Edward glanced over Cuppa J’s coffee selections, as well. “Estate Java, Costa Rican Tres Rios, Kona, Ethiopian Harrar, Kenya AA, Sumatra,” he recited. “My goodness how do we choose what coffee?”
Madame and I exchanged little smiles. “Well, lucky for you my daughter-in-law here is Cuppa J’s coffee steward.”
“Excuse my hearing,” said Edward, “did you say
“Indeed I did. It’s a delightful notion of Clare’s that every fine restaurant should have someone on staff who knows how to buy, store, and properly serve a large variety of coffees and can knowledgeably recommend them to customers.”
“Ah, I see,” said Edward, “like a sommelier only with coffee?”
Madame nodded. “Turn the page on your menu and you’ll see that she’s suggested pairings with tonight’s dessert selections.”
Edward turned the page. “Ah! Yes, yes…and you give a little description of how each coffee tastes—”
“The flavor profile,” Madame informed him, with a wink for me.
Edward stroked his gray beard. “Well, I must say, it’s still difficult to decide.”
“Do you enjoy chocolate?” I asked, trying to help.
“Not really,” said Edward.
“Why don’t we go for something a little more subtle,” Madame suggested. “Edward, I wonder, do you still have a passion for…figs and almonds?”
Still looking down at the menu, Edward smiled. “Oh, yes, Blanche,” he replied, covering Madame’s hand with his own. “That afternoon on my porch? Indeed I do.”
Madame looked up at me, but I’d already guessed their order.
“Spanish fig cake,” I said. “And the almond torte. Both pair nicely with the Sul de Minas.”
Customers who knew a little about coffee sometimes raised an eyebrow at putting a Brazilian on the menu. But a little knowledge sometimes can be as worthless as none at all.
Yes, Brazil is the largest coffee producer in the world, and much of it comes from lower-grade Arabicas and Robustas grown on massive plantations. And, yes, these coffees are flat and average, many of them ending up in mass-marketed blends—the kind you find canned on grocery store shelves. But Brazil is a huge country with a wide spectrum of conditions and quality. In recent years, its growing associations have been working to recreate the image of its coffees. Small farms, like the one Matteo found in the south of Minas Gerais, use higher quality harvesting and processing methods to produce specialty-level coffees that really sing in lighter and medium roasts.
I was surprised to see Madame, of all people, raising an eyebrow at my recommendation. But then she smiled and said—
“The Brazilian is the ideal choice for passion, isn’t it?”
“Passion,” Edward said, seeing Madame’s little smile. “Let me guess why? It reminds you of an old Brazilian beau?”
“Oh, yes, he was Brazilian, but he wasn’t
Edward’s look of curiosity turned into one of confusion.
Madame laughed. “It’s a very old story.”
“Go on,” Edward said.
“Well, you see, ages ago, when coffee plants first came to the New World, they were limited to certain regions. French Guiana and Dutch Guiana both grew coffee, but they jealously guarded the export of their seeds. Then, during a border dispute between the two colonies, Brazil sent a diplomat to help settle it…now what was his name? Clare, help me?”
“Francisco De Mello Peheta.”
“Oh, yes! That’s right. Francisco was a dashing Brazilian, you see, and the wife of the French governor fell for him. They had a passionate affair, and afterward, she sent him back to Brazil with a bouquet of flowers. Buried inside was her real gift to him—clippings from a coffee tree, including fertile coffee cherries. Voila! The Brazilian coffee industry was born.”
Brazilians in the coffee trade loved to repeat the story Madame had just told, which claimed their entire billion-dollar coffee industry had emerged from a love affair. I knew the legend had very little credibility. Madame knew it, too. But, clearly, tonight she was having too much fun seeing the world through her rose-colored reading glasses.
“Shall I bring separate presses?” I asked flatly. “Or just the one pot for the two of you?”
“Make it for two, dear. We’ll share,” she replied.
Needless to say, I was less than thrilled to see Madame with a new man. Dr. MacTavish had been her steady beau for over a year, and I had become used to that…comfortable with that. She hadn’t broken up with the good doctor, of that I was sure. Yet here she was tonight practically giddy over Edward.
Part of me knew I was being way too harsh. At her age, Madame had a right to enjoy happiness wherever she found it, whenever she found it, with whomever she found it. But another part of me felt she was betraying her friendship back in the city.
As I told myself (or at least tried to) that it was really none of my business, I began to prepare their order at the coffee bar.
“Who’s that man with Grandmother?” Joy whispered.
It was the first time Joy had spoken to me in six hours, ever since we’d had that fight at the start of dinner service.
“He’s her date,” I replied. “His name’s Edward Myers Wilson. That’s all I know.”
“What do you mean that’s all you know?” Joy hissed. “They’re all over each other. Where did she meet him? Does he live around here? Don’t you know anything else?”
I put my hands on my hips and stared at my daughter. “No, I do not know anything else,” I told her. “In fact, I know as little about Mr. Wilson as I do about Graydon Faas.”
“That’s not fair,” Joy snapped. “You’ve been working with Graydon for over a month—”
“I could say the same about Treat.”
“Graydon’s not like Treat. And, anyway, it’s my private business whom I see.”
I folded my arms. “Just like it’s your grandmother’s private business whom she sees.”
Joy’s mouth moved but no words came out. Knowing she was trumped, she frowned, wheeled, and slammed through the leather padded doors to the kitchen.
Nine
After checking my other tables, I returned to Madame’s and found the happy couple had moved off the topic of romantic coffee legends and onto a discussion about the restaurant’s decor.
“Quite a delight,” said Edward, gesturing to the mosaic clock at the top of the staircase. “I mean, just look at that surrealist piece up there. It gives the impression of an actual timepiece, yet its arms are turning, turning, turning, so quickly, as if its gears were caffeinated. Perfect!”
I transferred the contents of my silver tray onto the marble-topped cafe table: the four-cup French press, the Waterford crystal timer for the brewing process, and the slices of fig cake and almond torte on hand-painted plates.
Edward shook his head as he continued. “Touches of artistic whimsy like that timepiece…you just don’t see much out here anymore. It’s all gone vague and predictable. They’re razing our brilliant, off-beat architectural history like Motherwell’s Quonset hut, and replacing it with mock shingle-style cottages, for god’s sake.”
