Queensboro Bridge ramp, dusk had fully descended, and streetlights were flickering on, their halogen bulbs pouring pools of blue-tinged light into an ocean of deepening darkness. Madame and I had been late getting started. Then a pileup on the bridge left me inching and lurching my way across the mile-long span. Now we were more than an hour behind schedule.
“Do you want to try calling again?” I asked, swinging my old Honda beneath the subway’s elevated tracks.
“It’s all right, dear,” Madame replied. “I left a message apologizing for our tardiness. Let’s hope Enzo picks it up.”
Enzo was “Lorenzo” Testa, the owner of Caffè Lucia. He’d called Madame that morning, telling her he’d been cleaning out his basement and came across an old Blend roaster and a photo album with pictures of Madame and her late first husband, Antonio Allegro. While Madame was thrilled about the photos, I was itching to get my paws on the old Probat, a small-batch German coffee roaster, circa 1921. Enzo had bought it used from the Blend in the sixties.
“So this man worked for you and Matt’s father,” I asked.
Madame nodded. “He came to us fresh off the boat from Italy. An eager aspiring artist.”
“Marlon Brando-ish? Isn’t that how you described him?”
“More Victor Mature, dear. The young female customers absolutely swooned when they saw him in our shop or Washington Square Park—that’s where he liked to set up his painter’s easel.”
“So he was hot stuff?”
“Oh, yes. Smoldering male charisma, liquid bedroom gaze . . . Oo-la-la . . .”
Oo-la-la? I suppressed a smile. “Is that why I’m the one driving you to Astoria to meet with him instead of Otto?”
“My. Don’t you have a suspicious mind?”
“I think we’ve already established that.”
“Well, the answer to your question is no. My Otto would have taken me, but he has a very important business dinner lined up this evening so I’m a free agent.”
“Uh-huh.” The last time Madame characterized herself as a “free agent” she was in East Hampton, enjoying a fling with a septuagenarian expert on Jackson Pollock.
“And, besides,” she added. “I’ve wanted you to meet Enzo for ages. Given your background, I thought it was about time.”
“Whatever became of Enzo’s art career, anyway?” (Myself an art school dropout, I couldn’t help wondering.) “Did his work ever sell?”
“Oh, yes. Enzo’s female admirers bought many of his paintings. Restaurants and caffès hired him, too. At one time, you could see his trompe l’oeil frescos in dozens of pizzerias around town. But most of them are gone now. Irreplaceable because Enzo stopped selling his work.”
“Why? What happened?”
Madame shrugged. “Life.”
“Life?”
“His lover became pregnant,” she said, glancing at the fast-passing rows of storefronts. “The same year her father died. Angela asked Enzo to marry her and take over her family’s caffè in Queens, save them from financial ruin.” Madame shrugged. “Enzo adored her . . .”
I nodded at Enzo’s story (half of it, anyway) because I knew just how many hours it took to run a successful business, and just how much love it took to give up on a dream. Suddenly, without having ever met the man, I liked him, very much.
“Caffè Lucia is a pretty name,” I said.
“He renamed the place for his daughter. A lively, outspoken child, as I recall; all grown up by now. And sadly, last year, Angela passed away during their annual visit to Italy . . .”
As I turned onto Steinway Street, I noticed Madame glancing at her watch.
“This trip isn’t over yet,” I warned.
“I know, dear. I’m looking.”
Parking is what we were looking for, and I didn’t see a single open spot. Eyeing the crowded curbs, I rolled by cell phone shops, clothing stores, and restaurants with Greek, Italian, Cyrillic, and Naskh signage. Finally I turned onto the tree-lined block where Caffè Lucia was located, and Madame began waving frantically (because attempting to find parking in this town could turn even the most urbane cosmopolitan into a raving maniac).
“There! There! A spot on the right! Get it! Get it!”
“Fire hydrant,” I said. “I’ll circle again—”
“Look! Look! That car is leaving! Go! Go!”
I zoomed into the spot, right behind a mammoth SUV. As I climbed out from behind the wheel, I could almost feel the adrenaline ebbing from my bloodstream. (Not quite as stressful as driving a golf cart through a war zone, but close.) Unfortunately, I wasn’t off the battlefield yet. More trouble was heading our way—in size-twelve Air Jordans.
“Hey, lady!” (The greeting was quintessential Jerry Lewis but the accent was definitely foreign.) “You can’t park here!”
A scowling man barreled toward us, gesturing wildly.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You have to move your car!”
Stone black eyes under tight curls the color of Sicilian licorice; a slate gray leisure suit (sans tie) over incongruous white tube socks. I couldn’t place the guy’s accent, but that was no surprise. While this area used to be primarily Greek and Italian, more recent arrivals included Brazilians, Bosnians, and natives of Egypt, Yemen, and Morocco.
The guy stopped right in front of us, hands outstretched to keep us from moving down the sidewalk. For a moment, I stared at his day-old jaw stubble. Another blind follower of Hollywood’s derelict chic trend? Or simply a misplaced razor?
“You have to move that junk heap! I can’t have it in front of my club!”
Junk heap? I frowned, scanning the area around my admittedly non-late-model Honda. I saw no fire hydrant, construction cones, or city signage.
Madame glanced at me, then back at our human road block. “I don’t understand, young man. Are you saying this isn’t a legal parking spot?”
“I’m saying you can’t park here unless you’re going to my club.”
“Your club?” I said.
He jerked his head at the shadowy doorway behind him. Under a scarlet neon Red Mirage banner, a sign announced: Happy Hour 5-8 PM. Monday thru Thursday.
Madame’s large, expressive eyes—so intensely blue that tricks of light turned them lavender—displayed gentle crow’s feet when she smiled. She wasn’t smiling now.
“Listen up, friend—” (Her voice dropped to a serious octave.) “Our parking spot is legal. Your attempt at extortion is not.”
Given the level of society to which Madame’s late second husband (a French importer) had elevated her, not to mention her Fifth Avenue address, even I sometimes failed to remember that the doyenne of polite society was no cream-filled profiterole. The woman had come to this country as a motherless, penniless refugee. Not long after, she’d found herself alone, a widow in her prime, with a boy to raise and a coffeehouse to run—no mean feat in a city that challenged its shop owners with difficult regulations, sky-high overhead, and a
demanding (and occasionally dangerous) customer base.
Of course, Club Guy here didn’t know any of that. And when Madame actually took a step closer, he froze. A moment later, he began muttering in another language, obviously befuddled by a dignified older lady’s willingness to go toe-to-toe with him. Finally, he waved his arms and cried, “I’m a businessman, lady! I’m just trying to keep this spot open for taxis to drop off paying customers!”
Score one for Madame. He was on the defensive. But his Air Jordans had yet to budge. That’s when I noticed a flash of headlights. The driver in that mammoth SUV had started his engine.
“There,” I said, “why don’t you keep that spot open for your customers!”
Our human road block instantly raced off to reserve the vacated space.
Madame tapped my shoulder. “Shall we, dear?”
“We shall.”
Then I looped my arm through hers, and together we started down the sidewalk toward our hard won destination: Caffè Lucia.
TWO
LIKE the accident on the bridge, I approached Enzo Testa’s caffè without knowing exactly what lay ahead, although I should have had a clue—not because of the smell of accelerants or the sound of cartoonishly loud ticking, but because of the woman who unlocked the door.
In her early forties, Enzo’s daughter Lucia seemed almost storklike in her fashionable gangliness. Her nose was long, her squinting eyes the flat color of sour pickles. Her sleek, short, slicked down hair, which should have echoed the same dark hue as her salon-shaped brows, was striated instead with the sort of shades you’d find in a jar of whole-grain Dijon (or the bottles of an uptown colorist).
Hugging her slim figure was a black designer frock with a high hemline and low neckline, the better to show off the heavy gold bling around her neck and chic gladiator sandals (also gilded) with four-inch heels that added dauntingly unnecessary height to her already lengthy legs. All of this seemed a bit much for shift work in a neighborhood coffeehouse, and I assumed she was dressed for a hot dinner date.
“We’re closed,” she said, her plum-glossed lips forming a bad-luck horseshoe.
“We have an appointment,” I began, all business.
“With Enzo, your father.” Madame stepped up, her tone of voice much more placating than mine.
“You’re late.”
“And we do apologize,” Madame told the woman. “I did call—”
“It’s my fault,” I cut in. “I’m very sorry, but I run a coffeehouse, too, and I had trouble getting away. Then we got stuck on the bridge. There was an accident . . .”
Lucia propped a narrow hip, more bling clattering on her narrow wrist. “When isn’t there?”
“You’re right,” I said, biting back a less civil response. “But won’t you at least tell your father we made it?”
Lucia’s reply was to make a show of looking me up and down. I hadn’t changed from my Blend shift so my Italian roast hair was still pulled back in a barista-ready (and now supremely messy) ponytail. My makeup had sweated off in traffic, and my simple cotton Henley was tragically wrinkled.
She squinted with open disgust at my scuffed black boots and economically priced jeans, and in case I missed the squint, she threw in a smirk to go with it.
I was about to say something I’d probably regret when a deep voice boomed from inside the caffè: “Lucia, che cosa? Is that Blanche?”
Lucia stepped back—with obvious annoyance—and opened the door all the way. A gentleman in shirtsleeves strode across the spotlessly clean mosaic tile floor. Tall, like his daughter, Enzo was not at all gangly. On the contrary, he appeared especially robust for a man in his seventies. The line of his chin and jaw were giving way, like the inevitable decline of a classic old foundation, but his head was still thick with hair, albeit receding in front, the black pepper copiously sprinkled with gray salt.
When the Italian flung out his arms, Madame stepped into them, and the man’s wide smile tightened the skin at his jaw, restoring for a flickering moment the hallmarks of those Victor Mature looks. Instantly I knew that I was glimpsing a vision of Enzo’s earlier self, a long-gone ghost of youth. Like a dying ember, the apparition faded, yet the man continued to give off a color of energy I more commonly saw in the budding green of youth (or diehard romantics)—a color Madame had always embraced.
“Bella! Blanche, you are ravishing still. Bella! Bella!”
The shop was small, half the size of my Village Blend, with a marble counter the shade of mature avocado, a restored tin ceiling, and a pair of hanging fans with wooden paddles lazily stirring the air. Large and small tables of sturdy, polished, marble-topped oak crowded the floor. Behind the bar sat a modern, low-slung espresso machine, typical of a New York café.
Not at all typical, however, was the sweeping mural on the opposite wall, which stretched the length of the building. The artwork itself contained multiple images, each rendered in a different artistic style.
Is it all Enzo’s? I was unable to look away as every thoughtful section of the work evoked either meaningful recognition or absolute astonishment.
Enzo stepped back from hugging Madame, one arm continuing to claim her waist. His free hand reached into a pocket for a large pair of steel-framed glasses.
“Glasses? Oh, no!” Madame laughed. “I doubt I’ll look as ‘ravishing’ now!”
“These old eyes just need a little help for a better view of your beauty.” He slipped them on and grinned again. “You haven’t aged a day.”
Madame glanced back at me and mouthed, Didn’t I tell you? Such a charmer!
“And you, Enzo!” she said. “You’re as dashing as the day we first met!”
After more cooing and multiple cheek kisses, Madame stepped away. “There, now that all of those whopping lies are out of the way, we can talk honestly, just like old friends should.”
She gestured in my direction. “This is my manager, Clare.”
Forcing myself to stop gawking at the finely wrought fresco, I smiled. “So nice to meet you, Signore Testa.”
He shook my hand, his grip warm, firm, a little stiff (the beginnings of arthritis?). “At last we meet. I’ve heard so much about you over the years . . .”
Enzo’s stare was as penetrating as his offspring’s but held no scorn. I sensed only the painter inside him, evaluating my colors and contours, contemplating depths with his eyes.
“Bellissima,” he whispered, lifting the back of my hand to his lips. As he held my gaze, he spoke softly to Madame: “Such a jewel, Blanche. Eyes like emeralds set afire. Lady Apples for cheeks, lips full and pillowy, yet the girlish face sits upon a ripened figure. So lush!”
Oh, good God.
“She is another Claudia Cardinale!”
“I always thought so,” Madame said.
Lucia made a noise behind me. It sounded like a snort. I didn’t blame her. A Fellini leading lady I wasn’t. Clearly, the prescription on the man’s glasses had expired.
“And you have given Blanche a granddaughter as beautiful?”
“I, uh . . .” The man’s aura was so hypnotic I had a hard time finding my tongue. Madame really wasn’t kidding about this guy’s mojo. “Yes, I have a daughter.” I finally replied. “Her name is Joy, and she’s—”
“A chef! That’s right! Blanche told me this morning in our phone call. She is at work in Paris.”
“Not a chef yet. Just a line cook. Of course, in my mind she’s still twelve years old, inventing cake-mix biscotti in our New Jersey kitchen.”
Enzo’s eyes smiled. “Where does the time go, eh?” Then he looked away in what appeared to be a pointedly unhappy frown for his daughter.
“Speaking of time,” Lucia interrupted. “It’s Thursday, and your bocce game is starting very soon.” She glared at us. “They’re expecting my father at the park.”
Enzo waved his hand. “Luigi and Thomas can wait.”
“But what about Mrs. Quadrelli.” Lucia’s gaze stabbed Madame on that one. “You know sh
e’ll be disappointed if you’re late.”
Enzo folded his arms. “Rita Quadrelli will find some other man’s ear to talk off until I get there.”
“We always close early on Thursday, just so you can play your weekly game. I don’t see why you should let their lateness change your plans.”
“That’s no way to treat guests!” Enzo replied in Italian. “Show some respect—”
A hesitant knock interrupted. “Yo, Lucy! You in there? I’m double-parked.”
A wiry, gum-chewing male about ten years Lucia’s junior emerged from the shadows of the sidewalk. His cuffed gabardine slacks, two-toned bowling shirt, and black-and-brown saddle shoes looked like a tribute to the Happy Days wardrobe department. Platinum pompadour cocked, he moved to join us.
“Sorry, Glenn,” Lucia folded her arms. “I was going to meet you outside, but these people came.”
Madame shot me a glance.
There’s an old Italian saying: “With a contented stomach, your heart is forgiving; with an empty stomach, you forgive nothing.” Madame had to be thinking the same thing I was: Lucia Testa is in sore need of a decent meal.
Glenn didn’t answer his girlfriend. Instead, he put on a warm smile and approached her father, extending a sinewy arm. “Mr. T, how you doin’ tonight, sir?”
