“So you two are old friends?” I prodded, expecting them to amplify the subject.
“Well, we are friends,” said Edward, stroking Madame’s bare shoulder. “And we are old. Aren’t we, Blanche?”
“Speak for yourself.”
I couldn’t believe both Joy and her grandmother seemed set on testing my nerves this evening.
My daughter had done it earlier, when she’d shown up late to work, in the company of Graydon Faas. I’d jumped down her throat the minute she’d walked in the kitchen door. We’d had a furious fight about where she’d been all day and what she’d been doing, but she refused to answer any of my questions, or apologize for ignoring my many worried cell phone messages.
All night, I couldn’t help noticing how Joy and Graydon kept lightly brushing against each other, exchanging subtle touches. With alarm, I realized just how little I knew about this surfer-waiter “dude.” Graydon was a good worker and a quick study with the barista techniques. But I could have described Treat Mazzelli the same way, and he’d ended up being a systematic womanizer. (I couldn’t very well blame him for the bullet in his brain since I didn’t even believe it was meant for him. Nevertheless, where my daughter’s happiness was concerned, I considered womanizing bad enough, thank you very much!)
At the moment, I couldn’t discuss my thousand-and-one worries with Joy, but, considering the way Treat had ended up, I felt I had a right to butt in and grill her about her relationship with Graydon. When we finally had some privacy, I intended to do just that. I also intended to quiz Joy’s grandmother. Here she was, flirting shamelessly with a man about whom I knew even less than Mr. Faas.
“Why don’t I take your orders?” I suggested, glancing over my shoulder to make sure my other customers weren’t getting antsy. “We can chat again when I bring your food.”
“Very good,” said Edward with a smile.
“We’re just having dessert and coffee tonight,” Madame said. She pulled a delicate pair of vermilion reading glasses out of her clutch, balanced them on the end of her nose and looked over my pairings menu.
“Very nice selection, my dear,” she said after a minute.
“Thank you.” I replied, trying not to blush. A “very nice” from Madame regarding coffee was akin to a grad student finally earning that Ph.D. The woman knew more about beans, blends, microclimates, harvests, processing, roasting, brewing, and serving than any professional I’d ever met in the food and beverage trade.
Edward glanced over Cuppa J’s coffee selections, as well. “Estate Java, Costa Rican Tres Rios, Kona, Ethiopian Harrar, Kenya AA, Sumatra,” he recited. “My goodness how do we choose what coffee?”
Madame and I exchanged little smiles. “Well, lucky for you my daughter-in-law here is Cuppa J’s coffee steward.”
“Excuse my hearing,” said Edward, “did you say coffee steward?”
“Indeed I did. It’s a delightful notion of Clare’s that every fine restaurant should have someone on staff who knows how to buy, store, and properly serve a large variety of coffees and can knowledgeably recommend them to customers.”
“Ah, I see,” said Edward, “like a sommelier only with coffee?”
Madame nodded. “Turn the page on your menu and you’ll see that she’s suggested pairings with tonight’s dessert selections.”
Edward turned the page. “Ah! Yes, yes…and you give a little description of how each coffee tastes—”
“The flavor profile,” Madame informed him, with a wink for me.
Edward stroked his gray beard. “Well, I must say, it’s still difficult to decide.”
“Do you enjoy chocolate?” I asked, trying to help.
“Not really,” said Edward.
“Why don’t we go for something a little more subtle,” Madame suggested. “Edward, I wonder, do you still have a passion for…figs and almonds?”
Still looking down at the menu, Edward smiled. “Oh, yes, Blanche,” he replied, covering Madame’s hand with his own. “That afternoon on my porch? Indeed I do.”
Madame looked up at me, but I’d already guessed their order.
“Spanish fig cake,” I said. “And the almond torte. Both pair nicely with the Sul de Minas.”
Customers who knew a little about coffee sometimes raised an eyebrow at putting a Brazilian on the menu. But a little knowledge sometimes can be as worthless as none at all.
Yes, Brazil is the largest coffee producer in the world, and much of it comes from lower-grade Arabicas and Robustas grown on massive plantations. And, yes, these coffees are flat and average, many of them ending up in mass-marketed blends—the kind you find canned on grocery store shelves. But Brazil is a huge country with a wide spectrum of conditions and quality. In recent years, its growing associations have been working to recreate the image of its coffees. Small farms, like the one Matteo found in the south of Minas Gerais, use higher quality harvesting and processing methods to produce specialty-level coffees that really sing in lighter and medium roasts.
I was surprised to see Madame, of all people, raising an eyebrow at my recommendation. But then she smiled and said—
“The Brazilian is the ideal choice for passion, isn’t it?”
“Passion,” Edward said, seeing Madame’s little smile. “Let me guess why? It reminds you of an old Brazilian beau?”
“Oh, yes, he was Brazilian, but he wasn’t my beau,” said Madame. “He was the lover of the French governor’s wife.”
Edward’s look of curiosity turned into one of confusion.
Madame laughed. “It’s a very old story.”
“Go on,” Edward said.
“Well, you see, ages ago, when coffee plants first came to the New World, they were limited to certain regions. French Guiana and Dutch Guiana both grew coffee, but they jealously guarded the export of their seeds. Then, during a border dispute between the two colonies, Brazil sent a diplomat to help settle it…now what was his name? Clare, help me?”
“Francisco De Mello Peheta.”
“Oh, yes! That’s right. Francisco was a dashing Brazilian, you see, and the wife of the French governor fell for him. They had a passionate affair, and afterward, she sent him back to Brazil with a bouquet of flowers. Buried inside was her real gift to him—clippings from a coffee tree, including fertile coffee cherries. Voila! The Brazilian coffee industry was born.”
Brazilians in the coffee trade loved to repeat the story Madame had just told, which claimed their entire billion-dollar coffee industry had emerged from a love affair. I knew the legend had very little credibility. Madame knew it, too. But, clearly, tonight she was having too much fun seeing the world through her rose-colored reading glasses.
“Shall I bring separate presses?” I asked flatly. “Or just the one pot for the two of you?”
“Make it for two, dear. We’ll share,” she replied.
Of course, they’ll share, I thought, heading back to the coffee bar to prepare their order. They’re sitting so close to each other, they’re practically sharing each other’s laps!
Needless to say, I was less than thrilled to see Madame with a new man. Dr. MacTavish had been her steady beau for over a year, and I had become used to that…comfortable with that. She hadn’t broken up with the good doctor, of that I was sure. Yet here she was tonight practically giddy over Edward.
Part of me knew I was being way too harsh. At her age, Madame had a right to enjoy happiness wherever she found it, whenever she found it, with whomever she found it. But another part of me felt she was betraying her friendship back in the city.
As I told myself (or at least tried to) that it was really none of my business, I began to prepare their order at the coffee bar.
“Who’s that man with Grandmother?” Joy whispered.
It was the first time Joy had spoken to me in six hours, ever since we’d had that fight at the start of dinner service.
“He’s her date,” I replied. “His name’s Edward Myers Wilson. That’s all I know.”