Caught Bread Handed (7 page)

When I finished my breakfast and giving my recap, Mom rubbed her temples and sighed. “How terrible.” She put her hand over her heart. “Mindy didn't strike me as depressed.” She looked thoughtful. “People only reveal what they want to reveal, don't they?”

The mood was somber. We all paused in a quiet reflection.

Andy finally broke the silence. “Hey, Mrs. C, there's a line outside. What do you want to do?”

Mom looked up. Andy was right. A line of people trailed down the sidewalk. “You don't suppose they're all here for our pastries, do you?”

Andy smiled. “Torte's pastries are the best, Mrs. C.”

“Well said, Andy.” Mom stood and pressed her hands against her apron. “Jules, you head back to the kitchen. We'll try to shield you from the mob. Everyone else to your stations. I have a feeling it is going to be a busy morning.”

I hurried to the kitchen, happy that Mom was willing to take the brunt of the gossip. I didn't think I could handle telling the story over and over again. What I needed was to bake.

I washed my hands and found my apron where I'd left it earlier. Stephanie and Mom stocked the pastry case and Andy took his position behind the espresso machine. With full pastry cases and coffee ready to pour, Sterling unlocked the front door.

The bell on the door jingled repeatedly for the next two hours. I watched Mom circle the room with a coffee carafe. She stopped and chatted with locals between delivering chocolate–sour cream muffins and lattes. I knew that she was getting an earful at each table. This was big news. Everyone wanted to be a part of it.

Stephanie worked on refilling the pastry trays and baking sweets for the afternoon rush. I focused on the lunch menu. Torte is a popular lunch spot. We offer premade sandwiches and hearty soups that people can grab and go, or stay and linger.

I'd been craving a soup I had years ago when in port in Greece—tomato orange. Tomato soup and grilled cheese had been one of my favorite childhood meals and the version I planned to make for lunch would elevate the soup but still offer the same warm comfort.

I started by chopping onions and dicing fresh tomatoes. I sautéed them in butter, allowing the juices to mingle and the onions to turn translucent. The soup recipe was simple, but packed with a savory and slightly sweet flavor. In order to cut down on the acid from the tomatoes and orange juice, I would use a couple teaspoons of baking soda. Cooking and baking are science, and I always enjoy playing the part of a chemist in the kitchen.

Once the tomatoes and onions had simmered in the butter, I added them along with fresh-squeezed orange juice, chicken stock, and chopped thyme to a stock pot and turned it on medium low. It smelled like everything had been hand-picked from a garden. With the soup starting to bubble, I added in the baking soda and called Stephanie over to watch it foam.

“Baking soda in soup? That's weird.” She didn't look convinced.

“Trust me. You're going to love it.”

She shrugged and returned to scooping cookie dough onto baking sheets lined with parchment paper.

I would let the soup cook down for a while, and then use an immersion blender to create a thick texture. Right before I served it, I would mix in some heavy cream to balance the citrus.

While I whisked more orange juice into the stock pot I heard Carlos's voice behind me. “Julieta, what are you making? The smell is like heaven.” He leaned over my right shoulder to get a look in the pot. His lips brushed the base of my neck.

I stood rigid, afraid that if I moved Carlos would too. We might have stayed that way indefinitely with the heat from the burning flame on the stove and the heat between us if it weren't for Sterling.

He broke the moment. “Hey, Carlos, I'm ready for you.” He must have realized that he had interrupted something because he stopped at the island and pretended to be interested in the tray of breadsticks that Stephanie was buttering.

Carlos kissed my neck, patted my hip, and stepped away from the stove. “
Sí,
we will meet with the wine maker. Julieta, you have arranged this, yes?”

I smoothed the front of my apron in an attempt to regain control over my emotions. Placing the whisk next to the stove, I turned the heat to low and covered the soup with a lid. “Yep. It's all set. Jose should be here by early afternoon. He's going to bring some samples for you to taste, and he mentioned that you're both welcome to go out to the winery with him this afternoon if you're interested.”

Jose Ortega owned a winery, Uva, about ten minutes outside of town. He has been our primary supplier of red and white blends for nearly thirty years. Mom contracted with Jose when he first moved to Ashland from California to work at one of the big vineyards. His story is so inspiring. He had made a deal with the owner to take lower pay in exchange for working a small section of the land. Initially Jose's plot was only a quarter of an acre, but he had a golden touch with the vines and a strong work ethic.

He and Mom and Dad grew their businesses together. Word spread, as it always does in Ashland, about Jose's bountiful grapes. Not many famers were using organic methods thirty years ago. Jose started the trend here, and over the years his plot continued to expand until he eventually bought the original owner out. Nearly every restaurant, hotel, and pub source their wine with Jose now.

Last year Mom had hit a rough stretch, thanks in part to her giant heart, since she fed half of the town for free when the economy tanked. It was a kind gesture, but it put her behind in her vendor payments. Jose had told her not to worry. He knew that she would pay him when her cash flow improved. I couldn't fathom the vendors I used to work with on the ship having the same kind of flexibility. If we didn't pay our bill on time, they would have stopped delivering goods. Not Jose. He brought Mom's order every week without fail.

Once Mom and I got the books sorted out, we paid off our balance with Jose and a few other vendors in town. For a while it looked as if Torte might close. If it weren't for friends like Jose, Mom probably would have had to shut down the bakeshop, or worse—sell to someone like Richard Lord. The thought gave me new appreciation for how Alan Matterson must feel watching ShakesBurgers take over his beloved business.

Thank goodness that didn't happen to us, I thought as I grabbed a spiral-bound notebook and pencil and joined Carlos and Sterling at the island.

They quickly hid something under the island as I approached. “What's going on?”

Carlos stifled a laugh. “It is nothing.” He held out his phone. “I was showing a new picture of Ramiro. You must see. He is taking surfing lessons.”

Sterling tugged on the strings of his hoodie. He wouldn't make eye contact with me. They were up to something. Carlos was notorious for pulling kitchen pranks, and I had a feeling that he was training his young prodigy in the art.

I took the phone. Ramiro stood in waist-high aquamarine water. A yellow surfboard on his left hip towered over him. His other hand was raised in a peace sign. He looked like a miniature version of Carlos with his olive skin and wavy dark hair. His smile was wide and his eyes danced with the same carefree spirit as Carlos's. My throat tightened. I'd never met Ramiro, but I knew that I already loved him.

“He looks good, no?” Carlos took his phone and gazed lovingly at his son.

“He looks great. A natural.” I tried to glance under the island. Carlos nudged Sterling, who stepped to the side and blocked my view. They were definitely up to something.

“How did the meat curing go?”

“Hmm?” Carlos pretended he didn't hear me.

“The meat? Isn't that what you guys were doing last night?”

“
Sí, sí.
It was good. Easy, no, Sterling?”

Sterling coughed. “Yeah, good. Really good.”

I was going to have to keep my eyes on them. “You guys are on Sunday supper duty, right? You take the appetizers and main course and I'll stick with dessert. Does that work?”

Carlos rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. His forearms, which were naturally darker than my fair complexion, had been toasted from months spent under the Caribbean sun. The contrast of his crisp white shirt and tanned skin made my heart flutter. Carlos caught me looking at him. He grinned.

I ignored him and flipped open the notebook. Hopefully Sterling hadn't noticed. I wanted to keep my professional and personal life separate, but Carlos was making that very difficult. “You made antipasto and cured meat last night, right? Any other ideas? We're already sold out. Word has spread that there's a Spanish chef in town.”

If Sterling had picked up on the tension between Carlos and me, he didn't show it. He pushed up the sleeves of his hoodie, revealing his tattoos and following Carlos's lead. “Last weekend we did pasta.”

“Right. That was a hit.”

“Everything's a hit here, Jules,” Sterling said as he grabbed a cookie cooling on a wire rack.

“True. Good point, but let's do something totally different this week.”

Carlos brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead. His hair has a slight wave to it, and when it's longer it curls in the front. “Have you served tapas?”

“Ooh, tapas. I love tapas.”

“
Sí,
everyone knows you love tapas,
mi querida.
” Carlos grinned. “She cannot resist the tapas,” he said to Sterling. “I used to make them for the kitchen staff late in the night and everyone would joke that they must get to the tapas before Julieta. Otherwise she would eat them all.”

Sterling looked surprised. “Really. I've never seen you put food away like that, Jules.”

I punched Carlos in the arm. “That's not true. I shared. Okay maybe not the bacon-wrapped dates, but everything else.”

Carlos threw his head back and laughed. “Do not believe this, Sterling. She is—how do you say—a tapas freak.”

“Freaky for tapas. Good to know.”

“Enough, you two,” I said, tapping the pencil on the notebook. “Let's get a menu sketched out before Jose gets here.”

We decided on a Spanish wine-tasting flight. We would start with mixed olives, cheese, and cured meats. For the main course Sterling and Carlos would make empanadillas, turnovers filled with vegetables and meat, skewered prawns, and carne mechada, a tender, slow-cooked beef. Sticking with the theme, I would make a lemon and olive oil cake.

My mouth was watering by the time we finished the supply list. Carlos had won me over with his tapas. I'd already been attracted to him from the first moment we met on the ship and when he made me tapas, I was a goner. I've had tapas all over the world. None compared to Carlos's.

Carlos didn't make you love food. He made you fall in love with it, and I had it bad for his tapas. There's something so refreshingly simple about Spanish cuisine. Maybe it's because the dirt is older in Spain, but from his salted almonds poached in olive oil to his Moorish meatballs with fresh sage and English peas, everything Carlos put on a plate tasted vibrant and alive. When he orchestrated tapas production on the ship he and his team did everything by hand, whether that meant breaking down a whole chicken or releasing the natural oils and intoxicating scent of Spanish saffron with a mortar and pestle. Dish after dish after dish would be sent out. Tapas nights were like one continual party. Torte's customers were going to be in for a sensory experience tomorrow.

Andy came into the kitchen balancing a tray of coffee drinks. “Anyone up for a taste test?” He placed the tray on the island.

I took a mug of the creamy, hot coffee. “What's your latest creation?”

“I'm calling this the chunky monkey.”

Carlos scrunched his forehead. “Chunky monkey. I do not understand.”

Andy passed a cup to Sterling and Stephanie. “It doesn't mean anything. It's just a funny name.” His blue eyes perked up as he waited for us to taste his new drink.

Mom came into the kitchen with an armful of empty plates. “Hey, is there a party going on back here? Why didn't anyone invite me?” She winked.

“It's a new drink, Mrs. C. I have one for you too,” Andy said.

Mom put the dishes in the sink and joined us at the island. “It smells great. Almost fruity.”

Andy smiled. His freckled cheeks stretched toward his ears. “Try it.”

I took a sip of the chunky monkey. It was sweet with a hint of nuts and something else.

“It is sweet,” Carlos said. Carlos, like most chefs, tends to turn his nose up at anything sugary, but I knew from one taste that our customers were going to be lining up for Andy's drink. Torte was a bakery, after all, and sometimes dessert can come in a mug.

“What am I tasting?” I asked, inhaling the scent. “Banana?”

Andy nodded. “Yep. Banana, chocolate, and macadamia nut. Chunky monkey, get it?”

We all laughed. I noticed that Carlos returned his practically full mug to the tray. Stephanie sipped hers. Sterling took a big drink. “It's really good, man.”

Mom walked over to Andy and squeezed him around the shoulder. “You've done it again. This is so good.” She looked at Carlos. “Andy is more sweet than salty.”

“Super sweet,” I agreed, taking another drink. Most of Andy's coffee drinks feature the roast as the star of the show. The chunky monkey was a tad sweeter than our normal offerings, but he had obviously used a nutty roast, which mingled well with the fruity banana and dark chocolate.

“Let's get it up on the specials board,” Mom said. “It can be our weekend drink special. Which reminds me, I need a new quote to go up there. Anyone feeling poetic this afternoon?”

On the far wall near the espresso machine we have a chalkboard menu that we update with specials and a rotating Shakespearean quote. The bottom quarter of the chalkboard is reserved for Torte's youngest customers. Mom keeps a basket with colorful chalk for kids to doodle on the board while their parents savor a morning coffee and crumpet.