Through The Grinder

“Hands to yourself,” I hissed, shoving him away a second time. “Move along. I mean it.”

Man, what a creep, I thought with a shudder. Only Brooks Newman could turn Nan’s innocent little playgroup into a playgrope.

“All right, gentlemen,” Nan called. “Let’s move to your next potential Ms. Right!”

Still agitated, I flipped the Hello Kitty notepad to a fresh pink page. “More like Ms. Right Now,” I muttered.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Now.”

I looked up to find the next Power Meet participant, a fortyish man with chiseled features and a thick head of brown hair. His caramel-colored eyes looked curious and slightly amused by my comment. He held out his hand and smiled.

I shook it. A warm, firm shake.

“I’m Bruce,” he said. “In case you can’t read the ‘Hello, My Name is’ tag covering half my chest here.”

My turn to smile. “I’m Clare.”

I politely looked him over. A gorgeous suede jacket hung handsomely off broad shoulders. Beneath the jacket was a white, open-collared button-down that tapered into worn jeans.

“I’ve seen you here before,” he said. “But downstairs.”

He sat down and leaned back, crossing a workbooted foot over a jean-clad knee. He seemed totally relaxed. “Comfortable in his own skin,” was how Madame would put it in one of her favorite French phrases. In her view, too many urban Americans — “over-educated, over-stressed, over-anxious urban Americans” as she put it — too often weren’t.

I looked at Bruce again. He did seem slightly familiar. “You’re one of our customers?”

“I come in when I can. You have the best cappuccinos in the city.”

Oh, I like this guy, I thought. But not for Joy. Too old for Joy. I relaxed with that thought, knowing I wouldn’t have to grill him with my “Screening for Psychos” list of questions.

“Thanks,” I said. “Are you from New York?”

“Originally, I’m from San Francisco.”

“That’s a real coffee town.”

He nodded, his caramel-colored eyes brightening. “Absolutely. You know, your espressos are like nothing I’ve tasted before. They’re like the perfect cross between the North Beach espressos I used to drink back home and the espressos I’ve tasted in Milan.”

My jaw dropped. “You can’t know that. Like ten people in the world know that.”

He shrugged. “I can’t pull an espresso worth a damn. And I can’t tell you why it tastes like that. I just know it does.”

I nodded. “It’s the beans and roasting process. The Milanese Italians like a subtler, sweeter espresso. The North Beach Italians like the more pungent, rougher espresso. Madame likes to say we’re geographically and gastronomically between the two.”

“Fascinating…” He smiled, his gaze ever so subtly moving over me. “So how exactly do you get the different tastes?”

“A lot of ways. To get that more pungent, rougher version, you’d roast your beans darker — and you’d start with beans that have rich, acidy elements like a Kenyan AA or a Sidamo. For the Milan taste you’d want softer profile Arabica beans — something like a Brazilian Santos. And you’d be careful not to add any beans to the blend with acidy elements. You might even add an Indian grown washed Robusta for sweetness — though typically Robustas are an inferior, foul little low growing bean, the sort you’d find in pre-ground tinned coffee, and you’d want to steer clear of them. The best beans are Arabicas, and they’re grown at high altitudes — a good rule of thumb is the higher the altitude, the higher the acidity, and the better the coffee.”

Bruce’s eyebrows rose. “Wait. You want an acidy taste in your coffee?”

Give the man points for actually listening. “Acidity is an industry term. In coffee- speak it doesn’t mean bitter or sour. It means a brightness, a pleasant sharpness. Basically, when you create a blend you want to pay attention to three major elements: acidity, aroma, and body. The beans that provide acidity are the high notes, the ones that provide body are the low notes. In the middle, you want beans that provide aroma, which can range from fruity to herby.”

“Just like a musical chord. That’s a nice way of explaining it, Clare.”

His smile was genuine and I liked the way he said my name. “Thanks. That’s nice of you to say.”

“So give me an example of one of your blends.”

“I’ll give you a basic one: Kenya AA for acidity, Sulwese for aroma, and Colombian for body. But it’s not just the coffee types that are important. For the perfect cup, what’s also key is getting the highest quality beans possible, roasting and brewing them expertly, and enjoying them while they’re still fresh.”

“I’m getting it…and I can see there’s a lot that goes into your business.”

I shrugged. “We roast green beans right here in the basement. It’s a century-old family business and every year it can change, depending on the worldwide coffee crops — not to mention the tastes of our customers. So you’d better love it and stay on top of it, or leave it, you know? And I do love it.”

“Yeah, I love my business for the same reason — the constant challenge and the creativity.”

I glanced at his workboots. “So what do you do?”

“I started out in construction, then became an architect to specialize in historical restoration — and I’ve done nothing but expand my business since I moved East. I’ve been in the tri-state region about ten years now, and I just moved down here from Westchester about two months ago. I’m divorced. No kids.”

“What are you working on?”

Bruce laughed a little at my question. “I’ve got crews all over the city. Dozens of projects — interiors and exteriors. For myself personally, I’m jazzed about restoring the interior of a Federal townhouse over on Leroy. The exterior is more archetypal than your building here, even has a horse walk. Yours is a beauty, and its got a high level of integrity, but I can see there’ve been some liberties taken with alternations — I assume to make it workable for your business. The first floor’s line of French doors and front windows for starters.”

“Those were put in decades ago, sometime between 1910 and 1920, when the Blend shifted from being purely a wholesale roaster to a roaster and a café. I take it you’re renovating the Leroy property for a residential owner then?”

“For myself. I bought it outright the second I saw it.”

My eyes widened. This guy was a multi-millionaire. No question.

“How about you? What’s Clare’s story — in five minutes or less.”

He smiled warmly again, and I tried to ignore the ridiculous pulsing of blood through my stupid veins. So this guy was drop-dead gorgeous, a self-made millionaire, charming as hell, and genuinely turned on by the perfect cup of coffee. So what? Underneath, he was probably as smarmy as Brooks Newman, looking to dangle a pretty package long enough to bait as many women as possible. Shop-and-drop. Grind ’em up. Spit em out…

Still…there was no reason not to be civil.

“Let’s see,” I began. “Well, I’d originally managed the Blend between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine. Then I got divorced, left this life for the hinterlands of New Jersey, and spent the next decade raising my daughter, fighting crabgrass, and launching a part-time career writing for trade magazines.”

“Which?”

“Cupping, In Stock, and other magazines published specifically for the coffee and restaurant trade. Once in a blue moon, I come across a topic I pitch to a bigger publication. I had a Sunday New York Times Magazine piece run not too long ago about coffee-drinking trends.”

“Impressive.”

“That’s nice of you to say, but my priority now is this place. Just a few months ago, my daughter moved to Manhattan to attend culinary school, so when Madame, the owner of the Blend, made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, I came back to managing again.”

“An offer you couldn’t refuse? Let me guess…equity?”

“I’m impressed. Equity and the rent-free use of the duplex upstairs. You read tea leaves, too?”

“Not tea leaves — coffee grounds.”