Dead to the Last Drop (20 page)

Southern Pimento Cheese served with black pepper crackers and celery stalks

Bacon-Wrapped Bourbon Figs stuffed with Iowa’s Maytag Blue & Texas Pecans, drizzled with local honey

Pile of Crunchy Vidalia Onion Rings served with Smoky Chipotle Dip

DESSERT DUETS

Mini Caramel-Sauced Apple Pie with a scoop of No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream and a pressed pot of Hawaiian-Grown Kona

Birthplace of Jazz New Orleans Beignets served with our dipping-sized cup of café au lait

Luther’s Black Magic Cake, a dense, moist, coffee-kissed chocolate cake, made
and
served with our famous Village Blend espresso

The famous Light & Creamy
New Yorker
Cheesecake, served with a shot of Fresh Strawberry Sauce and a Clover Cup of Toraja Sulawesi

Cookie Plate of Luther’s Pecan Pie Bars & Pecan Sandies made with Honey-Gingered Texas Pecans, served with a personal Chemex of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, or our special Ginger Tea with local honey

TONIGHT’S DRINK SPECIALS

Bloody (Proud) Mary served with bacon strips cooked down to crispy perfection in an iron skillet with coffee, brown sugar, and cayenne

Espresso Martini served with Dark Chocolate–Covered Espresso Beans exclusively made for the Village Blend by J. Chocolatier of Washington, DC

See our printed beverage menu (at your table) for our full range of hot and cold espresso drinks, pressed pots of our handcrafted coffee blends, wines, beers, and specialty cocktails.

Luther Bell, Executive Chef
Gardner Evans, Jazz Space Manager and Music Director
Clare Cosi, General Manager, Food & Beverage Director
Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, Owner

Gard whistled loud as he read. “Y’all are going to sell out of
everything
on this baby!”

Chef Bell grinned. “How about we get some stationery especially for Abby’s big night? Maybe something with red, white, and blue stripes across the top and bottom?”

“Where do we get something like that?” Gard asked.

“Groovy, DC,” I told him. “It’s a gift shop on Capitol Hill. They share the building with J. Chocolatier—we use her for our chocolate-covered espresso beans.”

“I’m on it,” Gard said, heading out.

“One last thing, ladies . . .” Chef Bell looked
very
serious all of a sudden. “And this is important to me.”

Joy and I exchanged concerned glances and huddled up.

“In the heat of the action tonight, I’m afraid there might be a very big problem . . .”

“What?” we asked together.

“If you ladies call out, ‘Chef Bell,’ I’m afraid I won’t know who you’re talking to. Can we please go back to calling me
Luther
?

I could see that Joy, who was used to the French brigade system, didn’t like the idea at all. But it was Luther’s kitchen—his rules.

“All right,” my daughter finally said. “I’ll call you Luther. But no more
Ms. Allegro
. You will call me Joy—”

“And I will call you
Goddess
!”

We all turned to find Tito Bianchi gawking at my daughter’s heart-shaped face. “
Bellissima
,” he murmured and kissed his pursed fingers. “Joy, you are a joy to look at.”

“Excuse me,” my daughter replied in Italian. “What is
your
name?”

“Tito.”

“Well, I’m happy to meet you, Tito, but I’m
taken
.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Then you are
not
taken, and I have a chance!” He grinned with a gamer’s gusto. Then he turned to me and spoke in English—

“We have sold the last of your muffins, boss. The glass case is empty again, but the customers are still hungry. This is my news. And now, back I return”—he winked at Joy—“to the battlefront!”

“Who was that idiot?”

“He’s not an idiot. He’s my new assistant manager. He’s also a brilliant barista and bartender—with a sommelier’s knowledge of wine—and he’s a very hard worker.”

“He’s very fresh!”

“Not usually. But he is Italian. So if he pinches
any
part of your body, I want to hear about it.”

“Fine, but you better not tell Manny Franco.”

“Believe me, Joy, it took me ages to find Tito. I have no intention of seeing him murdered by your boyfriend.”

Ding!

“Perfect timing,” I said, hurrying to the oven.

Another giant batch of my Best Blueberry Muffins was ready for the empty pastry case!

F
ifty-three

A
N hour later, I was ready.

Matt had warned me that his mother had things to say about firing her “prodigy” chef, and I’d put it off long enough, so I plowed my way through our crowded coffeehouse, dodged the crazy traffic on Wisconsin (largely due to us), and trudged over to N Street.

Not that I was in a hurry to get there . . .

Deal with it, Clare, it’s time to face the music . . .

Unfortunately, the musician I was about to face had eighty-plus years of crooning her undiluted opinions. In culinary terms, Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois didn’t sugarcoat her words.

Oh, she had a beautiful heart, but it was well calloused by hard knocks. I admired her for that. But then, I’d been on her good side most of the time. We’d been through so much together—as mother- and daughter-in-law; as mentor and apprentice. It was because I loved and respected her that I dreaded the idea of disappointing her.

As I entered the Cox’s Row mansion, I heard crashing noises from the gourmet kitchen. Girding myself for a chilly greeting, I moved through the elegant rooms and pushed through the swinging door.

Madame was not a petite woman. Like her son and granddaughter, she was blessed with height. But she looked small in this large space, amid all the spotless tiles and stainless steel. As she threw open the cupboards and chattered with her maid, however, it was clear her trademark energy had not diminished.

For a moment, her clothing threw me. Madame’s usual attire ran to
designer pantsuits and whimsically printed silk scarves. But
this
lady was dressed like a vagabond. And then it hit me:
dry-clean-only ensembles don’t mix with flour, butter, eggs, and cream!

The capri jeans and slip-on sneakers looked like Joy’s. And the giant, faded T-shirt had to be my ex-husband’s. The size of the shirt was a giveaway, but so was the phrase across the chest:
Extreme
Kitesurfing ~ Kona, Hawaii!

Not that Madame wasn’t daring. Her Midsummer Night Swing dance moves at Lincoln Center were proof of that. But surfing Hapuna Bay with a power kite strapped to her back? Nope, couldn’t see it.

What I did see in the strong light of the afternoon sun was a determined octogenarian pulling out pans and measuring cups, shuffling recipes, and taking inventory on the ingredients she found in the kitchen versus the ones her beloved son was in the process of fetching.

At last, she noticed me. “Finally! I’ve been waiting for you!”