Bakeshop Mystery 13 - Mocha, She Wrote

by Ellie Alexander

  I noticed that Andy’s fingers were cracked, dry, and wrapped with bandages. “What’s with all the Band-Aids?” I asked.

  He glanced at his battered hands. “It’s nothing. My hands got dry and started bleeding in a couple of places—no biggie. I have a few steam burns too. It comes with the territory. Like I told you, the other baristas who I’ll be going up against in the Cup have probably been prepping for this for at least a year, if not longer. Some of them have full-time coaches and teams.”

  “Steam burns?” My mouth hung open. “Andy, enough! You have to stop. As of this moment, I’m officially sending you home. You’ve put in months’ worth of practice in less than two weeks. You’re ready. Don’t worry about what the other baristas are doing or are going to do. If you keep at it like this, you’re going to keel over before the competition starts.”

  Andy protested. “You don’t understand. You have to be obsessed to compete in the Barista Cup. I’m telling you, Jules, some of the baristas have full-time coaches. Full time! They’ll be showing up with their own custom roasts. They’ll have spent hours upon hours studying the science of milk fats and how to ensure that proteins are perfectly rationed in each drink. I guarantee most of them have been working nonstop for months. I’m way behind.”

  I held up my index finger. “Nope. This is not open for negotiation. You’ve been ready for this competition for years. You are extremely talented, Andy Howard, but you need sleep. Go home. Take a nap. Have a nice dinner, and go to bed early. I’ll see you at The Hills tomorrow morning at eight a.m. sharp.”

  “But…” he stammered, fiddling with the Band-Aid wrapped around his thumb.

  I pointed toward the door. “Go. Get out of here. If I see you anywhere near an espresso machine before tomorrow’s competition, you’re officially fired.”

  Andy’s mouth hung open.

  “It’s for your own good.” I softened my tone. “You need a break. Trust me, half of the competition is going to be mental. If you’re wiped out, you’re not going to be in good headspace.”

  He untied his apron and draped it over the counter. “Okay, boss. You’re probably right. I just really want to do well.”

  “I know you do. And you have a good shot at winning, but not if you’re depleted. Go get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He didn’t argue. I could tell from the way he dragged himself out of the bakeshop that he was exhausted.

  “Thank you.” Sequoia folded her hands together in a Namaste pose, watching him cross the plaza. “I’ve been telling him the same thing, but he wouldn’t listen. This competition sounds out of control. Like I tried to tell him, at the end of the day it’s just coffee.”

  “I know. He’s determined, which I appreciate and can relate to, but he’s running on fumes. That won’t do him any good tomorrow.”

  “Exactly.” Sequoia moved Andy’s apron and wiped down the shiny red espresso machine with a towel.

  “Do you need extra help?” I took a quick survey of the dining area. Every table was packed. There was a small line of customers waiting to order baked goods and drinks from Rosa, who managed the cash register and pastry case, but at least for the moment there weren’t crushing crowds. She was another new addition to our team who had quickly become invaluable. Her extensive experience working in hospitality before coming to Torte and her calm aura made her a favorite amongst our staff and customers. She had honed her baking skills at a bed-and-breakfast in nearby Jacksonville. Her conchas had become stuff of legend. The seashell-shaped sweet bread sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar always sold out within minutes of being placed in the pastry case.

  Our chalkboard menu had a quote that read HUMANITY RUNS ON COFFEE. Typically, we rotate a Shakespearean quote, but in honor of Andy, Steph had sketched a silhouette of an espresso cup with Good Luck Andy! wafting in the steam. We had continued the coffee theme by swapping out the summer popsicle display in the front window with canisters overflowing with coffee beans at every stage of the process from dried green to our darkest roast, towering stacks of our custom teal and cherry red Torte mugs, and burlap coffee bags. Steph had drawn funny sayings in Sharpies on squares of cardboard, like Barista Cup or Bust and Boy Wonder Barista with a silhouette of Andy’s head.

  Sequoia made a foam peace sign on the top of a coconut milk latte before handing the drink to a customer. “No. I’ve got it. I’ll let you know if it gets too busy, but it’s been a pretty steady flow this morning.”

  That was typical for mid-morning. We tended to get rushes of customers in waves. There was often a lull between breakfast and lunch. I made a mental note to check in a little before noon.

  I left things in Rosa’s and Sequoia’s capable hands and went downstairs. The aroma of bread baking in the wood-fired oven made me pause and inhale deeply. I went straight to the sink, scrubbed my hands with lavender soap, and tied on an apron.

  Mom and Marty were twisting loaves of challah. Steph piped a three-tiered wedding cake with dainty off-white buttercream stars. Bethany was mixing vats of cookie dough, and Sterling sautéed onions and garlic at the stove.

  “What smells so amazing?” I asked, peeking over his shoulder.

  “I’m working on a cheesy focaccia. I’m going to drizzle Marty’s focaccia with a mixture of onions, garlic, celery seed, and cumin. Then we’re going to bake it in the oven with a three-cheese blend and serve it with tomato basil soup. Think grown-up grilled cheese.”

  “You had me at cheesy focaccia.” I grinned.

  “That’s verbatim what I said,” Mom chimed in. She had tucked her shoulder-length bobbed hair behind her ears, revealing a pair of sparking amber earrings that brought out the golden flecks in her brown eyes.

  “I didn’t know you were coming in this morning,” I said as I cleared space on the marble counter.

  “Oh, I see. You’re not happy to have your mom invade the kitchen, is that it?” she teased. Mom had always had a playful side. Her easy banter was one of the many reasons our staff and customers adored her.

  “Don’t test me. I had to kick Andy out. You should be on your best behavior, or I just might give you the boot too.” I gave her a lopsided smile.

  She winked and blew me a kiss. “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Why did you kick Andy out?” Marty sounded concerned.

  “I had to force him to take a break. His fingers are literally bleeding from pulling so many espresso shots. He’s nervous about tomorrow, which I understand, but I tried to explain that he needs to give his brain and his body a break.”

  “Smart move.” Marty nodded to a magazine that sat on the counter near large canisters of flour, sugar, and cornmeal. “Speaking of that, I brought in an article you might want to take a look at. It’s about the head judge for the Barista Cup—Benson Vargas. Andy is a great kid, but I sure hope that he has a thick skin. Benson Vargas has been known to ruin the careers of many a budding barista.”

  “Really?” I walked over to pick up the magazine.

  “Yeah. Give it a read. He’s equally revered and hated in the coffee community.” Marty poked a row of holes into the focaccia dough.

  I skimmed the article. Marty wasn’t exaggerating. A number of coffee-shop owners and professional baristas had been interviewed for the piece. None of them had kind things to say about Benson, aside from the fact that he was an expert when it came to espresso drinks.

  “Yikes.” I set the magazine down and gathered flour, sugar, and spices. “He sounds like he and Richard Lord might be long-lost cousins.”

  Richard owned the Merry Windsor Hotel on the opposite side of the plaza from Torte. He had a penchant for all things tacky, like his collection of Shakespeare bobbleheads. He also had an uncanny ability to get under my skin.

  Marty brushed melted butter on the rising loaves of bread. “I didn’t want to say too much around Andy when it came up, because I didn’t want to scare him, but the reason these competitions keep using Benson is because he’s known for ridiculous and drama
tic outbursts. I’m sure that the organizers wouldn’t admit it, but that adds flare to an already tense situation. When I was at the regional cup in San Francisco a few years ago, he spit a latte in one of the competitor’s faces. It was horrible and completely uncalled for. That sort of unprofessional behavior should get you banned as judge, but instead it seems to heighten his mystique. And according to that article, it sounds like he’s running the show now. He’s a stakeholder in the Barista Cup, which seems like a conflict of interest as a judge, if you ask me.”

  A wave of unease washed over me. Andy was already stressed. He would be crushed if Benson spit out one of the drinks he’d been working so hard to master.

  “Do you think we need to warn him?” I asked, adding butter and sugar to one of the mixers and turning it on medium speed to cream together.

  “That’s a tough call.” Marty looked to Mom. “A little warning might be good. At least Andy would know that he’s not alone, but then at the same time it might freak him out even more.”

  Mom frowned. “I’m with you, Marty. I’m not sure. Andy is a strong kid. He’s shown great resolve and maturity over the past few years. Yet, I also know that this is really important to him. In some ways, maybe more than anything else he’s done. I would hate planting a seed of doubt in his head.”

  “Yeah.” I cracked eggs into the mixer. “I’ll think on it while I make these cheesecake squares.”

  “Good idea.” Mom’s eyes sparkled. “You know what I say—when in doubt, bake it out. Baking is always the answer.”

  “Exactly.” I turned my attention to the mixer, incorporating vanilla bean paste and room-temperature cream cheese. I intended to bake a large sheet of cheesecake that I would cut into squares and serve with a fresh strawberry reduction. Once the cheesecake mixture had blended together, I pulsed graham crackers, cinnamon, brown sugar, and melted butter until they formed a crumb-like crust. I pressed that into a baking tray and spread the cheesecake mixture over the top. It would bake for thirty minutes. I slid it into the oven and went to the walk-in for strawberries.

  June in southern Oregon is strawberry season, which meant that the farmers markets and roadside stands had an abundance of the bright juicy berries. Our growing season resembled a Mediterranean climate and allowed for a bounty of fruits and vegetables to ripen long into late summer. Our philosophy at the bakeshop was to take advantage of nature’s kitchen, using locally sourced fruits and vegetables in our soups, salads, and ever-changing line of baked goods.

  I washed and sliced the strawberries, then sprinkled them with sugar, added vanilla bean paste, and placed them in a saucepan. “Mind if I steal a burner?” I asked Sterling.

  He had finished sautéing the onions and garlic. “Help yourself.” He moved the sauté pan to the counter.

  “What do you think about warning Andy versus letting it play out?” I asked as I turned a burner to medium low.

  Sterling pushed a strand of dark hair from his face. “Honestly, I think it might mess him up. I’m glad you sent him home. I told him to get out of here this morning. He’s obsessed and not in a good way.”

  I stirred the strawberries.

  Sterling’s ice blue eyes clouded with worry. “I think he’s decided that if he doesn’t win it’s a sign that he’s not destined to do this as a career or something. I told him not to sweat it, but he seems like he’s way past that point. He’s freaking out about the other competitors. I guess some of them have coaches. That’s crazy, right?”

  “Yeah. I agree.” I wondered if there was more to Andy’s obsession. Maybe the competition had become a replacement for school. Maybe Andy’s decision to drop out of college was coming back to haunt him. He had recently decided to forgo his football scholarship and last few semesters at Southern Oregon University or SOU as locals referred to campus, to pursue his coffee passion. I’d had reservations about him leaving school early, but it wasn’t up to me. Andy made the choice after much thought and consideration. His commitment to immersing himself in the world of coffee and learning as much as he could about everything from the organic farmers who grew the beans to the roasting process was nothing short of impressive. I had no doubt that if he continued his coffee education, he would be well on his way toward opening his own roasting company within the next few years.

  “Not to mention, he’s freaking awesome,” Sterling continued. “What are the odds that this judge hates his coffee? Andy is the man. I told him that.”

  “Thanks for telling him that.” I shot Sterling a smile. I had come to rely on his advice and insight. We had a similar view of the world, and I appreciated Sterling’s vulnerability. Like Andy, Sterling was in his early twenties and still finding his way. When he had first arrived at Torte, I wasn’t sure if he would last more than a few days, but he had quickly proved me wrong. In addition to becoming a skilled sous chef, Sterling had become a trusted friend.

  He took his sauté to the bread station while I continued to work on my reduction. By the time my cheesecake had baked and cooled, I had a thick red strawberry sauce to serve over the top. I sliced the cheesecake into individual bars, topped them with the strawberry reduction, and finished them with a sprig of fresh mint. “Anyone want a sample?” I asked, passing around small bites of the bars.

  “These make me want to plant a kiss on you, Jules,” Bethany said, ogling the bar.

  I tasted my creation. The silky sweet cheesecake had a lovely tang and married beautifully with the buttery crisp graham-cracker crust. The strawberries retained their fresh flavor but had almost a jam-like texture. I was pleased with how the bars had turned out.

  “These will be gone in five minutes. I’m calling it right now. Anyone want to put some money down on that?” Marty took another sample.

  “No way.” Mom shook her head. “You might get accosted walking up the stairs with these. They’re delicious, honey.”

  “Thanks.” I finished assembling the bars on a tray for the display case upstairs. The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I didn’t have much time to worry about Andy, but I decided that Sterling’s input was sage advice. Andy was one of the most skilled baristas I’d ever met. There was no way that anyone in the competition wouldn’t agree, Benson Vargas included.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning I had the rare experience of sleeping in. Of course, sleeping in for a baker was relative. I woke with the rising sun and a symphony of birdsong a little before five, took a long hot shower, and left Carlos sleeping in bed. His black hair, which had grown longer since his move to Ashland, framed his face on the pillow. I still couldn’t believe he was actually here. I kept wondering if I would wake from this dream. After one last glance at his chiseled cheekbones and muscular arms, I tiptoed downstairs to make coffee and breakfast.

  I started a pot of steel-cut oats and took my coffee outside on the deck. I didn’t think I would ever tire of the view. Sugar pines, Shasta firs, hemlocks, and redwoods formed a natural umbrella around the deck with peekaboo views of a radiant ridge line across the valley. Blue jays, northern flickers, and yellow finches flitted between the trees, signaling the start of the day with their happy chirping arias. The smell of pine needles and blooming wild blackberries reminded me to inhale deeply. My thoughts drifted to Andy during my morning mediation. I hoped he was taking a moment for himself as well. Over the years I had learned the importance of self-care, especially during times of stress.

  Carlos wandered into the kitchen as I came back inside for a second cup of the medium roast with notes of brown sugar and peaches. His hair was disheveled from sleep. He wrapped his strong arms around my waist. I leaned against him, drinking in the scent of his earthy aftershave.

  “Good morning, Julieta. It is so strange to have you in our kitchen. Usually you are long gone by now.”

  “I was thinking that same thing as I was sipping my coffee. I slept in until almost five.”

  “Who are you and what have you done with my beautiful wife?” Carlos kissed the top of my head a
nd poured himself a cup of coffee. “And you have been cooking?” He lifted the lid on my steel-cut oatmeal.

  “Since I’m going to support Andy at the Barista Cup and don’t have to open Torte, I figured we could have breakfast together.”

  Carlos’s deep dark eyes twinkled. “It’s a shame it can’t be breakfast in bed.” He added a splash of heavy cream to his coffee.

  “Alas, I promised Andy I would be there for moral support. He’s a bundle of nerves. I’ve never seen him like this. I just hope that he can shake off the anxiety. His talent is unparalleled. If he can focus and not get distracted by the other competitors, I know that he’ll finish as one of, if not the, top contender.” I ladled bowls of the oatmeal then topped them with walnuts, wild blueberries, cinnamon, and honey. I had chopped apples, oranges, bananas, and berries and mixed them with yogurt. “Have a seat. It’s not fancy.”

  “It smells delicious.” Carlos breathed in the aromas. “Food, it should not be a competition. Tell Andy that he does not need to worry. He crafts every cup of coffee with love. This is the essential ingredient.”

  “True, but I don’t think there’s a category for love on the score sheet.”

  Carlos scoffed. “There should be.”

  I laughed. “Maybe you should come offer your services.”

  “Watch out, mi querida, I may do that. I do not believe that we should judge our fellow baristas and chefs—we should collaborate together. We should spread more love and joy in the form of beautiful café espressos.” He ate a spoonful of the oatmeal. “Si, this is how food should be. I taste that you put your heart into this.”