Bakeshop Mystery 13 - Mocha, She Wrote Read online

  Tension built in the ballroom as Benson spat out insults to Piper. “Stop coddling the contestants! They don’t need your protection. They’re adults. If they can’t take the pressure, they can find the door. We’ve gone over this dozens of times. I’m done with you! You’re done with the Cup!”

  Piper slipped her hands into her capris pockets. “Benson, this isn’t the time or place.”

  Benson changed his stance, making himself even taller. “You’re done, Piper! I don’t care who hears it! Your days are numbered. This competition is going to the next level and I’m not going to stand for amateurs who spill beans everywhere.” He scowled at Andy.

  Piper shot a sideways glance to the other technical judge, who also approached the table. They consulted their clipboards then pointed out something on the judges’ score sheets that caused Benson to groan loudly for the benefit of the crowd, but then sit down.

  “See. I wasn’t kidding,” the mocha lover next to me said.

  “Obviously.” I couldn’t imagine what Carlos would say if he were here.

  Piper finished scolding Benson. Then she returned to Andy’s station. She said something to him a low voice that I couldn’t hear with the chatter of the crowd. After she finished talking to him, he shot me a thumbs-up and returned to his prep.

  “Is this seat taken?” a familiar voice asked.

  I turned to see Mom standing next me. She had arrived with Andy’s grandmother, June, a round-faced woman in her early seventies with bright, intelligent eyes and a kind smile that matched her grandson’s.

  “June, you made it.” I stood to greet both of them. “I saved seats.” I moved my purse and sweater from the chairs to my left.

  Mom sat down. “Did we miss anything?”

  June sat next to her. Andy’s grandmother was a frequent visitor to Torte. He had lived with her through his first few years of college, and I knew that she had been equally worried about his decision to leave school. However, like Mom and me, she had his best interest at heart. He had told me that she had been up until long past midnight with him helping him prepare for the competition.

  “Well, nothing has started yet, but there’s already been quite a bit of drama.” I filled them in on Andy’s flub.

  “He’ll be fine,” June said with confidence. She had a brought a bundle of knitting to keep her hands busy during the competition.

  “I agree. It’s good that he’s getting his nerves out now.” Mom took off a thin wrap and hung it from the back of her chair. The wrap was pale blue and dotted with colorful chickens. Mom’s signature style matched Ashland—simple, flowing, and elegant. She wore a pair of navy clog sandals and a linen dress.

  “Hey, we match today.” I pointed to my light blue skirt and strappy sandals. Working in the bakeshop meant that most days I donned tennis shoes and jeans. For today’s occasion I had opted for a skirt, tank top, and cardigan. Plus, I wore my favorite pair of dangling earrings—another no-no in a busy kitchen.

  “Great minds think alike.” Mom scooted her chair closer. “Andy looks like he’s in good spirits given that he got off to a rocky start.”

  He spotted her and June, and waved.

  A man wearing skinny purple jeans and a V-neck black tee approached the competitors. He clicked on a microphone and addressed the audience. “Welcome, welcome to the West Coast Barista Cup!”

  Everyone applauded.

  “I’m James, the food and bar manager here at The Hills, and everyone here at the hotel along with the amazing team at the West Coast Barista Cup want to welcome you to our gorgeous Rogue Valley. I’m so thrilled to be your MC and host for this year’s competition. We have such a talented crew of baristas who are going to dazzle you with their skills. Each of them is already a winner. They’ve had to compete in a variety of regional contests, send in video footage of their superior espresso prowess, and pass an exam that tests their coffee culture knowledge. Little-known fact: I myself, competed many, many years ago in the Barista Cup, so this is particularly exciting to me on both a professional and personal level.”

  I noticed Benson roll his eyes.

  James continued. “Okay, so before we get started let’s go over a few things. Cheering is absolutely recommended, but we ask that you remain in your seats while each of the baristas are doing their thing. We’ve set up the big screen, and our video crew will be giving you up-close shots so you can see these talented baristas’ fingers flying. We don’t want anyone raging against the espresso machine.” He laughed at his own joke as the DJ played a clip of “Freedom” by Rage Against the Machine.

  James gestured his approval of the song choice, then continued. “For this first round, our baristas are being tasked with creating a latte, a cappuccino, and a mocha. They’ll be judged on their technique, their time, their coffee knowledge, and their ability to educate and serve, as well as the most important component—taste! Who will be the lord of the beans? That’s up to our esteemed panel of judges. A total of seventy-five points is awarded for the technical portion of the competition and one hundred points for taste and flavor profile, as well as the barista’s knowledge base and their connection to the cup. That gives one hundred seventy-five points in total. Any competitor who goes over the fifteen-minute time limit gets docked the number of seconds they go over. At the end of round one, the bottom two contestants will be eliminated. Then we’ll have a short break. Plenty of time for you to go mingle in our café and bar. We have created some delicious coffee-themed specials for you this weekend. Don’t forget to visit the lobby, where vendors will be showcasing some of the latest and greatest coffee tools and gadgets.”

  He paused and turned around to address the baristas. “Are you ready for a brewing battle?”

  Diaz pumped his fist in the air. Sammy pressed her hands together and nodded. Andy shot his signature thumbs-up. One contestant proceeded to launch into jumping jacks. Another looked like she might throw up. The atmosphere was electric.

  “Okay!” James tried to energize the crowd. “Let’s count them down. The West Coast Barista Battle begins in three … two … one!”

  Cheers reverberated through the ballroom. The baristas went straight to work. It was a whirlwind of activity and sound as beans pulsed in grinders and steam whistled. Andy had a singular focus. He tamped down finely ground beans with a severe look in his eyes, like he wanted to murder the machine.

  “I’ve never seen Andy look so serious,” Mom noted.

  “Neither have I.”

  “He’s been like this at home,” June said, watching him with pride. “I told him that regardless of the outcome, this experience, the training, the preparation, are going to make him that much stronger—win or lose.”

  “Well said.” Mom shared a smile with June.

  We sat in awe as Andy measured exact amounts of milk and dark chocolate syrup for the mocha. He hand-whipped cream like he was giving it a beating. Then he finished the drink with a generous shaving of dark chocolate.

  According to the program, competitors couldn’t stray from the approved list of ingredients in this round. Their drinks would be judged on consistency, balancing the coffee-to-milk ratio, and temperature. If Andy made it on to later rounds, he would be able to showcase his unique flavor profiles.

  Piper and the other technical judge analyzed the baristas every move. I felt nervous for Andy as she approached his station. A pair of reading glasses were pushed to the bridge of her nose.

  “What do you think she’s writing?” Mom asked.

  “No idea. All of the competitors look like they know exactly what they’re doing.”

  I watched Diaz, who appeared to be playing to the crowd, particularly the super fans sitting next to us. He flexed as he placed his latte and then cappuccino on the tray.

  The woman next to me fanned her face again. “He’s such a hunk.”

  Sammy Pressman ignored his antics. She was all business and exuded confidence. She reminded me of actors with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival with the way she
added little flourishes with her hands as she swirled whipping cream on the top of her mocha.

  A digital clock counted down the time as the DJ turned the music up louder.

  “Five minutes,” announced James. “Competitors you have five minutes! Get those drinks done and on your tasting trays.”

  Five minutes felt like thirty seconds. Before I knew it, an alarm sounded and the first round was finished.

  “Wasn’t that something?” The woman next to me bounced up and down in her chair.

  “That was a total blur.” I blinked twice, trying to get a handle on the speed at which the first round had gone down.

  The competitors threw their hands in the air and stepped away from their stations as volunteers came to pick up their tasting trays and deliver them to the judges.

  Andy dabbed his brow with a towel. Diaz flexed again. Sammy folded her arms across her chest in a show of confidence.

  James motioned for the DJ to cut the music.

  The room went still.

  “All right competitors, when I call your name, I want you to step forward and share your coffee story with the judges.” James tapped one foot. “Are you nervous? I know I’m feeling the tension. This is where it gets real. The judges want to taste your amazing drinks, but they also want to know what they’re about to taste, so show them what you got!”

  Sammy was up first. She took the mic from James and held the room captivated with her origin story of coffee cherries handpicked by women farmers in Guatemala. “I’m here to show you that the future of coffee is now. With everything you taste, I’ll prove that. My coffees are in the genetic stage—these are rare new species, like nothing you’ve ever experienced.” She traced the coffee’s roots and informed the judges that they should taste notes of black tea, pomegranate, and cocoa. “Every step in the process was done to give you the best expression of my coffee,” she said in closing.

  “I feel like we’ve just attended a master class in coffee culture,” I whispered to Mom and June.

  The crowd applauded as the judges tasted her drinks, made notes, and then cleansed their palates with water before moving on to the next contestant.

  “Each barista has to tell the judges what they should expect to taste,” our mocha-loving seatmate explained to us. “And the judges had better taste exactly that. Otherwise they get docked points.”

  Diaz was up next. He had the DJ play the chorus to “Pour Some Sugar on Me” before launching into a very different presentation then Sammy’s. “As a barista, I’m a student, I’m an educator, and most importantly I’m a mixologist. You’re about to taste a revolution in a cup. Coffee should be fierce and angry. It should be ready to rise up and challenge your preconceived notions. This is not your grandmother’s coffee. Get ready to taste smoke, ash, anise, burnt coconut, and whiskey.”

  I wasn’t sure that his assault of flavors sounded pleasing, but the judges appeared to disagree as they gave Diaz plenty of nods and smiles while tasting his drinks. There didn’t seem to be a consistent trend or flavor that the judges were drawn to. Some of the espressos that sounded delightful the judges panned, while others that sounded less than appealing, like an espresso the barista described as “carbon filled with notes of dried pea pods” received rave reviews. Most of the contestants appeared as wide eyed as Andy. Only Sammy and Diaz seemed unfazed by the pressure.

  By the time it was Andy’s turn, I couldn’t stop bouncing my foot. His hands shook as he took the mic. “Thanks for having me. It’s a pleasure to serve you. That’s what I love about this industry. Yes, coffee is art and science, but it’s also community. I’ve learned that nothing connects people like coffee. It’s so much more than what we see in the cup. It’s the coming together around the table. It’s the farmer who planted the seeds and the guest who experiences every note.”

  “That’s our boy.” Mom squeezed my knee.

  I was impressed with Andy’s poise as he shared how his time at Torte had changed his understanding and directed the judges to expect to taste apricots, melons, grapes, and a touch of fermentation in his cup.

  As the judges tasted each of his drinks and made more notes, Benson sighed and scowled after nearly every sip. The man was either playing into the persona of nightmare judge, or he was impossible to please.

  “We’ll take a fifteen-minute break to tally the results,” James said. “Feel free to get up and stretch or wander into the lounge for complimentary coffee and snacks.”

  June stood and stretched her neck. She set her knitting on her chair. “I think I’ll take a little walk. Sitting for too long is no good for my creaky knees.”

  “We’ll save your seat.” Mom said, twisting her wrap around her shoulders. Then she turned to me. “Do you want a coffee?”

  “Do I want a coffee? Is that a rhetorical question?” I stood and cracked my knuckles. “Let’s check in with Andy first.”

  We went to see how he felt about the first round.

  “Hey, you looked great. How do you feel?” I asked.

  Andy’s checks glowed red. Sweat dripped from his forehead. “I feel like it’s five hundred degrees in here. That went by so fast. I have no idea what I did, but I guess it’s good that I got three drinks on my tray if nothing else.”

  “You were amazing. I can’t even begin to tell you how proud of you we are,” Mom gushed, fighting back tears.

  “Thanks, Mrs. The Professor.” Andy used his special nickname he had given to Mom when she and the Professor, aka Doug, Ashland’s lead detective had married last summer.

  “It was good to have you guys and my grandma in the front row,” he continued. “Seeing you gave me a needed boost. I got off my game at the start when I knocked over those beans, but I think I pulled it together.”

  “What did Piper say to you? I saw her reading Benson the riot act.”

  “Yeah. She’s cool. She told me to chill and not let him get in my head. I guess that’s what he does. He tries to get a reaction out of the competitors. She said he plays to the crowd. You saw him go after her too. He’s a real jerk.”

  “Obviously.”

  Sammy interrupted our conversation, peering at Andy’s station with mock interest. “How was it, newbie? I told you it’s intense.” She held her hands loosely behind her back. “Good save at the start. I thought Benson was going to boot you. He’s done it before. You dodged a bullet.”

  Andy tossed the dish towel over his shoulder. He looked flustered. “Yeah, that was totally crazy. I had no idea it was going to be like that.”

  “We’ll leave you two to chat and go grab some coffee,” Mom said, excusing us.

  We made our way to the lobby and joined the queue for coffee. The Hills was offering the same lineup of drinks as the competitors—classic cappuccino, latte, and mocha.

  “I hope he makes it through the first round,” I said to Mom.

  “He will. I don’t have any doubt.” She sounded confident. “His coffee speaks for itself, and his story was sweet and tender, just like him. But I didn’t realize that the competition was quite as cutting. I was picturing more like the Great British Baking Show.”

  “This is definitely not that.” I placed an order for two cappuccinos. “Think Chopped or Cutthroat Kitchen.”

  We returned to our seats just in time for the announcement. June was waiting for us with her knitting needles in her hands and her eyes on Andy.

  James took the microphone again. “Okay, coffee junkies. Who’s ready to hear the results from round one?” He paused to heighten the drama. “I have to tell you that this is some of the tightest voting there’s ever been. Only three points separate first and third place. This battle is going to get wicked as the brewing heats up this afternoon.”

  I took a sip of my foamy cappuccino.

  James started with last place and worked his way up. I held my breath as he read off the names of the baristas who would not be advancing to the next round.

  When Andy’s name wasn’t read, Mom, June, and I let out a collec
tive sigh of relief.

  “In fourth place, a new contestant from right here in the Rogue Valley. Andy with Ashland’s beloved bakeshop, Torte!”

  We jumped to our feet and cheered. Andy’s cheeks flamed.

  James waited for the applause to die down. “Now folks, hold onto your hats because we have a bit of a shocker here. In third place, the current reigning national barista champion, Sammy Pressman.”

  Murmurs broke out around us.

  Sammy shot her head from side to side as if trying to comprehend the news. “Third? Third place?” She turned to the judges’ table and threw her hands up in disgust.

  Benson leaned back in his chair and snarled at her.

  The second-place finisher was a barista from Idaho.

  “That means in first place we have newcomer Diaz Mendez!” James went up to Diaz and raised his arm in the air. “Congratulations, man.”

  Diaz flexed for the crowd. Everyone went wild.

  “That is crap!” Sammy shouted. She looked to Benson again. “You did this. You freaking creep. I hope you die!”

  Chapter Five

  Mom clutched her cappuccino as James had to hold Sammy back. Piper stepped in to console her. I watched in disbelief. The crowd noise came to an awkward screeching silence.

  James tried to recover. “Hey, folks, this is coffee. This is what I love about our culture. We are so passionate about this work. Did you know that nearly eight hundred flavor compounds are possible when it comes to pulling a shot of espresso? And, if you think that’s something, try to imagine this—there are over a million different roast variations and unlimited possibilities on how our competitors bring those together.” He paused and bowed to the contestants. “It’s a pressure cooker in here. I know. I’ve been there. There’s nothing like seeing that timer start. It gets the blood pumping for sure. Now, like I told our baristas, this is only round one. The day is young. There are still two rounds to go, so things can and likely will change. If we have this level of competition in the first round, I can’t wait to see what happens next!”