On What Grounds

heart set on making it a franchise.”

“What?” I asked. “Like McDonald’s?”

“Like Starbucks,” he said sharply. Then seemed to catch himself and soften the harsh tone with a forced chuckle.

“There will only ever be one Village Blend,” said Madame. “As long as I own the place—and my intentions are respected by those who own it in the future. And I’ve made sure that it will be Matt and Clare here.”

“Oh, fabulous!” “How wonderful!” “Here’s to the ongoing legacy!” cried voices around the table.

Matt and I glanced at each other. Everyone seemed genuinely happy at this news. Except Eduardo, whose smile was as plastic as they come.

Well, I thought realistically, he’s lost the Blend for good. Why should he be happy for us?

Dessert and coffee were served about then. Madame had ordered coffee for both Matt and me since we’d been away from the table when the orders were taken.

I myself, having missed dinner, was overjoyed to see the steaming cup of coffee sitting next to a slice of flourless chocolate cake garnished with mint leaves and raspberries. I practically inhaled it. Matt, on the other hand, simply frowned and grunted.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“I’m desperate for a hit of caffeine,” he said, “but I can’t abide the coffee at these things. Dishwater and cream.”

“Not tonight,” I said. “The Village Blend provided the beans a few days ago, isn’t that right, Madame?”

“It is,” she said. “Clare roasted the beans over the weekend and shipped the bags up Monday.”

“That’s a lot of extra work, Clare,” said Matt, sniffing the cup and taking a cautionary sip. “Not bad. I hope you charged the Waldorf a pretty penny.”

“It’s a charity benefit, Matt. I discounted the rate.”

Matt let out a frustrated sigh at this news.

Eduardo Lebreux, on the other hand, let out a hearty laugh.

“Something funny?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Eduardo. “The small business owner has to play whatever angles he can. The big pockets will take the tax write-offs anyway. You should have listened to your husband.”

“Matt is not—” I stopped short of adding my husband.

(I did plan to make clear to Madame that Matt and I would never again be man and wife—no matter how many times she introduced us the other way—but I wouldn’t do that to her in public. I had no interest in embarrassing her here so…)

Instead, I said, “Matt is not—correct,” and added, “There’s no need to take a profit at the expense of a fund-raiser for a good cause.”

“Even so,” said Eduardo, “this is America. Whether the coffee tastes good or not is beside the point.”

“Excuse me,” said Matt. “But that’s my entire point.”

“Maybe for you,” said Eduardo, “but you are not common. Most of the people here would drink down whatever came to them at the table, even if it tasted like, as you say, dishwater. They would drink it down and think it was good because it was being served to them in a Waldorf-Astoria cup, you see?”

“No,” I said, getting slowly annoyed.

“Most people in America decide what they like by the brand name,” said Eduardo. “It is the package they buy, not the contents. You see?”

“No,” I said. “We Americans might buy something once or twice because of an advertisement or marketing campaign or even brand loyalty, but if the quality goes bad on us, we’re gone. You’ll lose us forever. Haven’t you ever heard of the expression ‘Where’s the beef?’”

“No.”

“Trust me,” I said. “It’s red-white-and-blue. And there’s nothing as American as the pragmatic expectation of getting what you pay for. Perhaps it’s the Europeans with whom you’re confusing us—the Old World idea of believing aristocrats or royalty at face value.”

“We shall have to agree to disagree,” said Eduardo with an unqualified sneer.

“Yes, we shall,” I said then took a long, satisfying quaff from my steaming cup.

It was Friday night, one of the busiest for the Village Blend, and in another hour Tucker would be expecting barista backup from me.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and simply savored the rich, nutty aroma of the house blend. In no time, the earthy warmth seeped into my every molecule, recharging my weary bones with a splendid jolt of renewed energy.

Thank goodness, I thought. With miles to go before I slept, I was going to need it.

Twenty-Six

“Franchise my ass,” I told Matteo as we climbed up the Blend’s back staircase. We were heading for the duplex apartment to change out of our evening clothes. I was still stewing over the insulting comments of Eduardo Lebreux at dinner.

“Hmmm. Now there’s an interesting idea—”

“What?”

“Your ass. You have a nice one. I just don’t think franchising it would be remotely legal.”

“Matt! I’m serious!”

“So am I.”

The Blend was hopping tonight as our taxi pulled up out front, but Tucker and his two part-timers had it under control. Tucker even told me I didn’t need to come down until closing, and that was fine with me. An hour or so off was just what the doctor ordered.

Matt pulled out his key and unlocked the apartment’s front door. Java greeted me with an ear-piercing mrrrooooow.

“What was that? A jaguar?”

“That means, I’m hungry,” I translated for Matt.

“Big sound from a little cat.”

“She’s got a mind of her own,” I said.

“Just like her owner,” Matt said.

“Why, thank you.” I scratched her ears and poured her some chow. Then I filled the bottom half of my three- cup stovetop espresso pot with water, quickly ground a dark-roasted Arabica blend, packed the grinds into the basket, dropped the packed basket on top of the water, screwed the empty top onto the water-filled bottom, and put the reconnected little silver pot onto the burner.

“I just can’t believe Lebreux would even think of that plan,” I said, continuing my rant.

“Franchising the Village Blend? Why not?” said Matt, pulling loose his black tie and undoing the top buttons of his white dress shirt. “C’mon, it’s not a bad idea.”

“I can’t believe you said that!” I cried, pulling two cream-colored demitasse cups from the cupboard. “The man wanted to take the Village Blend to new lows. Use the Blend name to package up cheap products at premium prices. That was more than obvious from his stated philosophy. Sounds an awful lot like that Kona scandal to me. Need I remind you of those details?”

“No,” said Matt dryly, “but I’m sure you will.”

As he’d already heard his mother repeat countless times, Matt knew very well the tale of how a ring of coffee-broking con artists had been caught transshipping inferior beans through Hawaii, then rebagging and reselling them as the one-of-a-kind Hawaiian-grown Kona.

“In Eduardo’s view,” I said, “that Kona con would have been a keen little trick to play on the American public. Maybe I should have reminded him that the Kona scheme also landed the perpetrators in federal prison.”