Through The Grinder

“I’m warning you, Quinn. Don’t mess with my fix.”

He smiled — for the first time since he’d walked in, and I wanted to keep it there.

“I’ll bet you didn’t know that Germany’s King Frederick once hired a special coffee police force known as Kaffee Schnufflers,” I told him.

“Coffee police?”

I tried my best to affect a cheesy Gestapo accent. “Yavolt. To sniff out unauthorized coffee roasters. He didn’t think coffee-drinking soldiers could be depended upon…Fortunately for the Germans, he failed.”

Quinn shook his head, but I was happy to see the smile remain.

“So, Miss Census,” said Tucker, still conversing with Winnie Winslet. “I’m curious. Now that you’re divorced, are you having trouble finding a man?”

“Me?” She laughed. “I don’t find men, darling, men find me. But the truth is, the signature on my divorce papers isn’t even dry yet, so I’m not actually interested in being found. Not yet anyway.”

“Well, when you’re ready, you should look into our Cappuccino Connection night,” said Tucker.

“And that is?”

“A local church group puts it on twice a month on our second floor. You just sign up and show up.”

“Which church?” asked Winnie skeptically.

“It’s nondenominational,” said Tucker. “Just a way for single straights to meet. They even do that ‘Power Meet’ thing so you’ll meet a lot of men in one night.”

Winnie shook her head. “No thanks. If I were actively looking, which I’m not, I’d probably go with the e-dating thing.”

“Ohmygod!” cried a new voice. Inga Berg walked up to the counter. “I totally don’t know how I met men before the on-line thing.”

An assistant buyer for Macy’s, Inga had just been promoted to buyer — and the raise had given her the income to move out of her rental share off Seventh Avenue and purchase a condo in one of those new buildings overlooking the Hudson River.

“Inga, you can’t tell me you ever had trouble meeting men,” I said. She was a bubbly woman with a curvy figure, nearly waist-length golden hair, and dark eyes, so frankly it was hard for me to imagine.

“Oh, Clare, you just don’t get it. The on-line thing opens up a whole new world. I mean, it let’s you brrrrrrrowse.”

Now she sounded like Catwoman.

“Inga,” I said, “you make it sound like a shopping spree.”

“Exactly! And you know shopping is totally my life!”

O-kay. “So what can I get you this morning?”

Inga was a regular but she didn’t have a “usual.” She ordered something different almost every time she came into the Blend — which, now that I’d heard her approach to dating, helped me understand her ordering philosophy in a whole new way.

“Hmmmm…let me see…what do I feel like…how about a Café Nocciuola?

“Coming right up.”

Nocciuola, which is Italian for hazelnut, was basically a latte with the addition of hazelnut-flavored syrup.

(We didn’t have a liquor license, but I did keep a bottle of Frangelico, a lovely Italian hazelnut liqueur, hidden under the counter for the occasional spike — for a few very special customers upon request. When Matteo was around, he preferred to mix his own cheeky version, which he called a “Coffee-Hazelnut Cocktail,” a combination of Kahlúa, Frangelico, and vodka — hold the espresso. He especially liked to whip these up for the staff after closing on Saturday nights.)

“You know, I’ve been thinking of trying the on-line thing out,” said my daughter, approaching the counter. She turned to Winnie and Inga. “Can you recommend any sites?”

I tensed.

The last thing I wanted to hear was my daughter, my innocent Joy, inquiring about signing herself up for the shop-and-drop grinder of this city’s computer dating scene. Not that I knew about it firsthand — but I’d heard quite enough war stories from the front lines.

Still, what could I say? The last thing my daughter wanted to hear was advice from her mother, telling her to stop before she’d started. So zip it, Clare, I counseled myself. Joy doesn’t want your advice…She doesn’t want it…She doesn’t —

“Joy, aren’t you busy with your culinary classes?” I blurted out. “I mean, computer dating doesn’t sound like something you’d have a lot of time for.”

Joy gave me a look I can only assume was also used on heretics during the Spanish Inquisition.

“I’d really like to know,” my daughter told Winnie, ignoring me completely.

“Um…I don’t know,” said Winnie, glancing uneasily from Joy to me and back again.

“SinglesNYC.com,” said Inga without hesitation. “I’m on it, like, 24/7, you know, to check out the new guys.”

“Thanks,” said Joy. “I’ll register this afternoon.”

God, Joy, sometimes you’re as stubborn as your damned father!

“You know what,” I said. “I’m going to register this afternoon, too.”

“You!” cried Tucker.

“You?” cried Esther.

Then everyone stared.

“Why not?” I said.

“Because…” said Tucker, “for one thing, you’ve never even attended the Cappuccino Connection.”

“And that goes on right upstairs!” added Esther.

“True. But I feel differently all of a sudden.” I threw a pointed glance at Joy. “Like computer dating might be worth a try.”

Joy rolled her eyes. “Okay, Mom, first of all, it’s called on-line dating. Not computer dating. ‘Computer dating’ was like something somebody did with punch cards in the stone age. But, you know what, go ahead. You register, too. In fact, I’ll help you with the profile. Maybe you’ll finally see there’s nobody better than Daddy out there.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” I told her.

I also sincerely doubted I’d actually meet anyone of romantic consequence. But, for my daughter’s sake — or maybe my own peace of mind where my daughter was concerned — I was going to make sure any service she used was legit.

A few minutes later, a crew from St. Vincent’s Hospital came in looking for their caffeine hits, and Tucker and I were swamped.

“Got that lat?”

“Got it!”

“Skinny cap with wings!”

Cappuccino with skim milk, extra foam.

“Dopey X!”

Doppio — aka “double” — espresso.

“Caffé Carm!”

Caffé Caramella — a latte with caramel syrup, sweetened whipped cream, and a drizzle of warm caramel topping.

“Americano!”

Espresso diluted with hot water.

“Grande skinny!”

Latte with skim milk.

“XXX!”

Triple espresso.

“Cap, get the lead out!”

Cappuccino with decaf. I shuddered — decaf drinkers truly gave me the creeps.