Live and Let Pie Page 2

  A young woman with a pile of dreadlocks sat on one side of the couch. The other side was piled with cookbooks and boxes of artwork and succulent plants that would be displayed behind the coffee and pastry counter upstairs.

  “Are you here for the interview?” I asked. “Sorry it’s such a mess down here.”

  “Yeah. No worries.” She fluffed her layered tie-dyed peasant skirt.

  “Great. I’m Jules.” I held up the file folder. “Let me go check in with my kitchen staff for a minute, and then I’ll be right with you.”

  “Cool.” She flashed me a peace sign. Anywhere other than Ashland her appearance and mannerisms might have mistaken her for someone auditioning for a part in Hair. In Ashland she was part of the norm. While our small town was a haven for retirees and professionals it also had a distinct counterculture segment of “travelers” or modern-day hippies passing through on their way up and down the West Coast.

  I peered into the kitchen where Sterling was searing sausages on the stove.

  “Hey, Jules.” He wiped grease splatter from the pristine countertops with the edge of a dishrag. “Did you see that your first interview is here?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. The woman was gnawing her fingernails. She must be nervous, I thought to myself. I wanted to ask him about his first impression but didn’t want to risk having a potential new staff member overhear us. I guess that was one downside to an open-concept kitchen. “Yeah. I just wanted to make sure everything is good in here before I get started.”

  He flipped a beautifully charred sausage with a pair of tongs. “Everything’s under control. Bethany ran a tray of cupcakes up a minute ago. She’s doing a special lunch brownie—blood orange and dark chocolate.”

  “That sounds divine.” I walked closer to the stove. “And your sausages smell incredible. I’m almost willing to burn my tongue for a taste.”

  “That doesn’t sound like wise advice from a seasoned chef.” Sterling curled his bottom lip. His ice-blue eyes lit up. “Do you see what’s happening to me? I’m stuck with Bethany and Steph down here and am starting to talk in puns.”

  “You’ll live.” I patted his shoulder. “What’s your plan for the sausages? And where is Stephanie?”

  “She’s finishing the wholesale deliveries.” Sterling carefully cut through one of the sausages to test whether it was done. “Is that too pink?” he asked.

  I used a fork to pull back the beautifully crisp casing. Pork gets a bad rap when it comes to safety. People panic about seeing the color pink, which tends to lead to overcooking the delicious, tender, lean meat. Sausages often pull pink due to salt (which helps meats retain their natural color) and spices like paprika. “It looks good to me, but there’s only one way to tell,” I said to Sterling.

  “Meat thermometer?” he asked, opening the drawer to the left of the stove.

  “You got it.”

  I watched as he tested the meat.

  “One hundred and sixty-five degrees.” He held up the thermometer.

  “Like I said, perfect.” I tried to wink but was sure that my face had contorted in a goofy squint instead.

  “Show-off,” Sterling teased. He placed the thermometer in the sink and showed me his stack of ingredients. “I was thinking of doing an old-school-style sausage roll. Stephanie made Italian loaves. I was going to grill them with some garlic-infused olive oil and then do some caramelized onions and charred peppers. Add that to the sausage with a creamy beer cheese sauce and spicy brown mustard.”

  “Can it be lunchtime right now?” I placed my hand over my stomach to stop it from gurgling.

  “You like it?” Sterling’s angular cheekbones softened as he smiled. He was an innately talented chef but hadn’t yet developed the confidence required to run a kitchen on his own. I hoped that as we gave him more responsibility and independence he would learn to trust his instincts.

  “I love it.” I lowered my voice. “Please save me one. I have a full day of interviews lined up and I have a feeling I’m going to need some sustenance to get through them.”

  “Deal.” He flipped a sausage. “Oh, by the way, nice shirt. We all still think you should have stuck with the chocolate look. Bethany was talking about creating a Jules chocolate special in your honor.” His ice-blue eyes flooded with enjoyment.

  “Whatever.” I pretended to be offended.

  Bethany and Steph came downstairs together. Stephanie held two large empty boxes. The tips of her purple hair had been dyed black. It reminded me of our black-and-white dipped cookies.

  “How did deliveries go?” I asked.

  “Fine.” She set the boxes next to one of the bread racks and tucked her hair behind her ears. “The Green Goblin wants a few dozen cupcakes for trivia night. I told them I would have to check with you.”

  Bethany washed her hands and moved to the decorating station. She began filling a piping bag with French buttercream. “I made extra for the lunch rush. I can use those for the Goblin as long as they aren’t picky about flavor and then I’ll double my brownie recipe.”

  Stephanie wrapped an apron around her waist. “I don’t think they care.”

  “Great. I’ll leave you to it and go start interviews. I’ll be right over there most of the afternoon if you need me.” I pointed to the seating area. Then I found a notebook and pencil. We always kept paper on hand in the kitchen. You never knew when inspiration for a new recipe or cake design might strike.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said to the young woman with dreadlocks as I pulled a chair up next to the couch.

  She sat up and planted her hiking boots on the floor. “No worries.” Fumbling through an oversized hemp bag, she reached inside and handed me a wrinkled piece of paper. “Here’s my resume. I’m Sequoia, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sequoia.” I shook her hand. Her name didn’t surprise me. Ashland’s eclectic community attracted a variety of personalities. Judging by Sequoia’s appearance, I had definitely pegged her correctly as one of Ashland’s travelers, a younger crowd that had a deep connection to nature and could often be found busking in Lithia Park on warm summer afternoons. One of the things that I appreciated most about our town was that every group—professors, actors, doctors, students, and hospitality staff—lived harmoniously. Ashland’s openhearted spirit naturally led people from all walks of life to land here.

  “Tell me about yourself and your baking background.” I flipped open the notebook and waited for Sequoia to speak.

  She wrapped her finger around one of her dreadlocks. I was happy to see that her hands were well groomed. Her fingernails were trimmed and had been painted with pastel tie-dye polish that matched her skirt. “Uh, well, I’ve got a bunch of experience with coffee. I’ve worked a lot of places. I spent the past few years traveling, really getting a sense of the world, you know? I’ve worked at coffee stands in Santa Monica, Santa Cruz, Austin, Dallas, and at coffee carts in Portland and one in Seattle. I also spent time as an apprentice at a San Francisco roasting company.”

  I opened the file folder and pulled out her resume. “You’re interested in the barista position, correct?” Her resume highlighted her barista training. “I see that you attended a three-day barista course in San Francisco.”

  “Yeah, the roaster I worked for sent me to that. I learned espresso extraction, drink preparation, milk texturing, cupping, latte art, cold drink prep. Everything.”

  I was impressed. The institute where Sequoia had received her training had a reputation for turning out some of the best baristas on the West Coast.

  “What brought you to Ashland?” I continued.

  Her gold-flecked eyes stared up at the sunlight streaming in through the window. “I’ve got people here and I like the vibe. Ashland is super chill, you know?”

  “I do know.” I smiled internally and jotted down a few thoughts. My first concern about Sequoia was whether or not she would stick around. I didn’t have the time to train someone new only to have them leave a few months l
ater. My second concern was whether she was too chill for our team.

  As if sensing my hesitation, she sat up straighter and smoothed her peasant skirt. “My parents own a coffeehouse in Vermont. I grew up in the business and part of me misses it, but the West Coast is more my speed, you know?”

  I had a feeling every sentence was going to end with “you know.”

  “What sort of things did you do in your family’s coffeehouse?”

  She answered with a lengthy list of tasks, including cleaning the grease trap (one of the most dreaded jobs in any coffee shop), that left me surprised and potentially willing to give her a chance.

  “You want me to show you what I’ve got?”

  I scrunched my brow. “What you’ve got?”

  “My skills, you know? I can make you a latte right now.”

  “Well.” I hesitated. I hadn’t intended to have job candidates perform on the spot.

  “The espresso machine is upstairs, right?” Sequoia stood. “Let me give it a go.”

  “Okay, I guess.” I followed her upstairs. The crowd had thinned out. It would be busy again for the lunch rush soon, but there was often a lull between morning breakfast service and the noontime blitz.

  Andy was packaging a customer’s pastry order to go at the register.

  “This is Sequoia. Andy, she’s going to do a demo on the espresso machine for me.”

  For the first time maybe ever, Andy’s buoyant grin hardened. He looked from me to Sequoia and then back to me. “What’s that, boss?” His eyes were filled with distrust.

  “Sequoia is going to make a latte for me as part of her interview.” I tried to mouth “Relax” but his eyes were lasered on Sequoia. He didn’t blink as he handed the customer a box of pastries and then stood protectively in front of the espresso machine.

  “You know how to use this baby?” he asked, not attempting to hide the skepticism in his tone. “This is a state-of-the-art machine. This isn’t your grandma’s coffeepot.”

  Sequoia rolled up the sleeves on her loose hemp blouse. “I’m very familiar with La Pavoni. That’s the two-group model.”

  Andy didn’t budge. He ran his hands along the top of the sleek red Italian machine.

  “Whoa, I’ve heard of people loving coffee, but not a machine.” She turned to me in hopes that I would agree.

  Andy glared at her.

  I stepped between them. “Andy is a master and the espresso bar is his domain.” I gave him a nudge. “But let’s give Sequoia a chance to test it out.”

  “Boss, this isn’t a machine for novices,” Andy protested, moving to the far end of the counter.

  Sequoia seized the opportunity and immediately began changing the dials.

  “Don’t touch that. I have everything set for a perfect ratio.” Andy took off his baseball hat and punched it into his palm.

  “I know what I’m doing.” Sequoia shot him a look. Then she expertly ground beans and tamped them with one hand. With the other she began steaming milk.

  Andy buried his face in his hat. “I can’t watch this. I can’t. It’s too painful.”

  “Look,” I said in a low voice, dragging him away from the espresso machine. “I don’t know if she’s going to be a fit for us, but when she suggested making a coffee, I figured it wasn’t a bad idea. Watching her work should give us a good sense of her skills. And, she has been professionally trained. She attended the International Coffee Institute in San Francisco.”

  “But, Jules, she’s going to ruin everything.” Andy never called me “Jules.” Since the first day we met, he had called me “boss.”

  “I promise, it will be fine. She’s been classically trained.”

  He scowled. “Really? She doesn’t look it.” He paused and lunged over the counter. “Don’t do that. You’re going to steam the milk too high.”

  Sequoia rolled her eyes. “Like I said, I know what I’m doing. Are you familiar with the history of La Pavoni? Their machines date back to the early nineteen-hundreds.” She rattled off facts about the manufacturer and our particular model. Andy listened with his arms folded across his chest.

  I was surprised by his possessive behavior. One of my top priorities in hiring more staff was support for him.

  A customer came in for a lunch order, so I shoved him over to take care of her. Meanwhile, Sequoia moved with a fluid ease. She reminded me of a dancer the way she stretched her arms out to pour the creamy milk. With a slight flick of the wrist she created a peace sign in the top of my foam. Then she folded her arms across her chest. “Tell me what you think.”

  Andy had finished taking the customer’s order and peered over my shoulder.

  “Foam is decent. It could use some finesse,” he muttered under his breath.

  I took a sip of Sequoia’s drink. The ratio of coffee and milk was perfect. There was a nice layer of fluffy foam and a rich, dark espresso flavor. “It’s really good.”

  She gave Andy a triumphant smile.

  He snatched the coffee mug from me, nearly spilling the latte. “Let me try it.” He took a drink and swished the latte around in his mouth, as if he was tasting a fine wine. Then he held the mug to the light. He stuck his finger into the foam to measure the depth. When he finally finished his assessment, he handed Sequoia the mug and shrugged. “It was okay.”

  Sequoia wasn’t fazed.

  I glanced at the clock. My next interviewee would be arriving soon. “Let me walk you out,” I said to Sequoia.

  Andy gave her a three-finger wave and began resetting the machine.

  “What’s his story?” Sequoia stopped at the front door. “He’s uptight.”

  “Not usually. In fact, never.” I glanced at Andy.

  “Thanks for the chance,” she said. “I take it, it’s a no?”

  “I didn’t say that.” I opened the door and motioned outside. “I’m going to be doing more interviews. I’ll talk to Andy. I think he’s just nervous because he’s been a one-man show up until now, but he needs help and so do I.”

  “Cool. I’m around and I can start anytime. The sooner the better. I’m trying to get into a permanent place here and having a job will help.” She unfolded her billowy sleeves.

  I waited for a group of teenagers to skateboard past us. “To be honest, my main concern is about your commitment level. From your resume it’s clear that you’ve jumped around a lot, and I’m looking for someone long-term.”

  “That’s me. I want to be here long-term. I have to be.” She didn’t elaborate.

  “Great. I’ll be in touch.”

  I watched her walk away. There was something about her energy that drew me in. Her coffee had been delicious. She clearly wasn’t exaggerating about her barista experience. Now the only question was how to make sure Andy wouldn’t kill me if I hired her.

  Chapter Three

  The rest of the day brought more interviews. There were so many qualified applicants I had no idea how I was going to decide. The top of my list included Marty, an older, jovial gentleman with a thick handlebar mustache and an equally thick waistline. He had been a baker in San Francisco for years before his wife became ill. They had moved to the Rogue Valley to be close to family and medical care. She had recently passed away, leaving him ready for a new challenge and eager to develop connections in the area. He had been retired for ten years but seemed energetic and ready for a fresh start.

  Also in the running was Rosa, a native Spanish-speaker with a soft-spoken personality. She was about my age with excellent references. She came highly recommended from my friend Chef Garrison, who raved about her work ethic and her pan de coco, a popular sweet bread filled with brown sugar and coconut that originated in the Philippines. Rosa had met Chef Garrison while working at a small family-owned bed-and-breakfast in Jacksonville. She waited tables and helped with breakfast preparations. The owners had recently sold the inn and Rosa would soon be without a job. I liked her immediately.

  Despite Andy’s attitude, Sequoia was in front of the pack in terms of
baristas. Everyone else I had interviewed struggled with the machine. Plus none of the other candidates had the level of training and experience that Sequoia did.

  “You look like you could use a serious dose of caffeine,” Andy commented when I returned upstairs with a stack of resumes.

  “Hit me with the strongest stuff you’ve got.” I smiled.

  “I thought you’d never ask, boss.” Andy wiggled his fingers with a devilish grin. “I know just the thing.” He began grinding an assortment of beans. “Listen, I want to say sorry for earlier. I don’t know what my problem is. I guess it’s just weird to think about Torte changing. When your mom hired me in high school I never really thought that I would end up staying so long and having a chance to kind of do my own thing here. It’s been pretty amazing.”

  “Absolutely.” I set the resumes on the counter and glanced around the room. The bakeshop was sparsely populated with a few regulars nursing cups of coffee and focused on their laptops. “I get it, Andy. Probably more than anyone. I’m nervous about the changes too.”

  He fiddled with a paper cup. “It’s stupid. I guess it’s just that Torte has become my second home.”

  I wanted to wrap him in a hug, but instead placed my hand over my heart. “Andy, I know. That means the world to me. Mom and I had a long talk about our goals for the expansion and our top priority is to make sure that the new staff we hire blend in. I know at first glance Sequoia looks alternative, but you can’t argue with her skills and her training.”

  The scent of coffee enveloped me as syrupy espresso dripped into a shot glass.

  “It’s cool. Don’t sweat it.” Andy poured one shot into a twelve-ounce cup and then another. “But, the deal is that I’m still in charge of this beast, right?”

  “Right.” I gave him a serious nod. “Absolutely. You are the main man when it comes to Torte’s coffee.”

  He poured a third shot into the cup.

  “Three shots?”

  “Nope.” Reaching for a fourth, he smirked. “Four. I call this the ER 411.”

  “You really are mad about hiring someone new, aren’t you?”