of this brewing method, in which a fine metal screen forces the denuded grounds to the bottom of the glass cylinder, separating them from the finished coffee.
A truly professional cuptasting or “cupping” was a much more primitive endeavor, involving slurping up wet grinds from spoons, spraying the entire palette, and spitting the mess back out again. Tonight, however, I simply wanted a few of my baristas’ reactions to a finished cup.
I poured out the samples. The French Press produces a coffee thicker in texture than the drip method— although not as thick as espresso. For my part, the taste of this new coffee was bold and bright, with intense depth and complexity and a satisfying mouthfeel. In the world of decaffeinated, it was perfection, a triumph.
“This can’t be decaf,” Esther declared.
“Agreed,” Gardner said. “Must be a mistake.”
“Clare, did you get confused?” Tucker asked, glancing at the two grinders on the working counter below the marble coffee bar. “Maybe you burred the wrong beans?”
“No, Tucker. Those are the right beans,” I assured him. “They really are decaffeinated.”
“What process then?” Esther pressed.
“No process,” Matt informed them.
My baristas’ heads swiveled towards my ex. They gawked in silent confusion.
“These coffee beans were grown on a brand new hybrid plant,” Matt explained, “a
“No way,” Gardner murmured.
“Say again?” Esther asked.
“My friend Ric Gostwick made the breakthrough after years of horticultural experimentation,” Matt continued. “His beans don’t need decaffeination because they already are.”
Esther blinked in shock. “You’re kidding.”
Matt laughed. “I just made the deal with Ric. We’re announcing it together at the ICGE this week.”
“What’s the ICGE?” Esther asked.
“Omigawd, Esther!” Tucker cried. “There’s something you don’t
“Put a designer sock in it, Tuck.”
“Don’t get snarky, goth girl.”
“The ICGE is the International Coffee Growers Exhibition.” Matt checked his watch again. “And if Ric were here, he would be explaining that he needs your help at the Beekman Hotel this Friday night for coffee service. He’s going to hold a tasting for the international press.”
“Hold the phone!” Tucker looked excited. “A press conference?”
“That’s right.” Matt smiled. “Ric will be unveiling his breakthrough. And he’ll be announcing the news that the Village Blend and its international kiosks will be the exclusive rollout for his new decaffeinated beans. So be sure to wear your Blend aprons for the event.”
Esther, Tucker, and Gardner stared with gaping mouths at the news. I already knew, of course, but it was a thrill to see their stunned faces.
Matt grinned wider. His eyes met mine.
Like Jack and the Beanstalk, my ex had brought home a bag of beans. They weren’t magic, but they might as well have been because they were the find of a lifetime, a fortune in a cup.
“Hi, everyone!”
My daughter finally bounded in, her spirits as high as her chestnut ponytail. Everyone said hello as she stepped around the counter and reached down to give me a hug. I was barely five two, and Joy outdid me by a good four inches. Or, at least, she used to. At the moment, she looked about five nine.
“Have you grown in three weeks?”
She laughed. “It’s the shoes.”
I glanced down to see the three inch wedged heels. “You aren’t working in those?”
“C’mon, Mom, don’t be a nudge.” She shot a brief, embarrassed glance at Esther, Gardner, and Tucker, presumably because I was talking to her like she was my child, which she was, so I really didn’t see the problem.
“I changed after work. My sneakers are in here.” She pointed to the backpack slung over her shoulder.
“How’s it going at the restaurant?” I asked.
“Amazing! Tommy’s been fantastic!”
“Tommy?”
“I mean, Chef Keitel. He’s been so incredibly helpful to me.”
“Incredibly helpful? Uh-huh. And I’ll bet he’s very tall, too, isn’t he?”
“Yeah! Like six four! How did you know?”
I glanced at Joy’s stacked wedges. “Just a guess.”
Esther loudly cleared her throat. I looked her way and she tapped her wristwatch. “Sorry, I’ve got to bolt.”
Esther and Gardner agreed to serve next week, and they both took off, Gardner heading north for a late night jam session, and Esther heading east to slam out her poetry.
As Tucker overwhelmed Matt with questions, and Joy began sampling Ric’s decaffeinated beans, I cleaned up the cups and French press. I smiled, listening to their chatty enthusiasm. I felt it too, that energy and anticipation of being on the cusp of something new. I wanted to keep listening. Unfortunately, the under-counter garbage can was nearly overflowing.
I could have left it for Tucker, but I felt guilty. He was going to be alone for closing tonight as it was, since Dante had called in sick. The least I could do was help him out with some cleaning and restocking before I called it a night myself.
I lifted the green plastic lining out of the silver can and twist-tied it closed. Then I headed for the back door, which sat between our storage pantry and the service staircase.
Downstairs was the basement, where we kept our green beans and roaster. Upstairs was the Blend’s second floor, a cozy area of overstuffed armchairs and sofas. The third and fourth floors were a private, duplex apartment where I lived, sharing off and on with Matt, whenever he was in town, which thankfully wasn’t often.
As a police siren suddenly screamed to life right outside our tall front windows, I yanked open the heavy back door and stepped into the alley.
The Blend was pleasantly situated on a street corner. Our front faced brightly lit, well-traveled Hudson. Our long, side wall featured a line of French doors. Stretching the length of the first floor, the doors paralleled a quiet, residential side street with sidewalks wide enough to use for outside seating in good weather.
The back of the Blend was my least favorite part of the property. Like all alleys, ours was a gloomy strip of unadorned concrete that ran the length of the building. We kept our Dumpster back here, which was emptied twice a week by a private hauling company.
I moved toward it now through the chilly wet drizzle. Although New York enjoyed temperate Octobers, with days as high as seventy, tonight’s weather had turned downright raw. The clouds were thick, and the early evening already looked darker than our Italian-roasted Sumatra. Eager to get back inside, I lifted the Dumpster’s lid with one hand and heaved the green plastic bag inside the metal container.
For a split second, I glanced up, toward the end of the alley. That’s when I saw it—a dim outline slumped against our building’s brick wall.
I stood and gawked for a stunned five seconds. Then I let go of the Dumpster’s lid, barely registering the earsplitting clang of the heavy metal.
Three
