French Pressed

“Anything else?”

Dornier took a few more slurping hits. “There are most definitely umami characteristics here…”

I smiled at his use of the term. It was a popular adjective in culinary circles, describing one of the basic tastes sensed by the receptor cells on the tongue: sweet, salty, sour, bitter…and umami, the Japanese word for a savory or meaty flavor.

“I detect a hint of sun-dried tomato. Yes…and an earthy steak flavor in the finish.” Dornier’s eyes snapped open. “My goodness, Ms. Cosi. I’m absolutely flabbergasted. This coffee is reminiscent of a Grand Cru!”

“Exactly, monsieur. Quality coffee beans, if processed, roasted, brewed, and served correctly, will show off as much complexity as a fine wine.”

The sound of one person clapping echoed across the empty dining room. I looked up to find Chef Tommy Keitel himself doing the honors. He was leaning near the doorway to his kitchen. There was a hint of superior amusement in his expression. Apparently, he’d been standing there awhile, watching me conduct the tasting.

“Tommy!” Dornier waved him over. “You must come here and sample this.”

It was difficult not to remember how I’d first met Keitel—at the Beekman Hotel, with one of his heavily muscled forearms around my daughter’s young waist. But I forced the image from my mind. I had to sell Dornier on my services, and I wasn’t going to score any points by being hostile to the restaurant’s executive chef. For my own daughter’s well-being, my issues with Keitel had to be put on hold.

The larger-than-life chef pushed himself off his leaning position and moved across the dining room. He was wearing black slacks and running shoes, a plain gray T-shirt beneath the chef’s white jacket, which he buttoned up as he strode toward me.

“I heard you were coming, Clare. How are you?” He extended his hand.

“Fine, Chef Keitel.” I placed my hand in his. “And you?”

“I’ve had better days.” His large hand shook mine and held it, his piercing blue eyes staring into me. “You’ve heard about Vincent Buccelli?”

I nodded, stepping back, tugging my hand free of his hold. “Joy and I found out last night. Did the police come by this morning to talk to you and your staff?”

“Yeah, they did. They questioned everyone.”

“For hours,” Dornier sniffed unhappily. “I’m terribly sorry for young Vincent, but no one here knew a thing about what happened to him or why. I believe the police were wasting their time. They should have been spending it in Queens searching for the crazed thug who murdered him.”

Dead silence ensued after that little speech.

I nearly started grilling Dornier at that moment, asking him where he’d gone after he’d left Solange last night—and, more importantly, where Brigitte Rouille had gone, and where the woman was now. Was she back there in the kitchen? I’d been let into the restaurant through the front door, and Dornier instructed me to set up in the dining room. He hadn’t allowed me into Keitel’s kitchen.

That was a bad break to start. Joy was due to begin her shift in two hours. More than anything, I wanted answers. But I wasn’t a member of the NYPD, I didn’t have a PI license, and unless I could convince these men to sign a contract with me, I was going to be out on my ear in the next five minutes.

Keitel cleared his throat. “So, Clare, what have you brought here that’s got Nappy so excited?”

“This Kenyan coffee to start.” I poured Chef Keitel a cup.

He sipped, paused, and drank more.

“You’re sampling the legendary SL-28,” I informed him, “probably the most respected coffee varietal in the world.”

“Is that so?” Keitel exchanged glances with Dornier. “And how did you get hold of it?”

“Well, most coffee farms in Kenya are small. They form cooperatives and auction their lots on a weekly basis, primarily to big exporters, which is why most Kenyan coffee ends up in blends. But Matteo, our buyer, doesn’t rely on a big exporter. He goes directly to the bidders at the Nairobi Coffee Exchange to score pure, uncut lots for our coffeehouse business.”

I refilled the men’s cups. “Matt samples the lots personally to make sure we’re getting the crème de la crème of the Kenyan coffee experience. The green beans are shipped to New York, and I personally roast them in our basement. The moment a bean is roasted, it begins to lose flavor, so I roast regularly to ensure superior quality with every cup.”

Chef Keitel exchanged another glance with his maître d’. The chef’s expression remained neutral, but from the single nod and arching of one eyebrow, I got the idea he was favorably impressed.

“I brought four other wonderful coffees for you to sample today.” I forced a smile. “Shall I prepare them?”

“I don’t think so.” Keitel folded his arms and regarded me. “Look, this Kenyan coffee is good enough, and I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to, but—as I understand it—this little presentation came about as a result of your own coffee experience here last evening?”

Dornier visibly tensed. “Please, Tommy. Let’s not go there.”

“No,” he said. “I want Clare to understand why she was given whatever swill she was served last night.”

Dornier let out a tortured sigh and waved his hand. “You explain.”

“Nappy here has trained his waiters to provide the highest-quality service possible. So when a customer asks for something that’s not on the menu, his server—in your case, René—will attempt to supply it so that the dining experience is not a disappointment.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t,” said Keitel. “Coffee is not on our menu. And it never was. Since you ordered it, René took it upon himself to brew you some from our employee coffeemaker.”

Dornier appeared to sink down farther in his chair.

“Let me guess,” I said. “The machine’s old. It’s dirty. And the coffee that’s brewed inside it comes in preground aluminum packets with unspecified expiration dates.”

“I had no idea this was going on,” Keitel said. “Now—thanks to you, Clare—I do.”

“And now you can do something about it,” I countered.

“Yes. I can.” Keitel’s blue gaze speared Dornier. “I can make sure we never serve employee coffee to our paying customers again.”

“Or you can put quality specialty coffees on your menu,” I pressed.

Keitel shook his head. “Why would I want to go to the trouble?”

“For profit, of course.”

“My customers don’t order coffee.”

“If it’s not on your menu, how can they order it?”

“You’re arguing an unsubstantiated point.”

“I can substantiate it in two seconds flat. Do you know what your customers are doing after they leave your restaurant?”

Keitel frowned. “What does that have to do with—”

“They drive to Long Island and north Jersey. They check the overseas markets. They head downtown to party into the wee hours. I grant you that a portion of your clientele would be only too happy to continue drinking port, ice wine, or cognac on top of the substantial amount of vino they’ve already consumed with their food, but this is New York. The night is just beginning at nine or ten o’clock when they leave your dining room. Offering coffee is a way to wake up for the drive home, the ongoing business deal, even the lovemaking that goes on, after dinner is concluded.”

Keitel stared at me for so long, I thought perhaps he’d been flash frozen. Did the man think I was completely nuts? I glanced at Dornier. He was still sipping the Kenyan, apparently waiting for his chef de cuisine to make the decision.

“Look…” I pressed, “why not at least try a dessert pairings menu with my coffee? Give it one week. I promise you’ll not only sell my coffee at premium prices to people who would have declined more alcohol anyway, you’ll sell more desserts.”

Dornier sat up a little straighter. “Did you hear that, Tommy?”