The Perfect Blend (11 page)

Do you know how I know?

F
riday afternoon at three-thirty, I am standing in front of the most beautiful machine I've ever seen. A symphony of chrome, tubes and dials, it is so sleek it looks like it should have a hood ornament. Everything fits together with artistic precision. Every detail screams quality. I love these machines like other people love great art. I've only got forty-five minutes to share that love, because I had to promise the executive chef (who's both a friend of mine and the roommate of a girl my brother is currently dating) that Will and I would be out by the dinner rush.

I feel like the whole day is balancing on three cups of coffee.

Actually, I feel like my whole future is balancing on three cups of coffee.

I begin the process of explaining the machine—and it's many fine attributes—to Will. “Unlike your kitchen coffeemaker…”

“If I
had
a kitchen coffeemaker,” Will interjects lightheartedly as he sits down at a nearby table.

“Unlike
a
kitchen coffeemaker,” I correct myself, “the water needs to be boiling before you start. The water passes through the coffee grounds at high pressure. No air escapes. And the grounds are much finer than percolated or dripped coffee. That's why it tastes different.”

“But I always hear a hissing sound.” He comments. “Why?”

“Because steam is used to heat the milk. That way you get it hot without scalding the milk.” I arrange three cups on the table in front of him, adopting my best salesmanship demeanor. “The strongest is the espresso. It's the pure stuff.” I point to the smallest of the cups, which almost looks like it belongs in a child's tea set. “It's small because no one but the most hard-core caffeine junky would drink more than a couple of ounces. It's what is produced when the water is forced through very fine grounds. Nothing is added. High octane all the way.” I point to the cup that looks like a regular coffee cup. “Next, we have the cappuccino, which isn't as strong, because you mix the espresso with steamed milk and it has this fabulous, rich foam on top. It's a different, more complex flavor. The latte,” I say, pointing to the tall cup, “combines the same ingredients but in a different ratio and people make
it in dozens of flavors. Each drink is distinct and you might like one more than the other.”

“Or I might not like any.” His eyes challenge me. He might not have actually spoken the words “I dare you,” but his eyes are screaming it right now.

Megan, the executive chef who made this whole thing possible and who is standing behind me, chuckles at that. Even when I explained it a second time, she said she had no idea what it was I was doing.

Not to worry, though, because I know exactly what I'm doing.
Go ahead, your lordship, dare me. Double-dog dare me.
I am up to this challenge one hundred percent. I check the temperature gauge. “Just another minute or so,” I say, disarmed by the anticipation I'm feeling. “I want this j-u-s-t right. These will be the best cups of coffee you've ever had.”

“Worth every penny?”

“Splurge-worthy in every detail.”

Megan offers a condescending look. “I'll just leave you two kids alone.”

I glare at her, not appreciating her none-too-subtle insinuation.

“I've got a baked goods delivery coming in. I need to check through the order,” she says, in a hey, I-just-call-it-like-I-see-it tone. Evidently Megan has formed her own unique theory as to what I'm doing. Those chef-types. They think all food is about relationships.

“Her roommate is dating my brother,” I say, as
if that somehow fixes things. “Okay, this is a La Marzocco espresso machine. Cream of the crop. It has double independent boilers, which make for consistency from drink to drink. No other machine has that. It's worth it, for a lot of technical reasons I'll get into if you want, but we're here for the taste, right?” To punctuate my point, I shoot off a burst of steam to clear the steam wand. “That's called bleeding the wand and it's important.”

“It's all important to you, isn't it?” Suddenly, the restaurant sound system kicks on and Harry Connick, Jr. croons “It Had to be You” from the dining room behind us. Megan's got it coming.

“You betcha,” I answer, ignoring Connick's silky voice. “This is the grinder. You always grind to order because this stuff is ground so fine it has a shelf life of two seconds.” I grab the porta-filter—the little handled thing that holds the coffee. It's the thing you always see baristas banging to get the old espresso puck (yes, it's called a puck) out.

“Do you make the coffee at your house?” Will asks as I do aforementioned banging. “When your family gets together—do you insist on making the coffee?”

“What do
you
think?” I kick on the grinder, reveling in the aroma. I drove clear across town this morning to get the beans I'm using. Top-notch stuff. The smell of freshly ground espresso—especially espresso this good—is heady perfume to me.

“I have no doubt you're a tyrant at the percolator,” he pronounces.

I peer over the machine and laugh. “My dad actually makes a decent cup. My brothers should be banned from the kitchen permanently.” I tamp down the grounds, pressing them into the porta-filter. Thirty pounds of even pressure achieving a smooth, uniform surface. That's part of the art of this, but I'll leave that out of Will's little tutorial for the moment. “I do make the coffee. And I bring my own blend. It gets me out of having to bring a side dish, anyway.” I run a couple of seconds of water through the machine to ensure Will gets a pristine brew, and place his cup under the spout.

“You're not a cook?”

Tell me, do you readily admit something like this to a man? That you can brew the best coffee on the planet but roasting a chicken eludes you? I hedge. “I can handle the basics. But I'm not in the habit of throwing dinner parties, let's just say that.” Harry breaks into yet another crooning ballad behind us, and I decide Megan is purposely meddling. “My sister Cathy? She got Mom's skill in the kitchen. I got my Dad's artistic tendencies.” I lock the porta-filter handle into position and push Start. Come on, baby, brew me a twenty-five-second masterpiece.

“I can see that. What is your father's art?”

I pull Will's drink and set it in front of him. “Don't wait. You need to drink it right away.” I sit down opposite him while “Unforgettable” wafts through the air.

Will picks up the espresso, staring at the brew. “It's less than two inches deep and I can't see the bottom.”

“It's a beverage, Will, not a pond.”

He lifts the small cup and tastes it. His eyes close in contemplation. I hold my breath.

“Strong. Sharp.” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “It'd wake the dead.” His voice has a bit of frog in it, like he's trying to hide his dislike. “I suppose it has its fans on pure strength alone.”

I'm disappointed, but not surprised. I'd be astounded if someone who didn't care for coffee liked espresso. It'd be like putting a straw in a can of Hershey Syrup and handing it to someone who didn't like chocolate. “It's an acquired taste, I assure you, but it would be hideous done on a poor machine. You can actually regulate the sweet-sharp component by how you time the pull. On a
quality
machine, that is.” My adrenaline kicks into high gear and I pop up back toward the machine. “Let's try the cappuccino. I'm thinking that will be your favorite.”

I shoot another blast out of the steam wand just to make sure everything's perfect. “My Dad sculpts,” I say, pouring the milk into the small silver steaming pitcher. “Or, he used to sculpt. All the time before we were born, Mom says. Now I'm steaming milk for the cappuccino, which is one-third espresso, one-third steamed milk, and one-third foam.” The rich, sweet scent of hot milk rises up.

“Your Dad doesn't sculpt any more?”

“He and mom got married,” I say, over the noise of the steamer—which isn't much noise at all when you do it right, by the way. Don't let any second-rate barista fool you into thinking lots of noise
makes for good cappuccino. “Then came kids and bills and, well, life took over, as he puts it.”

Will frowns and leans back in his chair. “You don't approve?”

“It's as if a part of him's been cut off.” I grind and pull another shot of espresso for Will's drink, loving how the sharp coffee aroma blends with the mellow fragrance of the steamed milk. It's such a perfect harmony. “He's a whole man, but there's a passion missing. Hidden. Ignored so long I don't think even he realizes he misses it. But I see it sometimes, when we pass art or sculptures. I can feel some part of him grasping for it. But then he shuts it down.”

Will fiddles with the teaspoon at his table. “It's not wrong for a man to do what he needs to in order to take care of the family he loves.” His tone makes me look up from pouring the milk into his cup. Will's words have the weight of a sad past pulling on them.

“But God gave my dad a passion and a talent. I don't think Dad had to give that up completely because of us. I don't want that burden. I want him to be happy.” I check the foam for perfection and place the cup on the table beside the espresso. “Drink.” I want him to like it. I need him to like it.

He studies it for a moment, appreciating the design, noticing how the foam doesn't melt with time, but stands in its own glory. I sit down, watching him sip and my heart slams around in my chest while Connick finally does an upbeat number.

“Different. Mellower, but still with a bite.”

“It'd be all bite without a decent machine. Take another sip.”

He does. There's the tiniest bit of foam on his lip. I squelch the urge to reach out and wipe it off, pointing awkwardly to my own lip instead to cue him.

“What?” he asks. Then he says, “oh, well, that's an unfortunate side effect,” when he understands. He clears his throat and wipes it off.

“Cappuccino's got more character than the straight-shot dump-caffeine-into-my-bloodstream espresso. Feel that smoothness? The firm but silky texture of the foam? That's what a good machine can do.”

“You're sure it's not all in the…what's the term? Barista?”

He takes another sip and I take that as a compliment. “Well, sure, it has lots to do with the barista. I can coax a good drink out of a mediocre machine. But I can coax
art
out of this baby.” I cast my glance back over her gleaming panels, appreciating her like a gearhead appreciates a sports car. “And the real coffee addicts? The one's who know their stuff? They know that machine on sight. If they see one of those behind the counter, they know they're going to have a fine drink. It's practically its own advertisement.”

“It's practically its own mortgage,” Will counters. He holds up one hand. “Yes, I admit it does a good job. And,” he adds, drawing it out for suspense, “I don't hate it.”

I beam. Victory.

“But it is not my drink of choice. I'll admit to having my horizons expanded a bit, but I did not just drink a fourteen-thousand-dollar cup of coffee. I'm still not convinced.”

I take a breath to start in on a good rebuttal.

“Entirely,”
he adds, before I can launch my tirade. He takes a fourth sip. A fourth sip! One sip is obligation. Two sips is good manners, but four sips? That's enjoyment. “You don't think your father is happy?” Will asks as he puts the cup down.

“No, he's happy. It's just that, well, there's
more.
There's more and it would be worth the risk to reach for it.” Okay people, we can stop talking about my father now and focus on the coffee. I stand back up. “Now let's have a latte. Americans like to give this one all the bells and whistles.”

“Don't you think that's your father's choice? To give up pursuing the art so he can provide for his family?”

“It is. But it's not my choice.” I set about pulling the latte.

“Risk has consequences,” Will points out. “People get hurt.”

“Risk has rewards. God still asks us to risk. Life asks us to risk. Real life, that is, not just a safe version of life.” I finish putting the foamy milk mixture in his cup, giving it my signature swirl design. Gorgeous.

Will considers the design when I place it before him. “Impressive.”

I sit back down. “All really great baristas have their own signature design.”

“Is Higher Grounds your risk?” He returns to our conversation while he lifts the cup.

I've never had anyone put it quite that way before. “I believe it's a great gift to know what you want to risk in life. I think that's where God shows up and surprises us beyond our imaginations. I think stepping beyond our comfort zone is, well, it's one of the most important things we can do in life.” I stop talking and wait for his response.

“So this is a latte,” he says after a swallow or two. Ugh. He says it in the same way you'd say someone's date was “nice.” Definitely not a rave. I launch into a listing of the latte's finer qualities, how it can be made in a variety of ways in dozens of flavors.

Will stops me. “If I want dozens of flavors, I'll go get some ice cream.”

“No, really. People love all these flavors.”

“Women love all these flavors,” Will revises my theory. “When's the last time a strapping young man came into Carter's and ordered a raspberry white chocolate latte?”

Ha. I got him now. “Wednesday.” I smirk.

“Who
wasn't
ordering for his girlfriend?”

Rats. Why is it always the tiny details that do you in? “Okay, you may have a point there, but half my customer base is bound to be female.”

“But I am not.”

Trust me, there's precious little chance of my
forgetting how male William Grey is. “The latte,” I say while gesturing for him to take another sip, “is all about the combination. Too much milk and it tastes like a kiddy drink. Not enough, and it's too biting. So?”