“I’ve had Roman baristas use thousand-dollar machines who couldn’t make a cup that good,” Madame told me that morning with a lilt of motherly pride.
I was shocked by the light blush that came to my cheeks. It had been so long since anyone had expressed pride in me, I couldn’t even recall the last time. (The inevitable result of middle age and motherhood—let’s face it, everyone expects you to do the expressing.)
“Oh, come on,” I said, brushing it off. “The fact is, you were relieved when you met me. You were terrified I would turn out to be some harlot with a tube top and tattoos. You liked me, so you decided to like my coffee.”
“I never pretend to like coffee, my dear, and you very well know that. It’s either good or it’s garbage. And yours was very good.”
“And you know very well it was my grandmother who taught me how to perfect it,” I said.
“Yes. She taught you. And then I taught you.”
“Yes, of course. I know. I owe you a lot, Madame—”
“You owe me nothing. But you do owe yourself, Clare. We woman all owe ourselves. And we forget to pay.”
I shifted, cleared my throat. “You think I’m not being true to myself?”
“Yes, that’s right. You know where you belong. You know what will make you happy, but you ignore it.”
I took a deep breath. “I have to.”
“You’re just hiding. Hiding from him.”
There it is, I thought, bracing herself. The big blue tiger.
“It’s cowardly,” continued Madame. “And it makes no sense when it’s not what you want out of life.” Madame blew out a puff of smoke then raised an eyebrow. “I noticed what you said at the end of your Times article: ‘When we drink coffee, we drink its history, which is also our own history.’”
I squirmed. I had not attributed that line to Madame. Under the pressure of impressing my editor, I had decided to simply convey the sentiment as part of my own coffee I.Q. But the truth was, much of my knowledge had come from my years of running the Village Blend under Madame’s tutelage.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I should have attributed the words to you—”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m not scolding you. I’m reminding you.” Madame rose, walked to an end table, and picked up the week-old Times Magazine. She waved it proudly at me, returned to her seat, then placed her reading glasses on the end of her nose.
“And I quote,” she began, “‘If we are a civilization of coffee drinkers, then the coffee we buy, brew, and drink should be as great as our civilized heritage. For though coffee may seem a small thing, it is a ritual that reflects the daily standards we set for ourselves throughout our lives. Whether the highest or the lowest, it is the standard we pass on to our children. And if we fail to pass on the highest standards, even in the smallest things, then how can we, as a civilization, hope to progress? Perhaps T.S. Eliot was right: Some of us do measure out our lives with coffee spoons. All the more reason to pay attention to the quality of the bean.’”
Madame smiled. “That wasn’t me. That was you, my dear.”
“I learned it from you.”
“Have you? Prove it then.” She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and reached for a small bell. “I’ve drawn up an offer, Clare. I want you to read it and then accept it.”
The tinkling bell brought Madame’s personal maid with a silver tray. On it was an official-looking contract next to a small egg timer, a thermal carafe of steaming water, and a French press that I knew from the aroma contained perfectly ground Jamaica Blue Mountain.
I nearly swooned.
This full-bodied yet mellow and delightfully aromatic bean grown on the 7,000-foot-high Jamaica Blue Mountains has a limited harvest: a mere 800 bags annually compared to the 15,000 bags of the lesser Jamaican varieties (High Mountain and Prime Jamaica Washed). While importers and roasters have used Blue “blends” to cut the price along with the quality, true Blue has sold for as high as $35.00 a pound and more. I hadn’t tasted a drop in ten years. Not since I’d left the Blend.
In silence, Madame placed the contract in my hands, then she poured the steaming water over the grounds in the press, replaced the lid, turned over the egg timer, and gave me a look that said—
Five minutes.
In the time it took to steep the coffee, Madame expected me to read the contract and agree to it.
With a deep breath, I read the terms. If I signed on for five years, I would receive:
A piece of equity in the business to the tune of fifteen percent ownership right away with five percent more added for every fiscal year that came up with a ten percent or greater profit.The keys to the furnished duplex apartment on top of the shop. (One cannot exaggerate the invaluable opportunity to live in a rent-free two-bedroom with a fireplace, balcony, and garden courtyard in the heart of the most in-demand neighborhood in Manhattan.)
And finally:
3. The assurance by Madame that the Blend’s unnervingly charismatic coffee buyer would be consulting with me no more than one week a month.
“You can’t control him with a contract. You know that. He’s still a pirate,” I found it necessary to point out when the timer ran down.
“He’s his father’s son,” answered Madame as she pushed the French press’s plunger, squeezing the grounds to the bottom of the glass pot with a bit more force than necessary. She looked up into my eyes. “What else can I say?”
“It’s all right,” I said as Madame poured the coffee into the simple cream-colored French-café-style cups that sat on the silver tray. “We’ve been down this road a few times before.”
“Yes, my dear. It was a bumpy ride…for both of us.”
There was a long pause, as there always was right before the painful subject of Madame’s son was dropped. Matteo Allegro, now in his early forties, was not only the Blend’s coffee importer and Madame’s only child by her late first husband, Antonio Allegro—Matt Allegro also happened to be my ex-husband and the father of my pride named Joy.
I took a cup from Madame’s elegant tray, added a splash of cream, then sipped the freshly made Jamaica Blue Mountain. The sensual, sweet, full-bodied aroma of the coffee flowed over me as I considered Matt, along with Madame’s very tempting offer.
“So, my dear, what is your answer?”
I looked up and for the first time noticed that my ex-mother-in-law’s eyes were not quite the color I remembered. They seemed more gray now than blue since her second husband had died. And the elusive lines about her mouth and eyes—the ones that used to appear and disappear depending on her expression—now seemed to be permanently with her, like cruel, unejectable tenants.
A dark thought occurred to me. Married couples sometimes died within a year of one another. The first would expire from a major disease, but then the second would go soon after—usually for some minor reason (like a cold that suddenly developed into pneumonia). Doctors diagnosed it clinically—a depressed immune system during a traumatic time. But it was still death due to grief. To loss.
Madame did seem a bit frail today. Quite a change from when she’d first trained me to run the Blend. The woman’s stamina a decade ago had little to do with the caffeine in her pots. Pride had driven her, a sense of wanting the Blend to live up to the thousand stories about its own history, its colorful customers, its high standards, and its commitment to serving the community.
After her first husband had died, Madame had run the Blend by herself for years, right up to the day before her wedding to Pierre, one of the city’s foremost importers of French perfume, wine, and coffee. Right up to the day before her life had suddenly changed into a whirlwind of travels and uptown dinner parties, of entertaining Pierre’s clients, adopting and raising Pierre’s teenage children, and running a European villa every August.