by Cleo Coyle
I finished scanning the room.
No sign of Matt yet.
After hearing his frantic message, I’d speed-dialed the man. All I got was voicemail (no surprise). So after my shower, I pulled on jeans and a Henley the color of toasted coconut and descended the stairs. I wasn’t scheduled for another hour, but Matt would be bursting in here any minute, and I theorized he’d be more likely to stay calm in a public place.
As the high morning sun broke through the low clouds, it made me feel calmer. The dazzling rays gleamed in the sparkling glass of our shop’s French doors. The restored wood-plank floor was all waxed and shiny; the twenty marble-topped tables stood reliably in place.
With new eyes, I gazed at the wrought-iron spiral staircase, soaring like a modern sculpture up to the second floor seating area where my tiny office waited with its shabby familiarity of battered desk and nonswiveling swivel chair.
Not even the relentlessly temperamental espresso-making process, the loudly squeaking back door, or our dangerously low supply of whole milk could shake my (guilty) feeling of thankfulness that it was Caffè Lucia and not my beloved Blend that had gone up in smoke.
“So, anyway, I didn’t know what my agent was thinking . . .”
I glanced back to Tucker, who had spoken again but not to me. He was in the middle of a conversation with Barry.
Like many of our regulars, Barry, a sweet doughboy of a guy with a receding hairline and soft brown eyes, was a free-lancer who worked from home and used the Blend as a way to mingle with humanity—or escape from it. Sometimes he brought his laptop, sometimes a paperback; other times, like today, he felt chatty and pulled up a barstool.
“Wait—you mean you don’t like the new job?” Barry asked between sips of his latte.
“Well, now I like the job. But when she told me about it, I said, ‘Honey, the stage is the thing for me—’”
“What about that soap you did last year?” Esther interjected from across the room.
“Nobody calls them soaps, anymore,” Tucker replied. “It’s daytime drama.”
Esther propped a hand on her ample hip. “Well, whatever you want to call it, that was not a ‘stage’ job!”
Tucker smirked. “You never heard the term soundstage?”
“Repeat after me, Broadway Boy: As the Stomach Turns ain’t Masterpiece Theatre.”
“Just ignore the Dark Princess,” Tucker told Barry, making an insect-shooing motion with his hand.
Esther finally noticed me standing behind the work counter. She lifted her chin. “Oh, hi, boss.”
“Hi, Esther.”
Tucker had already preheated the portafilter (a required step for maintaining temperature during slow periods). He dosed and leveled off the proper amount of grinds and expertly packed them down with his personal purple tamper. Once more he tempered the group head with a quick flush of water. Then he locked the handle into the machine, positioned a clean shot glass, and hit the go button.
I closely watched the twenty-five-second extraction process. As I teach all of my employees, a barista does not have to taste a shot to know when it’s gone bad. The speed of extraction, visual viscosity of the liquor, even the color, are clear indicators of quality.
A full-flavored extraction, for example, has the texture of dripping honey; the color of a deep reddish-brown ale. An espresso with a thinner body and a light golden color might be prettier to look at in the cup, but it was completely sour on the tongue—not unlike Lucia Testa.
Hmmm . . .
Conversely black streaks in the crema meant there would be a level of bitterness at midtongue.
More of a Mrs. Quadrelli experience . . .
Okay, so I had Rossi’s case on the brain. What can I say? Finding solutions to puzzling problems intrigued me, and the puzzle of bad espresso was something I’d already mastered, to wit—
In case number one (the light golden color), there were two possible culprits: either the grind was too coarse or the brewing water not hot enough. In case number two (the black streaks), the grind was either too fine or the water too hot.
Solving bad espresso was usually a matter of testing new grinds and new water temperatures. The irony did not escape me. When it came to finding out who had torched Enzo’s caffè, Rossi would have to test the waters, too . . .
“Anyway,” Tucker went on, “I told my agent: ‘I will act the lines, I will write the lines, but I draw the line at radio announcing. Then she explained that it wasn’t radio announcing. This ad agency was looking for ‘character’ voices to do a series of PSAs—”
“PSAs?” Barry said.
“You’re doing PSAs?” Esther asked.
Tucker deadpanned to Barry. “Didn’t I just say that?”
Her interest clearly piqued, Esther moved with all speed to join Tucker behind the work counter. “You have any ‘ins’ at the radio stations?”
“No.”
“Boris has a new YouTube upload ready to go. It’s called Strangers on a Train. He’s looking to get some airplay.” (Boris was Boris Bokunin, aka BB Gunn, assistant baker by day, urban rapper by night.)
“What is it?” Tuck asked. “A riff on that old switcheroo Hitchcock movie?”
“No,” Esther replied. “More of a hookup thing on the midnight A Train.”
“Sorry, sweetie,” Tuck said. “I’d help your man if I could, but PSAs are prerecorded in studios. I don’t have anything to do with FM program directors or their playlists.”
“Excuse me,” Barry said, “but what’s a PSA exactly?”
“It’s a public service announcement,” Esther said. “You’ve probably heard a million of them.”
“Like?”
“Like . . .” Tucker shrugged. “‘If you see something, say something.’ ”
“Yeah,” Esther said, “especially if it’s an abandoned backpack in the subway that’s ticking real loud.”
“ ‘Teachable moments with children . . .’ ”
Esther nodded. “If Zombie’s attack, aim for the head.”
“ ‘Just say no,’ ” Tucker continued.
“Especially to some foreign guy who promises you an exotic vacation in the Middle East.”
Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Speaking from experience, are we?”
“No comment.”
“You know what my favorite was?” Barry said. “The one with Smokey the Bear. Now how did that one go?”
“ ‘Only you can prevent wildfires,’ ” Tucker said.
If only, I thought with a sigh.
“You know what my all-time favorite PSA is?” Esther asked.
Tucker folded his arms. “Do I know or do I care?”
“It’s that one where some dude cracks an egg into a sizzling hot pan, and says,‘This is your brain on drugs.’”
“I remember that one!” Barry said. “The egg’s a visual metaphor. Like when you’re fried.”
I also recalled that PSA, but a half-assed omelet didn’t even begin to cover the extent of the nightmares I’d dealt with when my ex-husband’s gray matter had been on cocaine.
Tucker finished pulling my shot and handed it over.
Generally speaking, espresso became more temperamental as the day wore on. The reason (in geek-speak) was the coffee’s tendency to be hygroscopic, which basically meant that it readily sopped up surrounding air moisture, or in cases of excessively dry conditions, released it. So, in the morning, with lower temperatures and higher humidity, the extractions were magnificently thick and slow—not unlike the start of Mike’s lovemaking last night. But as the sun came up and the air dried out, the extractions tended to run fast . . .
Boy did that analogy give me pause.
Tucker’s test extraction for me looked pretty darn good. The viscosity was there, the color a deep reddish brown. But as I looked closer, I noticed a marked lack of tiger mottle—the deep brown flecking in a truly great pull.
I sipped.
Tuck fell silent, met my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
&n
bsp; “There’s a slight hint of bitterness . . .”
“I didn’t taste it.”
“It’s there.”
Tucker sighed. “The humidity again?”
“I’m not sure . . .” I checked the machine’s gauges.
Esther came around the counter. “This I want to hear.”
“It can’t be the humidity!” Tucker protested. “I already went to a finer grind.”
“You did?” That surprised me. I turned to Esther. “You better get me the Glass.”
Esther showed her palms to the tin ceiling and pumped her arms in a victorious hip-hop club gesture she once told me meant raise the roof. “I told you, I told you, now the Best Girl she’ll scold you!”
“Oh, don’t be a ninny!”
As a gleeful Esther rushed into the back pantry to get the infamous Glass, I grabbed a paper towel, put it under the doser, and ran the grinder. A pile of fine black sand now sat on the flat white background like a negative satellite photo of K2.
“Here you go-oh!” Esther sang, setting a Holmes-worthy magnifying glass next to my grind sample. She tossed a smirk at Tucker. “I told you so-oh!”
“Tucker’s right,” I said.
“About what?”
“You’re being a ninny.”
“I am not!”
“Silenzio!” I picked up The Glass. Tucker and Esther flanked me, wordlessly watching as I spread out the grounds and closely examined them.
“There it is. You see?” I motioned them closer. “Evidence of irregular lumps.”
“Not again!” Tucker cried.
“Yes, again,” I said.
Coffee properly ground in a burr grinder displayed uniform particles with beautiful lattice networks (at the microscopic level), which properly maximized the area of coffee exposed during the intense espresso extraction process. But the uneven grains I was now studying had clumpish, oafish shapes. They were almost as horrific as what a cheap blade grinder would produce.
(Every so often I’d encounter a customer who regularly paid a higher price for our premium coffee beans but balked at investing in a decent burr grinder. Inexpensive blade grinders were fine for chopping spices, I’d always explain, but far too violent for chopping coffee beans. When those suckers started whirring at 20,000 to 30,000 RPMs, they produced enough frictional heat to scorch the beans they were grinding, which was why the coffee ended up tasting bitter. Blade chopping also produced uneven grains, a disaster for getting consistent quality.)
The final coffee might be drinkable, but it was far from achieving its potential. A sad thought because I knew just how much blood, sweat, and tireless tasting went into cultivating, picking, sorting, processing, sourcing, shipping, and finally roasting our premium beans.
My present problem, however, wasn’t with the freshness of our roast, the skill of our baristas, or the quality of our appliances. Like any other serious espresso bar, we used a conical burr grinder. The issue today was maintenance.
“Our baby’s blades have gone slightly dull from overuse.” I didn’t actually need to state this. Tucker had been through this many times before.
“Another teachable moment.” Esther smirked at Tucker. “I told you it wasn’t the weather.”
“Don’t rub it in. It’s bad form.”
“I’m just being honest, PSA Boy. You of all people should know the motto I live by.”
“Huh?”
“If you see something, say something!”
Tucker’s eyes narrowed. “Listen, Clare, I have an idea. Why don’t I give the Duchess of High Dudgeon her very own teachable moment, like how to change the blades. Then she can start sharing in the fun.”
“Good idea,” I said.
“But, boss—” Behind her black-framed glasses, Esther’s big brown eyes turned pleading. “My friends are here! And I don’t really care about learning how to—”
“Good idea,” I repeated, cutting her off. “I’ll take over the bar. You two take the machine to the worktable downstairs.”
We had a backup grinder for situations like this one. I pulled it out as Tucker unplugged the problem appliance. Then off he went, a pouting Esther in tow.
When I glanced up, I found Barry watching all this with a cross between curiosity and amusement. “Wow. I didn’t realize so much scientific rigor went into making my latte.”
“You have no idea.”
I’d once explained it all to Mike, or tried to. When things went wrong in making espresso, any number of variables could be the offending agent—a good barista had to go through each variable, eliminating suspects one by one, until the true offender was found.
Mike replied with one sentence: “Sounds like my job.”
I smiled at Barry. “Would you like another latte?”
“Yes, please! You have the best in the city.”
“In that case,” I told him, “this one’s on the house.”
Twenty minutes later, Barry was gone, and Tucker and Esther had returned to the espresso bar to help with a brief flurry of prelunch rush customers. I was just finishing the pour on my last order in line—a Hazelnut-Caramel Latte, which I topped with the flourish of a heart-crowned rosetta—when I heard a familiar door slam. Don’t ask how I can recognize one particular man by his door slam. I just can.
A minute later, our shop’s front bell was ringing and so were my eardrums.
“Clare!”
The customers in my half-filled shop came alert at their tables.
“What the hell is going on with my mother!”
My ex-husband had arrived.
FIFTEEN
MATT dropped his suitcase (loudly) next to a barstool while simultaneously sliding a heavy backpack off his Nautilus-sculpted shoulders. It hit the ground with an equally subtle thud.
“I touched down at JFK an hour ago, after a truly horrendous red-eye out of Charles de Gaulle, and what do I see when I pass the first newsstand?” Matt threw a folded-up Post down on the bar. “A front-page photo of my mother being hoisted into an ambulance by a passel of firemen with my ex-wife looking on!” He glared. “What happened, Clare?”
I sighed. So much for my public-place-will-keep-him-calm theory. “Your mother’s fine, Matt. She’s perfectly okay.”
“She’s okay?”
I nodded.
His hard body sagged a moment—until his righteous anger got a second wind. “Why didn’t you call me? I mean, last night she wasn’t okay, was she?”
Before I could answer, Esther snatched up the paper. “Boss! Front-page news and you didn’t mention it! I knew I should have watched In the Papers this morning. I hardly ever miss that segment, but Boris slept over.”
“Excuse me,” Tucker said, “but why should Boris have anything to do with it?”
“Because he didn’t want me to watch New York One first thing in the morning. He wanted to, um . . . I mean, well, he distracted me . . .”
“Distracted you?” Tucker folded his arms. “Esther, I’m shocked. A euphemism?”
“A girl has a right to her boudoir privacy.”
By now Matt was fairly vibrating with impatience, but he failed to interrupt our baristas, primarily because he was still doing a double-take at Esther. He hadn’t seen our most popular employee since she began piling her wild dark hair on top of her head in an ebony half beehive à la torch singer Amy Winehouse.
Tuck, who was familiar with the pop star’s unfortunate bouts with alcohol and drugs, had already dubbed it the “Detox Rock look.” According to Esther, it was driving her boyfriend mad with desire.
“What’s the point of having a news anchor read from the papers, anyway?” Tucker was saying. “Why don’t you just read the papers yourself?”
“Because if I watch In the Papers, I don’t have to read the papers!”
“Okay, Esther. If you don’t read the papers, then hand that one over. I’d like to read all about it.”
“No!” She clutched the dog-eared tabloid to her Renaissance chest.
&nbs
p; “Listen,” Tucker said, “I can do New York One’s morning anchor in my sleep. I’ll read it to you.”
“You can do Pat Kiernan?”
“The Clark Kent of local news?” Tucker waved his hand. “He’s your basic cross between Mr. Spock and Mr. Rogers.”
“Okay.” Esther offered up the now substantially wrinkled Post. “Do him for me, Tucker!”
“Clare . . .”
I glanced over at Matt who was standing stiffer than Oz’s Tin Man. His jaw was grinding so visibly, I thought he might actually need the oil can.
“Esther, Tucker,” I quickly said before the man blew, “I need to speak with Matt in private. So you two ‘read all about it’ while you’re covering the counter, okay?” I met Tucker’s gaze. “Two doppios?”
“No problem.”
I gestured for my ex to follow me to a corner table. “Like I said, your mother’s fine.” I kept my voice low as we walked, hoping he’d take the hint.
(He didn’t.) “Then why didn’t she answer my calls this morning!”
“Please lower you voice. Your mother went to sit with a friend in the Elmhurst ICU. They don’t allow cell phones in there. Last night I tried to make a call and I couldn’t even get a signal.”
“Who’s in the ICU, Clare? What friend?”
“Lorenzo Testa.”
“Aw, no . . .”
We came to our usual little corner table, which stood next to the line of tall French doors. On days like this I expected a drafty chill, but our old hearth was close by; and even though the fire wasn’t what it used to be, the heat was still there for Matt and I, providing just enough warmth to keep us comfortable.
I sat with my back to the smoldering embers and pointed to the chair opposing mine. “Sit. I’ll tell you the whole story . . .”
Matt dropped heavily and I talked . . . and talked. Finally, I ran out of words.
“Sorry I blew up,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
Tucker brought over our double espressos. Matt thanked him and bolted his. I sipped mine slowly.
With an agitated hand, he rubbed the back of his short, dark Caesar. Then (at last) my ex relaxed, stretching out his wrinkled khakis until they extended well beyond the tabletop’s disc of coral-colored marble. His shoes—black high-top sneakers with white laces—were purposefully urban hip. In New York they ran over a hundred dollars. Matt had purchased his in a South American market stall for under two bucks.
