Roast Mortem

traffic.

Tucker Burton, my lanky, floppy-haired assistant manager, had arrived on time for his shift and was just tying on his Village Blend apron. A part-time actor-playwright and occasional cabaret director, Tuck loved being a barista in the Italian tradition, which (like a good bartender) had as much to do with convivial customer interaction as it did with temperature and pressure.

“Excuse me, Clare,” he said, “but where is Gardner again?”

“Trapped in his car,” I replied, “on the New Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel.”

Tuck pointed to Esther. “And why can’t our resident slam poetess stay and work another hour until he shows? I’ll bet my Actors’ Equity card she’s been late to more than a few of her classes.”

Esther’s wine-dark fingertips went to her Botticelli waist. “Excuse me, Broadway Boy, but I am not simply taking this class. I am a TA and need to be there on time.”

“For what? Introduction to Baggy Pants and Bling 101?”

“Urban Rap’s Influence on Mainstream America!”

“Who’s the professor? Eminem?”

Esther smirked. “The man has a PhD from Brown in linguistics and is heading my program in the semiotics of urban expression.”

“Yeah? And I know what seat he holds: the Snoop Dog Chair.”

“Okay, you two, enough!” I turned to Tucker. “Let her off the hook.”

“But it’s not very fair to you, Clare. You’ve been here since eight AM.”

“And I can’t leave you here alone, can I? Traffic is traffic and Esther is a teaching assistant now. Her shift’s over and she has to go.”

“Thank you!” she said.

I caught her eye. “Just call Vicki Glockner, okay? Tell her I’ll give her double time until Gardner can get through that tunnel.”

“Will do, boss,” Esther promised, and she was gone.

Now my focus was back on that customer line. As Tuck manned the register and the single-cup Clover machine, I turned out the espresso drink orders: one Skinny Lat (latte with skim milk); one Breve Cap (cappuccino with half-and-half); 3 doppios (double espressos); one Cortado (a single shot caressed with steamed milk); two Flat Whites (cappuccinos without foam); one Americano (espresso diluted with hot water); two Thunder Thighs (double-tall mocha lattes with whole milk and extra whipped cream); and a Why Bother (decaf espresso).

When the crush finally eased, I turned to the octogenarian sitting on the other side of my counter. Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois was looking as stylish as ever in a springy apricot pantsuit, her silver-gray hair coiffed into a super-naturally smooth twist.

“I’m so sorry,” I told her, sliding a crema-rich espresso across the blueberry marble.

“Why should you be sorry, dear?”

“Because we’re going to be very late.”

“C’est dommage,” Madame said, lifting the demitasse to her peach-glossed lips. “But Enzo will understand. Managerial setbacks are an inescapable aspect of New York’s miseen- scène.”

“You mean like bureaucratic bribes and obscene levels of sales tax?”

Madame’s reply was an amused little shrug. The woman’s Gallic aplomb was admirable, I had to admit, but then what was a minor traffic delay to someone who’d seen Nazi tanks roll down the Champs- Élysées?

Given that I was half her age — with duskier skin, Italian hips, and a preference for discount store jeans — Madame and I made an incongruous pair. At our core, however, we weren’t so different, which was why our relationship had survived my late-teen pregnancy and hasty marriage to her wayward son, his drug addiction and recovery, our rocky divorce, and my decade spent in New Jersey exile before returning to Manhattan to run her beloved coffeehouse again.

The latter development was the reason I’d agreed to drive Madame to Queens today. A valuable piece of Village Blend history was waiting for us at Astoria’s Caffè Lucia, and we were both determined to reclaim it.

Just then my thigh vibrated — actually the cell phone in my pocket next to my thigh. I answered without checking the screen.

“Gardner?” I asked, hoping my jazz-musician barista was calling to say he’d finally blown through the Holland Tunnel.

“It’s Mike.”

As in Mike Quinn, my boyfriend (for lack of a better word). He certainly wasn’t a boy and he was much more than a friend, although that’s the way we’d started out. The phrase “Mike is my lover” would have been accurate, but it sounded absurdly decadent to the ears of a girl who was raised by a strict Italian grandmother.

“I’m sorry, Mike, I can’t talk — ”

“Yes, you can, dear.” A hand touched my shoulder. I turned to find Madame behind me, tying on a Blend apron. “Take a break, Clare.”

“But — ”

“No buts. My hands are clean.” With a wink, Madame showed me. “And as you know, I’ve done this a few times before.”

I would have argued, but I really did need to take five, so I pulled off my apron and grabbed her seat on the customer side of the bar.

“Are you still driving to Queens?” Mike asked.

“Slight delay but yes,” I said. “Why?”

“I’ve got another meeting on the undercover operation,” he said. “It may run late, but I was still hoping to see you tonight.”

“Just come by the duplex,” I said, happily accepting the freshly pulled double from my employer. “Use your key. You still have it, right?”

“I still have it.” He paused. “So how’s your head?”

“Better,” I lied, and took a reviving sip of the doppio.

In fact, I was still recovering from the Quinn family’s St. Patrick’s Day bash the night before — “The annual event,” or so I was told by Mike’s clan. He was the only cop among a family of firefighters so he didn’t always attend (cops had their own gatherings), but this year Mike wanted to introduce me around.

While the beer flowed like Trevi, I was regaled with heroic stories about the “Mighty Quinn,” Mike’s late father, a fire captain. Then Mike’s mother asked me if I’d be willing to contribute some coffeehouse specialties to the FDNY’s upcoming Five-Borough Bake Sale, and she promptly introduced me to the head of the coordinating committee — a lovely (and very sharp) woman named Valerie Noonan.

“And have you made your decision yet?” Mike asked.

I could almost hear him smiling over the cellular line, but I couldn’t blame him. I’d called the man three times today, obsessing over what would impress his family more: my cinnamon-sugar doughnut muffins; blueberries ’n’ cream coffee cake pie; or honey-glazed peach crostata with fresh ginger-infused whipped cream. There were always my pastry case standbys: caramelized banana bread; almond-roca scones; and mini Italian coffeehouse cakes. (Ricotta cheese was my secret ingredient to making those tasty little loaves tender and delicious.) They were absolutely perfect with coffee, and I topped each with a different glaze inspired by the gourmet syrups of my coffeehouse: chocolate-hazelnut; buttery toffee; candied orange-cinnamon; raspberry-white chocolate; and sugar- kissed lemon, the flavor found in my Romano “sweet,” an espresso served in a cup with its rim rubbed by a lemon twist, then dipped in granulated cane — the way the old-timers drank it in the Pennsylvania factory town where I’d grown up.

“I think I should make them all,” I said.

“All?”