Tea, Tiramisu, And Tough Guys
Auteur·e
Harper Lin
Lectures
46,5K
Chapitres
26
Chapter 1
Making the perfect cup of tea at my café was a completely new challenge for me. I studied the information about temperatures and steeping methods on the laptop in front of me, but it was contradictory and frustrating. I wanted straightforward, black-and-white information, and that was anything but.
Coffee was an art, too, but it had always come easily to me because it was in my blood. Tea was foreign, not something Italians were known for.
Why was I researching tea? The week before, a lovely older British couple had come into the café and ordered a “cuppa tea” for each of them.
“We’ve heard such good things about this place!” the woman exclaimed as I made their drinks.
“Really? From whom?” I asked with a smile. I wanted to thank the kind local-business owner and be sure to mention the source to my own customers. We Cape Bayers all made it a point to recommend each other’s businesses to tourists. The more great places people found in town, the more likely they were to come back, and the better off our little town was.
“Oh, everyone!” she gushed, her light-blue eyes sparkling.
I got the feeling she was a very enthusiastic person in general.
“Everyone says you just have the best drinks and baked goods on the coast!” She leaned across the counter and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I know you specialize in coffee, but I’m sure you make a wonderful cup of tea as well.”
I certainly hoped so. I’d spent the better part of my thirty-four years perfecting my coffee-making technique, having started as soon as I was tall enough to see over the counter while standing on a stool. I had never really contemplated tea-making technique, always just pouring hot water from the espresso machine over a tea bag and handing the whole thing to the customer. I wasn’t sure whether or not that constituted a wonderful cup of tea.
“If you’d like to find a table, I’ll bring your drinks around to you,” I told her.
For the most part, I preferred to serve my customers at their tables. I feel that makes for a more personal experience. It’s the same reason we use cups and saucers unless the customer specifically requests a to-go cup—to make the customer feel at home in our little café—at home, but with better coffee.
The woman and her husband sat down at one of the little tables along the exposed brick wall, and I brought their tea over to them. I set the cups down with a smile and walked back around the counter to watch them surreptitiously from behind the espresso machine. I know Brits are picky about their tea, so I wanted to see their reactions as they took their first sips. Antonia’s Italian Café might have been known for our artisan cappuccinos and coffee drinks, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about my customers’ experience with other drinks.
I could tell they were trying to be polite, but they couldn’t disguise the displeased looks on their faces as the tea touched their tongues. I waited until they each took another sip, in case my interpretation of their faces was wrong, but when they did raise the cups to their lips again, I saw the same look of dismay in their eyes. I had a feeling when they put the cups down that they wouldn’t be picking them back up again.
I debated whether to go over and ask them about it or to stand my ground and see if they picked the cups back up. I ended up hesitating only a minute. I’m not the type to beat around the bush. I took a deep breath as I approached their table.
“Is the tea not good?” I asked.
The couple exchanged a look as the husband exhaled. The woman looked slightly embarrassed.
“Well, dear.” She glanced at her husband again and sighed. “I’m sorry, it’s not.” She hesitated for a moment. “But we’re British, and we’re very particular about our tea. I’m sure it’s perfectly fine for an American palate.”
An American palate. I wasn’t sure if that was an extremely politely phrased insult or just a statement of fact. Or perhaps the tea was really that bad, but she was trying to find something she could say that wasn’t completely awful.
I stood for a moment, trying to figure out what to do or say. I would give them their money back, of course, but other than that, I wasn’t sure.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. The perfectionist in me kicked in. “What can I do to make it better?”
“Oh, dear, you needn’t worry about it. Another drink will certainly suffice. What would you recommend?”
“Well, cappuccino—I know I make a good one of those—but it’s important to me to learn how to make better tea. For the next time you come in,” I finished with a smile.
The woman glanced at her husband again, and he gave a little nod. I was beginning to wonder if he ever spoke.
“It is more complicated than it seems at first glance, dear,” she said hesitantly.
“If you’re willing to teach me, I’m willing to learn.”
“Pull up a chair and join us, then.”
“Sammy, can you run the front for me for a few minutes?” I called into the café’s back room as I pulled a chair over to the table where the Brits were sitting. The chair’s style didn’t match that of the table, but that was okay because none of the chairs did. The entire café was furnished with estate-sale and antique-store finds my grandmother had picked up when her namesake café first opened. Despite none of the furniture actually matching, it all came together to give the café a warm, cozy feel.
“Sure thing!” Sammy called from the back. Her blond head bobbed over the display case as she came around toward the front. The face of my trusty second-in-command was flushed from working over steaming-hot drinks in the middle of the steaming-hot summer. She flashed a brilliant smile at me and busied herself with wiping down the counter.
“By the way,” I said, taking my seat at the table, “I’m Francesca Amaro. I own the café.” That felt weird to say, but it was true. I’d inherited it outright when my mother passed away at the beginning of the summer.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Francesca! I’m Rose Howard, and this is my husband Edward.” She then started in on what she called the basics of good tea making. For the better part of an hour, she went over tea varieties, water temperatures, brands, and steeping procedures. After only a few minutes, I went to the back to grab a notepad and pen to take notes on all she was telling me. Good tea making was every bit as complicated as good coffee making, and I’d had no idea.
And that was what led me to research the intricacies of tea brewing, leaning on the front counter with the laptop set up in front of me, a tea-aficionado message board pulled up on the screen, trying to make sense of the conflicting information in front of me.
Earl Grey tea should never be brewed above two hundred degrees!
Earl Grey tea should never be brewed a degree below a full boil!
Steep for at least three minutes!
Steep exactly two and a half minutes!
This all made my brain hurt. But I was determined to become as good at making tea as I was at making coffee.
Rose Howard had coached me through the rest of her vacation, declaring the last cup I served her before she left town “perfectly acceptable.” Comparing that to “perfectly fine for an American palate,” I thought that was an acceptable outcome, for less than a week of practice. But I wanted to see my customers’ eyes widen with pleasure when they tasted my tea, the way they did when they tasted my coffee. I was also determined to learn to create pretty pictures in my tea cups the way I could with a latte, but taste came first. Pretty could come later.
“How’s it going?” Sammy asked, emerging from the back room, where she’d been sorting through our newest supply delivery and coming up behind me to peep over my shoulder at the screen. She had been keeping close tabs on my quest to conquer the world of tea.
“Oh, it’s so confusing!” I groaned. I turned my head toward the ceiling and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. Sammy chuckled as she patted me on the back.
“Coffee would be just as confusing if you hadn’t been learning it since you were a baby.”
“I don’t know about that,” I replied.
Sammy chuckled again. “Oh, trust me. When I started working here with your mom, I could barely understand instant coffee. Coffee is plenty confusing. Do you know how long it took me to understand the difference between a café au lait and a caffè latte? They’re both coffee and milk! Their names both mean coffee and milk!”
“You know the difference now, don’t you?” I asked, momentarily concerned.
“A latte’s the one with regular coffee and milk, and the café au lait’s the one with espresso.”
I think my heart actually stopped for a second at hearing her get them exactly wrong. Had she been serving customers the wrong drinks the whole time? I spun and looked at her, only to be greeted by a wide smile and a twinkle in her blue eyes.
“Oh, you know I’m kidding!” she laughed.
I eyed her suspiciously.
“Latte is espresso, café au lait is coffee. You don’t think someone would have complained in all this time if I was doing them wrong? You think your mother would have let me get away with that?” She reached out and gave me a big hug. “Franny, you know me better than that!”
She was right, as usual. I’d only been working with her since moving back to town after my mother’s death, but I’d known her for years as she worked with my mother. She was always trustworthy and reliable and right about anything that mattered. There was no way she didn’t know the difference between a latte and an au lait. Still, she’d nearly given me a heart attack there for a minute.
“Yeah, I guess I do. I just get a little touchy about the café.”
Sammy laughed her melodic laugh. “I can tell!” She patted me on the back and went back to work, arranging the contents of our delivery.
“Did my tea come in?” I called back to her, remembering that my order of an assortment of high-end loose teas was due any day.
“I haven’t seen it yet,” she called back, “but I have a couple more boxes to go. I’ll let you know if I see it.”
I sighed, blowing a loose strand of my black hair out of my face. I was really anxious to get the new tea varieties and start playing with them, but I resigned myself to the fact that I might just have to wait another day.
“What are you huffing and puffing about?” I heard a teasing voice ask in conjunction with the ringing of the bell over the door.
I looked up to see Matt Cardosi, my longtime friend and neighbor and maybe soon-to-be boyfriend, walking into the café.
“Matty!” I exclaimed, reverting to my childhood nickname for him, something I did a little too often in public. I hurried around the counter to give him a hug.
“Hi, Matt,” Sammy called from the back room.
“Hey, Sammy,” he replied.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. Matt worked a couple towns over, so we didn’t often see him at the café in the middle of the day.
He shrugged. “I needed to run by the barbershop and check on some things, so I thought I’d take the afternoon off.”
Matt had inherited ownership of the town barbershop after his father was murdered a few weeks earlier, and he was still trying to get it all under control. He glanced around the room. “Flowers haven’t died yet, huh?” he said, his eyes settling on a bouquet of roses in a vase on the counter.
“Nope,” I replied, stepping over to stroke one of the blossoms. “It’s impressive.” The flowers had been delivered a week and a half earlier and were only then starting to show signs of wilting. I needed to make a note of the florist who delivered them so I could be sure to always order from them. Maybe I could start having fresh flower arrangements in the café. I would have to make sure whatever I used didn’t have a strong scent that interfered with the coffee, though.
“Did you ever figure out who they were from?” Sammy asked, coming out of the back room, carrying a box.
“Nope. Just ‘your secret admirer.’” I plucked the note from where it nestled among the roses and read it over again.
To Francesca. The beauty of these roses pales in comparison to yours. Signed, Your Secret Admirer.
I had assumed they were from Matt when they first arrived since we’d had a bit of a flirtation going on over the past few weeks, but he’d denied it at the time and seemed a little curmudgeonly about them ever since.
Aside from Matt, the only person I could think might have sent them was Chris Tompson, the sleazeball who ran a little cell-phone shop in town. I’d had some brief dealings with him a few weeks before, ending with him offering to take me out and show me around town. I’d turned him down, but I wouldn’t have put it past him to keep trying.
The possibility that they could have been from a customer had also crossed my mind. No one took credit for them, though a smattering of customers complimented them. I’d kept on the lookout for anyone who seemed overly interested in them, to get a clue as to who my admirer was, but no one seemed like a contender. I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea that I had a secret admirer or thought it was a bit creepy. In any case, the flowers were pretty.
“Well, here’s something to keep you busy until you figure it out,” Sammy said, closing the distance between us and hefting the large box into my arms. The top was partially open where she’d checked the contents, and the unmistakable aroma of tea wafted out.
“My teas!” I exclaimed, as excited as a kid on Christmas. Matt and Sammy chuckled.
“Well, now I know what to get you for your birthday,” Matt said.
I maneuvered the box onto the counter and began pulling boxes and jars and tins of tea out of it.
“How much did you order?” Matt asked, surprised.
“Just a little,” I replied.
“That’s just a little, huh?”
I nodded. It wasn’t just a little. It was a lot. I’d gone a little overboard. But Mrs. Howard had emphasized how different brands and varieties of tea could vary dramatically in how they tasted and behaved when brewed. She gave me the names of her favorites, of course, but encouraged me to try an assortment to determine what I liked best. That was all the push I’d needed to order almost every option from our supplier’s catalog.
“Fran’s a little excited about this tea thing,” Sammy stage-whispered to Matt.
“I see that.”
“I can hear you!” I interjected.
They both laughed.
The bell over the door jingled again, and all three of us turned to see who it was.
