Bakeshop Mystery 13 - Mocha, She Wrote Read online

  I didn’t disagree. One of the reasons I had fallen hard for Carlos was his dedication to infusing food with life. He didn’t simply slice a piece of bread for a sandwich. He caressed the bread, massaging it with olive oil, layering in slices of cheese and paper-thin ham. Everything he plated was a representation of his personality. Including his impish side.

  As much as Carlos prescribed to the idea of infusing food with love, he did the same with fun. There was no debating that commercial kitchens are ripe with stress. That’s why Carlos enjoyed pranking his team. He believed it helped lighten the mood and set a tone for fun. One of his favorite jokes to play was to tuck eggs into the apron of any sous or line chef who left the kitchen for a bathroom break. When they returned to put their apron back on the eggs would fly out, crack all over the floor, and crack up the rest of the kitchen staff. Another classic Carlos shenanigan was assigning any new staffers to pick and clean stinging nettles, with one minor detail left out—the fact that the nettles were stinging. Inevitably a young chef in training would raise their hand and say, “Um, chef are my fingers supposed to be stinging?”

  His pranks were always lighthearted and meant to build rapport, not tear anyone down.

  I took a sip of my coffee. “Like I told you last night, the entire team has tried to pump Andy up. I’ll be there. Mom is coming by. The rest of the staff are going to rotate in and out for different phases of the competition. If nothing else, he’ll have a huge cheering section.”

  “I will try to come by too when I’m finished at Uva. It will depend on how many people stop in for tastings. By the way, have you had any more time to think of the idea of a dinner in the vines?”

  When Carlos had made the decision to stay in Ashland, he found a way (which I still didn’t understand how) to buy out Richard Lord as a partner in our small vineyard—Uva. Richard was the only person in our little hamlet who managed to irk me at every turn. He was a classic bully. Thanks to Mom shunning his advancements years ago, when she was already married, he had made it his mission to make my life miserable and copy anything and everything we did at Torte. His latest attempt to steal business away from us was to set up an ice-cream cart in front of the Merry Windsor. Although, in classic Richard Lord fashion, nothing he served was handcrafted. He had opted for cheap store-bought containers of ice cream loaded with preservatives, candy, and fake whipped topping. Instead of serving his customers a premium product, he went for volume and inexpensive scoops filled with gums and resins used as a thickening substitute for real eggs and cream.

  Carlos had yet to reveal how he managed to convince Richard to sell his shares in the vineyard, but quite honestly I didn’t care. I was thrilled to be free of any ties to Mr. Lord, and Carlos was completely in his element at Uva. He had taken over day-to-day management of the winery, grape fields, and tasting room. His latest idea was to host twilight dinners amongst the grapevines.

  “I love it. I have a feeling it will sell out quickly. We can market it to our already existing Sunday Supper list and the wine club members. Do you want to go with the color concept?”

  When Carlos and I had worked together on the Amour of the Seas—a boutique cruise ship that catered to foodies—he had created color-themed dinners that became legendary amongst passengers and the crew. Guests would dress in the dinner’s theme color, and then all of the food, from the first appetizer to dessert, was served in the same color. For our dinner in red he had prepared a magnificent feast of herbed lentil soup, bruschetta, and tomato Bolognese. We had finished the meal with individual red velvet cakes, sour cherry tarts, and blood-red port. The themed dinners were such a success that people would rebook their next trip based on when the next dinner would occur.

  Carlos waffled. “I do not know. Maybe for this first one we have our guests come in white. We listen to some music. We drink in some wine, like the beautiful moonlight. A romantic evening in the vines. But, I think I would like the food to reflect what is growing in our region here. This farm-to-table movement it is so wonderful. What do you say?”

  “Perfect. I agree. It’s like blending our old world with this one.” I smiled at him. That was what we had been doing with each other, why not do it with our food?

  Carlos snapped twice. “Okay. This is the idea. A dinner in the vines. We will ask the guests to dress in white and we will make them such a wonderful feast. We should discuss a menu soon.”

  I glanced at my watch. “For sure, but right now I need to get to The Hills.”

  We finished our breakfast. Carlos dropped me off at the hotel with a lingering kiss. “Julieta, I do not like leaving you. I wish we could spend the day lying in a hammock under the sun, but the bud break has already occurred on the vine. The grapes are drinking in the fresh air and glorious warmth. I must tend to them and our guests. If I can sneak away early, I will come meet you to cheer on Andy. Wish him luck from me.”

  “Will do.” I got my purse from the back seat and left Carlos with a wave.

  The sand-colored hotel with its tangerine roof blended in with the sloping hills to the east. Lush green lawns and cotton-candy pink roses bloomed throughout the property. A row of orange and white cruising bikes with wire baskets sat ready to be taken for a spin.

  Inside, the retro design continued with gleaming hardwood floors, arched ceilings with exposed white beams, glass bead chandeliers, and colorful burnt-orange couches with funky geometric pillows. The lobby was teaming with competitors and spectators checking out the vendor booths. Exhibitors included everything from Swiss water processing to Italian syrups to Chemex coffeemakers and artisan chocolatiers. It was a sensory overload of everything coffee.

  I decided I could check out the vendors later, but right now my focus was on finding Andy. I left the lobby and followed the signs to the ballroom.

  It was shortly before eight and the hallway was already jammed with people waiting for the doors to open. I pushed my way through the crowd and spotted Andy pacing near the side entrance down a long hallway. Sunlight streamed in through the large wall of windows. Barista Cup banners with coffee art hung from the arched ceiling and on every door.

  “Andy!” I waved and squeezed past a group of women wearing matching T-shirts that read YOU MOCHA ME CRAZY.

  “Hey, boss. You made it.” His jaw was clenched. Huge bags had formed beneath his bloodshot eyes. I guessed that, despite me sending him home, he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. How are you feeling? Did you get any sleep last night?”

  Andy ran his fingers through his hair. Instead of one of our Torte aprons, he wore a chocolate brown one with leather straps. West Coast Barista Cup was embroidered across the chest. “Not really. I mean I tried, and I do appreciate you telling me to take a break. My grandma said the same thing, but I couldn’t sleep.” He looked to his hands, which trembled. “I can’t seem to get my fingers to stop shaking.”

  I placed a hand on his shoulder. “That’s normal. It’s just jitters. As soon as you get behind the machine, your training will kick in. Trust me.”

  “You think?” His eyes brightened.

  “I’m sure of it. You’re going to do great, Andy. I remember my first test in pastry school. My instructor asked a basic math question. It was something like, an eight-pound wedding cake needs to be divided into thirty-two equal slices. How much will each slice weigh? My mind went completely blank. I stood in front of my station with my pencil and calculator for what felt like an eternity. As time was running out the chef shouted, ‘Capshaw, you know this. Focus!’ That snapped me out of my funk and after that I was fine.” I rubbed my hands together. “By the way, in case that comes up today, it’s four ounces.”

  Andy laughed. The tension on his face faded momentarily.

  “I’m so excited to watch you do your thing. You’re going to be great.”

  “Thanks, Jules. You seriously are the best boss on the planet.” His voice was thick with emotion.

  The doors were about to o
pen, and I didn’t want to make his already tender emotional state more fragile, so I made a joke. “You better bet your bottom dollar on that fact, my friend. I’m basically amazing.”

  He chuckled. “Hey, can you do me a favor and keep an eye out for my grandma? I got her a ticket and she asked me to save her a seat, but I’m not sure what it’s going to be like in there.”

  “Count on it. I’ll save her a seat.” I made a funny face. “Of course, it will cost you. How much is the check for the winner?”

  Andy laughed again.

  I was glad the distraction had worked, only it was short lived because the smile faded from his face as a young woman in the same brown apron approached us.

  “Oh no. That’s her. She’s here, she’s really here,” Andy muttered. “That’s Sammy Pressman.”

  “Who’s Sammy Pressman?” My focus drifted to the young woman. She was petite with short black hair, giant silver hoop earrings, and coffee tattoos on nearly every inch of exposed skin.

  “She’s the national reigning five-time champion.” Andy gulped as Sammy approached us.

  “Hey, you competing?” She pointed to his apron. “You must be a newbie.”

  Andy swallowed hard and nodded.

  I’d never known him to be speechless.

  Sammy held her pointed chin high. “Good luck out there today. It gets intense. Try not to sweat it too much. Most newbies do and that’s the death of them. You can’t give the judges anything. They’ll dock you for the slightest slip. Stay cool, newb.” With that she opened the side door and went into the ballroom.

  “Did she just talk to me? Did Sammy Pressman really just talk to me?” Andy stared at the closed door in disbelief.

  “She did. She wished you luck.” Although from my perspective Sammy had sounded less than authentic.

  “I can’t believe Sammy Pressman talked to me. I’ve been following her YouTube for years. She’s amazing. Like a coffee goddess.” Was it my imagination or had Andy’s cheeks turned two shades redder?

  “See, there you go. That should boost your confidence. You’re competing against her today. That means you’re in her same league.”

  “No way.” Andy shook his head. “You don’t understand, Jules. Sammy Pressman is a league all on her own. She does things to coffee that bend every rule in the book. She’s won nationals five times and finished in the top three in worlds. She’s a legend. You must have heard of Fluid, right?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s her coffee shop in Spokane. It’s offbeat, minimalist. Not your traditional café. Fluid is known for their single-origin espressos, their pour-overs, and the fact that everything is roasted in-house. She’s won, like, every coffee award possible for her custom-blending techniques.”

  He didn’t have time to continue because an announcement came on the overhead speakers explaining that the doors were opening for round one. Baristas were to take their positions and spectators to find seats.

  I squeezed his hand. “Good luck.”

  He bit his bottom lip. “Thanks.”

  Andy headed straight for his station in the center of the large ballroom. The cavernous space had been transformed for the competition. Ten bright and shiny burnt-orange espresso machines sat on six-foot tables draped in black tablecloths. Each station had been set up identically with canisters of whole beans, coffee grinders, an assortment of flavorings, and an arsenal of barista tools.

  A giant screen hung behind the competitor’s area to allow the audience a close-up view of the action. Just to the right of the screen was another six-foot table reserved for the judges. Rows of chairs for spectators filled the remainder of the room. A DJ was spinning tunes in the back. Techno music pulsed through the room.

  I snagged seats in the front row. The scene reminded me of my days in culinary school. After I graduated from high school, I left for New York to attend one of the most prestigious pastry schools in the country. Life in the city had been a shock to my system after growing up in Ashland, but it had taught me so much, not only about the art and science of baking but also about myself. If I hadn’t gone to New York, I likely never would have landed a job on the Amour of the Seas and had the opportunity to visit far-flung corners of the world and romantic ports of call.

  Watching the judges circle the competitors, making notes on clipboards, sent my stomach swirling. I remembered all too well the attentive eye of my culinary instructor, who made it his mission to point out even the tiniest flaws in our baking. In the long run his critical lens had made me a better chef, but I certainly didn’t enjoy having him breathe down my neck when I was whipping cream or folding egg whites.

  The judges each wore the same apron design as the competitors, except that their aprons were white and said Judge across the front. I counted five judges. Three sat at the head table, chatting and observing the baristas prepping their stations. The other two roamed around each of the contestants, jotting down notes without saying a word or moving a muscle in their passive faces.

  Andy appeared to be in the zone. He unpacked a tub of specialty syrups and his personal tools.

  A film crew stopped at Andy’s station. Suddenly, his face came up on the big screen. I clapped and turned to a woman sitting next to me—she was part of the group wearing matching You Mocha Me Crazy T-shirts. “That’s my lead barista.”

  “Congratulations,” she replied. “Has he competed before?”

  “No, this is his first time. It’s the first time anyone from our bakeshop has competed.”

  “It’s great fun. I’m a super fan. I’ve been attending Barista Cup for ten years. It gets bigger and bigger. This year there are twenty contestants vying for first place.” She pointed to Sammy, whose station was next to Andy’s. “Sammy Pressman is the queen. She’s a total superstar and a diva, but rightfully so. She’s on another planet when it comes to coffee. Mark my words, she’s the one to watch, but you should also keep your eye on Diaz Mendez. He’s been getting a ton of buzz.” Her eyes drifted to the station opposite Andy.

  A young guy, who I would guess to be in his mid-to-late twenties, had a pair of headphones on and danced to a beat no one else could hear as he rearranged mini whisks and a thermometer. His dark hair was tied into a bun on the top of his head.

  Her friend leaned over. “I see why he’s getting such good buzz. He’s so handsome.” She fanned her face.

  I had no idea that coffee competitions drew such faithful fans.

  “The one you want to watch out for is him,” the woman next to me whispered. She used her left hand to conceal her right finger, which was pointing at a distinguished-looking gentleman in his fifties seated at the judges’ table. He had a long, dark trimmed beard and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. “Do you know who that is?”

  I could wager a guess.

  “Benson Vargas. If you haven’t heard of him, you will after today. The West Coast Barista Cup is his baby and he’s cutthroat when it comes to coffee. I hope he doesn’t intimidate your barista. He looks young and eager. That’s fresh meat for Benson.”

  I got my first in-person glimpse of the infamous judge. Benson was a foot taller than the two judges flanking him. He ran his fingers along his beard and glared at each contestant. At that moment, Andy accidentally knocked a canister of beans off his table. They spilled on the floor and scattered everywhere.

  One of the technical judges walked over to help him.

  “That’s Piper Frederick,” the woman next to me offered. “She’s the head technical judge and co-owner of the Barista Cup with Benson. She’s a stickler for procedure, but she won’t bite the poor kid’s head off like Benson.”

  I watched as Piper bent down to help Andy with the beans. She was about Benson’s age with angular features, copper hair, and glasses that matched his. Piper wore a pair of slim white capris and held a clipboard in one hand.

  I overheard Piper tell Andy that it was no big deal, but to be careful because once the competition officially kicked off, he would definitely ge
t docked points for a spill.

  I felt relieved for him. Only my relief didn’t last long, because my eyes returned to Benson. He was shooting such a dirty look at Andy it made me lean back in my chair. Then he stood and snapped his fingers at Piper.

  “That’s an automatic disqualification. I want him out!”

  Chapter Four

  An audible gasp erupted in the ballroom. The woman sitting next to me nudged my elbow. “I told you he was a tyrant.”

  Andy’s face went white.

  Benson stood and bellowed at Piper and the other technical judge. “Disqualification! Get that contestant out.”

  Piper whispered something to Andy.

  Benson bared his teeth and shook his fist. “You are a disgrace to coffee!” He addressed Andy with a face full of rage. “No self-respecting barista would allow his beans to fall to the floor. Unacceptable!”

  Piper patted Andy’s shoulder. Then she turned to address her fellow judge. “Benson, stop. You’re making a scene. We’re not going to start things off like this.”

  Her words did nothing to deter him. His head made jerking motions as he continued. “Would you stomp on the American flag? Would you desecrate a cathedral? No! That’s what we’ve witnessed here. A total disregard for the sanctity of coffee.”

  Piper shook her head and approached the judges’ table. Her long red ponytail swung from side to side as she waved her finger at Benson.

  “She and Benson have been judging together for years. She won’t stand for him bullying anyone.” My seatmate was a wealth of information. “Piper is responsible for technical judging. She observes the barista’s techniques, cleanliness, and makes sure they come in under the time limit. Benson is a sensory judge, meaning his role is to taste each drink and critique it. He doesn’t get a say in disqualifications at this point. That’s entirely Piper’s call.”

  “Got it.” I smiled at her. “Is Andy in danger of being disqualified for spilling the beans?”

  “No. Not at all. That’s Benson trying to stir up drama. It’s what he does. That’s one of the reasons he draws such a big crowd.” She looked around us. Nearly every seat had filled in. “Judging doesn’t start until the bell goes off. Even then, if a contestant makes a mistake they aren’t disqualified. They just might get a lower score on the technical section.”