Such simple dry-processing (or “natural”) methods emphasized bold fruit notes. But the fruit taste could come off as overly wild and fermented. Here, however, the wild fruit character had been tamed. The taste was more balanced, with a longer lasting body than a typical Harrar. And it was far more aromatic. The floral and fruit notes remained intact from the first sip through the last (a real trick in a dark roast). And, as the cup cooled, these flavors assembled themselves differently with each taste. It was a complex and beautifully structured cup, a coffee for those who wished to sip rather than gulp. A coffee worthy of contemplation.
“A coffee like this,” I mused, “used in our espresso blend, would be spectacular.”
“Yes, my dear, just imagine the fine aromatics in the crema.”
I nearly swooned. “More, please.”
As Madame poured, she explained to me that Matteo had personally presented her with five pounds of these beans so that he could explain what he’d secretly been working toward. He and a small Ethiopian farmer he’d befriended had together attempted to experiment with processing methods other than the traditional dry method the farmers of Harrar had used for hundreds of years. No easy feat.
The Ethiopian coffee industry, like many others in the Third World, depends mainly on the work of small- holding farmers with virtually no access to technology and a limited infrastructure. Most Ethiopian farmers still carry their coffee to the mill on their heads. Dry-processing is used in regions where rainfall is scarce and there are long periods of sunshine.
In wet-processing, water is used to remove the four layers surrounding what we know as the “green” coffee bean—the part of the cherry that we roast, then grind and brew. There are other methods, like natural pulping and an experimental process called “repassed” or “raisins,” where the cherries float because they have dried too long on the tree before being collected; then those floaters are removed from the rest and then “repassed” and pulped.
The bottom line, however, is this: while microclimate and soil are contributing factors to the profile of any coffee, processing is usually the single largest contributor to the coffee’s flavor characteristics. The differences between a washed and dry-processed coffee from the same region can be more distinct than two wet-processed coffees from different regions.
Madame spoke up again. “Matt would like to call this the Village Blend Special Reserve.”
I nodded. “And did Matt tell you what his plan was for this Special Reserve?” I asked carefully, thinking this had to be part of Matt’s big kiosk plan: an exclusive coffee for his exclusive settings.
“Plan?” said Madame, perplexed. “What sort of plan? He plans to sell it at the Blend, of course, what else?”
Again I nodded, this time with nervous indulgence. Obviously, Matt hadn’t told her the rest of his tale—only the “Once Upon a Time” part. I didn’t blame him for breaking the kiosk plan to her slowly, getting her on board with the Special Reserve idea first. Madame had never expressed anything but loathing for the idea of franchising the Village Blend or commercializing its name—the most recent attempt being the rather shady business deal proposed by Eduardo Lebreaux, the Eurotrash importer who had tried to sabotage the landmark coffeehouse after Madame had rejected his offers to purchase it. Madame always believed there should be one Village Blend and only one—or, as she’s been known to say, “There’s only one Eiffel Tower, dear, only one Big Ben, only one Statue of Liberty….”
Although Madame’s employment contracts with Matt and I gave us increasing equity in the business over time, she was presently still the owner. She could shut Matt down with one simple syllable, which was why I wasn’t about to say another thing about it. Frankly, it was up to Matt to inform his mother of his plans, not me.
As our conversation continued, Madame got around to telling me about her date to a major charity function the previous night (lucky her, she was still seeing Dr. McTavish, an oncologist at St. Vincent with the sex appeal of Sean Connery), and I slowly realized Madame wasn’t bringing up the subject of Tucker and the Blend because she hadn’t yet heard about it.
I broke the news as delicately as I could, telling Madame about the Lottie Harmon party which she’d missed, the murder of Ricky Flatt at the coffeehouse, and Tucker Burton’s arrest.
“A flagrant miscarriage of justice,” Madame declared. “We both know Tucker is innocent of this terrible crime.”
Her faith in the Blend’s barista cheered me considerably. Before her comment, I’d felt pretty much alone in my crusade to free Tucker. Madame’s next words did more than cheer me up. They gave me hope.
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
I told her about Lottie’s partner Tad Benedict. Although I hadn’t discussed
“I was hoping you would attend that seminar tonight, try to find out what Tad Benedict’s up to, whether the business ventures he’s representing are legitimate or not. Snoop around, find out what you can.”
Madame’s eyes lit up brighter than Radio City. “How exciting!” she exclaimed. “What time do we leave?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t go. Tad knows me and might get suspicious if I show up. But Matteo will attend. He’s pitching…a…um, a new business venture.”
“Then perhaps Matteo can do the snooping,” suggested Madame.
“That would be helpful. But he says he can’t. He’s determined to find funding for his business, and that’s his priority—he claims Tad promised him results.”
“What is Matteo so fired up about?”
I shrugged.
“Perhaps he’s looking for more monetary backing for the Ethiopian wet-processing?” Madame fished.
I smiled. “I’ll let him tell you about it.”
I could see she was quite curious now, but she didn’t force the issue. “I want to help,” she said. “But I wouldn’t know how to snoop around, or what to look for. Clare, I think you’d better come along, too.”
I sighed. “Matteo actually suggested I wear a disguise, but I’m sure he was being snide.”
Madame clapped her slender, graceful hands. “A disguise! What a perfectly marvelous idea.”
“But that’s crazy! I’m no undercover cop. An d…I’m not very good at deception.”
“As I recall, you did a pretty good job of bluffing your way into that Meat No More fundraiser a few months ago.”
“That was a desperate situation. I thought my daughter was in danger.”
“Don’t you see? This is a desperate situation, too. Think about Tucker, what that poor man is going through. Sitting in a jail cell, accused of a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Look, I’m doing all I can. But in this instance what can I do? Wear a wig? Dark glasses? It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t have the poise or the attire to trick anyone into believing I’m a wealth investor.”
“Bah,” she cried. “Poise comes with the proper attire, and that’s a problem easily solved.”
She set down her china cup and stood. “Come with me. I’m sure we can find something suitable from my own wardrobe.”
Madame led me down a long hallway lined with statuary and through the door to her boudoir. The corner room was bright and spacious, with ivory lace curtains pulled back to admit the afternoon sun. Passing the mirrored dressing table, Madame flung open the cream-colored doors to her walk-in closet and stepped inside.
She stared, clucking at the array of fine clothing hanging there, then shook her head. “No, no, no…these clothes just won’t do.”
Madame moved deeper into the closet, to an ornate armoire made of dark teakwood. When she opened its doors, my eyes widened. The armoire was packed with vintage clothing sealed in clear plastic—a fabulous array of textures, a cascading rainbow of colors. An Oleg Cassini evening dress in shell pink, silk-georgette chiffon beside a Givenchy dress and jacket in deep-pink wool bouclé. An elegant two-piece linen suit in blazing red, a la Chez Ninon. A pale blue Herbert Sondheim sundress. Black cigarette pants with matching black-and-white striped jacket. Pillbox hats. Capri pants. A-line skirts. And there were vintage accessories, too. A Gucci hobo bag. Real crocodile shoes. Belts. Handbags. Gloves. Jewelry. Even several pairs of oversized tortoise-shell sunglasses.
“When I was your age, these were the clothes I wore,” Madame said with a note of pride, as she pulled out
