tony East Hampton cafe. Of course, he wasn’t the first to apply paradox to a restaurant name, not by a long shot. Chef Thomas Keller’s lowly sounding “French Laundry” was the most acclaimed gourmet restaurant in Napa Valley, if not the most highly regarded eatery in the country. And the Brooklyn Diner, just a few blocks away from Manhattan’s Carnegie Hall, was actually a four-star restaurant with linen tablecloths and a stellar wine list.
Cuppa J offered eclectic, upscale bistro fare, with the flavor of coffee infused into many of the main dishes (coffee can be used to great effect in meat dishes as a subtle flavoring agent, tenderizer, or marinade). The restaurant served wine and cocktails, but the star of the culinary show was the array of expensive after-dinner coffees and dessert pairings. Consequently, this season we’d become
The two-story restaurant, with its red brick exterior, had been a Chinese restaurant before falling into foreclosure a year ago. This past spring David redid the surrounding grounds with topiaries, flowerbeds, and shade trees. He’d cleaned the brick, repainted the peeling white trim, and replaced the first floor windows with white french doors.
I drove through the customer parking area, framed with ivy-colored trellises, and around to the back of the restaurant where the employees parked. It was just past noon when I walked through the kitchen door. The waitstaff would be arriving in a few hours to prepare for dinner service from four until midnight—and I expected finally to see Joy, who I hadn’t heard from the entire day. Clearly, she was ignoring the five messages I’d already left on her cell phone’s voicemail.
“Hi, Carlos.” I waved at the restaurant’s reliable sous chef, Carlos Comacho. He was busy, cutting up onions and carrots, preparing for Executive Chef Victor Vogel’s arrival. He gave a quick smile and went back to his work.
The next person I encountered was Jacques Papas, who stuck his head out of his office at the sound of my voice. Papas acted as the restaurant’s manager, maitre d’, and sommelier. Half-French and half-Greek, Papas was in his early forties, swarthy, with dark eyes and ink-black hair (which I assumed he had dyed, because the only thing that occurred in nature that dark was a celestial black hole). We stood nearly eye to eye, but what the man lacked in size he made up for in belligerent energy. I had yet to see him smile. His usual demeanor was one of mild disdain mingled with boredom—either that or a sneer.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
The manager offered me a sour look, then crisply turned and disappeared back into his office.
Living in Manhattan, I was no stranger to divas of all stripes in the upscale restaurant game. But Papas had attitude beyond reason. At least he was consistent, I thought, shrugging off Papas’s chilly snub. He treated employees and guests with equal contempt.
After walking through the spotless, stainless steel kitchen, I strolled by the staff ’s break room and pushed through the burgundy leather double-doors, which took me into the two-story dining room.
While the exterior of Cuppa J was as unassuming as its name, the interior was another matter. David had taken great pains to model the decor after a pair of famous Paris coffeehouses—the traditional Café Marly, designed in the 1990s by Oliver Gagnére and Yves Taralon, and the more modern Le Café Costes designed in 1985 by Philippe Starck.
The Marly’s influence was evident as soon as you stepped into the breathtaking room. Dark burgundy-hued walls were gilded with art deco flourishes and lined with cherrywood wainscoting that perfectly matched the sixty- two cafe tables. Forest green velvet couches and low-backed ivory armchairs were interspersed with freestanding antique
At the top of the staircase a massive clock was set into the wall. This mosaic timepiece, fashioned from sheets of translucent quartz and colored stones, was a homage to the central motif of the now defunct La Café Costes, right down to the movement of the clock’s arms, which spun around twenty-four times every hour.
David assumed this bizarre
The narrow mezzanine circled the entire restaurant. Along with additional seating, the upstairs featured a cherrywood bar, a spectacular view of the main dining room below, and an eye-level view of the huge brass-and- glass chandelier that dangled from the high ceiling.
Crossing the dining room, I walked over to the first floor’s open coffee bar.
Over the years, the crimes I’d seen upscale restaurants commit against the bean truly made me shudder. Leaving pots to simmer on burners until the liquid had the consistency of muddy tar. Serving customers espressos in cold cups. Frothing cappuccinos with steam wands that hadn’t been properly cleaned. Filling stacks of paper filters with pre-ground coffee and allowing it to sit around aerating for hours before brewing. (The moment you grind your beans, they begin to lose their freshness.)
As Cuppa J’s barista manager/drill sergeant, I’d pretty much browbeaten every waiter and waitress into following the holy rituals of high-quality coffee service.
With my clipboard in hand, I was very pleased to note that the area had been left shipshape by the previous evening’s closers. The espresso machine had been properly cleaned, demitasses neatly stacked on top; the coffee canisters were left tightly sealed; and the French presses were lined up in formation on the cherrywood shelves like good little soldiers of sparkling glass.
I checked the contents of the coffee canisters. There were twenty in all, each holding a different blend or single-origin coffee featured on our menu. Back in the city, we did micro-roasting daily in the shop. In my weekly trips back to the city, I’d create the roasts needed at Cuppa J, then transport the whole beans back here in vacuum-sealed bags.
I began making careful notes on the levels in each canister. Which ones needed replenishing? Which ones weren’t moving? This data would be fed into the computer where I’d created a program to track customer favorites.
“Ms. Cosi, will you be finished soon?”
I let out a reactive yelp of surprise. Papas had crept up on me. There was no other way to describe it. One second I was alone, the next he was there, right next to me.
Others had joked about this phenomenon. Colleen O’Brien likened him to the ghost of Squire Malone, a legendary Irish haunter from her home county. Graydon Faas, a fan of Anime, maintained that the manager’s ability to spring upon an employee the moment he made a mistake must mean he’s housing a secret teleportation device in that office of his that he seldom let anyone enter. I could believe it.
“I’m almost through,” I told Papas. “We’re really low on the Mocha Java. Probably because it’s a dark roast, so I’m pairing it with the chocolate soufflé and the flourless chocolate-kahlua cake, and chocolate’s the most reliably popular dessert flavor. I have more MJ in the basement, but not enough to get us through Sunday brunch. I guess I’ll call the Blend and have Tucker send some through our delivery service.”
Thinking out loud was something I did when nervous and Papas was a guy who made me very nervous. He stared at me for a long silent moment. This was an annoying habit of his: you spoke, he stared, answering in his own good time.
“Very well then, call your people,” he replied at last. Then he checked his watch. “I must run an errand. I will be gone for an hour, no more.”
“That’s fine. When the wait staff starts arriving, I’ll put them to work dressing the dining room tables. By the way, have you heard from Prin about her family emergency? Do you think there’s a chance she’ll be back before Monday?”
The man’s frown deepened. “No.”
Papas cut me off. “That won’t be necessary. Prin won’t be back.”
I blinked. “Really? What happened?”
Jacques Papas looked away. “David Mintzer happened. He personally fired the young woman a few days ago. Gave her the boot without even a letter of recommendation. Left me short of help, I can tell you. And in the middle
