Twenty Blue Devils (3 page)
His eyelids drifted slowly down. Relaxed, tranquil, he slid again into his dreams.
It was a long time before the bushes moved again, and when they did Brian only stirred, but did not waken.
Shhl-l-l-l-p.
The coffee was sucked from the silverplated tablespoon, rolled over, under, and around the tongue, then held at the back of Rudy Druett's mouth for a few seconds. He chewed, he gargled, he tipped his head back. His eyes closed, his eyes opened. Finally he leaned to one side and delicately dipped his chin.
Blupp.
Into the waist-high funnel of the spittoon it went. “Well now,” he said, his long, doleful face pensive. “It's...in my opinion it's...let me see..."
He moved his tongue over the inside of his mouth, chewed his cheek, hunched his narrow shoulders, muttered nasally to himself. While he thus marshaled his evaluative powers the others took their own spoons from bowls of water and dipped them one at a time into the sample of coffee under consideration. Four
shl-l-l-l-ps,
four
blupps
.
The tasting session had been under way for an hour. There were four of them in the room besides Rudy. Three were officers of the Paradise Coffee plantation: Nick Druett, easygoing, comfortably in charge, and carrying his sixty-nine years lightly; his nephew and comptroller Nelson Lau—John's older brother—looking like a Hong Kong businessman, pompous and serious in a conservative, pin-striped business suit; and Nick's older daughter, Maggie, casually and colorfully dressed in a bright Tahitian flowered skirt, but as blunt and outspoken as ever.
Although Maggie generally attended the tasting sessions, Nick had never managed to instill in her much interest in the business of growing and selling coffee. What Maggie was interested in was improving the lot of the world's laboring masses, particularly the Tahitian laboring masses, and, on a more general level, in saving the earth from the depredations of its human inhabitants. True to her convictions, she belonged to a number of native-culture groups and had herself founded the Island Culture Club, chiefly dedicated to the reintroduction of the native Tahitian musical tradition; in particular the
pahu
, a drum made from a hollowed-out tree trunk, and the viva, a bamboo flute played with the nostrils. The society met monthly, had grown to eleven like-minded individuals over the years, and had high hopes of someday acquiring a native member.
Taking advantage of her natural inclinations and abilities, Nick had made her the plantation's personnel manager, responsible for the productivity, morale, and welfare of the workforce, which varied from twenty to seventy, depending on the season. He had never been sorry, either, even if she got under his skin once in a while and sometimes made him wonder whose side she was on when it came to labor-management relations.
The fourth member of the group was John Lau, who had twice thus far tried to raise the subject of the accidents and had twice been brushed aside like a fly buzzing around a sacred altar.
The altar in this case was the rotating, octagonal table around which they stood. In the center of it was an old laboratory beam-balance scale set at 7.5 grams—the precise amount required for a perfect portion of coffee, according to Rudy, who was fussy about such things (about most things, if the truth be told). Sixteen such portions, two of each of the eight coffees to be tasted, had been tumbled in the Probat sample roaster, ground fine, and placed in sixteen squat, thick glasses lined up in pairs around the table's rim.
The glasses had then been filled with water from an electric kettle set at exactly 190 degrees Fahrenheit (191 degrees would scorch the oils and turn it bitter, Rudy insisted with apparent seriousness; 189 degrees wouldn't extract the flavors properly). Without being stirred, the resulting brew was then allowed to cool and form a crust. Rudy would break one of the crusts with a tap from the back of his spoon, as if cracking an egg, then quickly dip his nose almost into the liquid to catch the initial burst of aroma, and then slurp up a spoonful. The others would follow suit. There would be murmurs and gurgles. They would scrutinize, smell, bite, and pinch the sample of beans that lay in a small tray beside each pair of glasses, and they would render their opinions, with Rudy usually leading off, befitting his position as roastmaster.
Thus far, they'd accepted beans from Ethiopia, Kenya, and Sumatra as worthy of purchase and rejected samples from Venezuela, Costa Rica, and New Guinea. Under consideration at the moment was a Colombian Excelso.
Rudy was ready with his judgment at last. “In my opinion, this is...” He paused, brows knit in concentration, mouth still puckered to extract the last remnants of taste. Abruptly his face cleared. “...
coffee!
Yes, I'm sure of it Don't you agree?"
John burst out laughing. Rudy often went through one version or another of this routine when he was in a playful mood, always managing to make it funny and surprising, at least to John. But then John hadn't sat in on as many tastings with him as the others had.
"Very amusing,” said Nelson, on whom playfulness, Rudy's or anyone else's, tended to be lost. “No, if you don't mind, can we get back to business?"
"Certainly not,” Rudy said indignantly. “Are you seriously suggesting that I permit my dedication to amusement to be diverted by
work?"
Nelson sighed, or rather hissed, exhaling a stream of air between clamped teeth, and turned to the others, pointedly ignoring Rudy. “I would say,” he said through jaws that were even now only barely separated, “that this coffee has decent body, with medium-high acid.” He stroked his thin, perfectly symmetrical mustache with the pinky of his left hand. “Also, it's reasonably piquant."
John grimaced. Nelson was his brother and he loved him dearly—well, he loved him—but, Jesus Christ
, piquant?
"But,"
Nelson continued darkly, raising his spoon for emphasis, “I detect overtones of earth. There's a definite groundy undertaste here."
"I agree,” Maggie said, something of a rarity for her where Nelson was concerned. “It's groundy. Earthy."
"Dear Cousin Maggie and Cousin Nelson—” began Rudy with a sigh of sweet condescension.
"I'm not your cousin,” Nelson said. “Thank God."
"—I yield to no one in my admiration for your many virtues, but I feel compelled to say that neither of you would recognize a good cup of coffee if you fell into it from a fourth-story window. No offense."
"Rudy...” Maggie glowered at him, her head lowered like an irritated bull's. Painted, hand-carved wooden earrings shaped like tiny tropical fish swung against plump cheeks. “...I know you think you're the be-all and end-all of anything that has to do with coffee, but—"
"I?” Rudy said.
"Au contraire.
I have an absolute and unequivocal lack of belief in my own judgment. Thereby,” he added without losing a beat, “confirming the perspicacity of my opinions."
And there was Rudy in a nutshell: droll, biting, double-edged—but ultimately even-handed in his barbs, digging them into Maggie, or Nelson, or himself with equal relish. John had been on the receiving end for his share too. Even Nick had. And other than Nelson, they all laughed now—except for Rudy himself, whose dry, dour expression rarely changed very much.
"Come on, Rudy,” Nick said, “what about the Excelso?"
Rudy decided to be serious. “I don't taste any groundiness,” he said. “There is a little woodiness, but it has a nice, nutty, buttery finish. Definitely not for one of our premiums, but I was thinking it would be all right for the Weekend Blend."
"That's what I think too.” It was rare that Nick didn't go along with his roastmaster's judgment.
"If
you can get it for under a buck-five. You say something, John?"
John shook his head, wiping his chin with the back of a finger; he didn't quite have the others’ knack with the spittoon. He had joined in the tasting—the cupping, as they called has much to be sociable as anything else, but what was there to say to this bunch once they got going on coffee? Like them, he had tasted seven different coffees from seven different countries. Unlike them, he had liked them all. (He had swallowed down the first few until a scandalized Nelson had noticed and made him comply with international cupping conventions.) But if you had told him that all seven samples were exactly the same coffee, he would have accepted it without reservation.
It wasn't that he didn't like coffee; he liked it as well as the next guy. Two cups with breakfast to get the kinks out, and then one, maybe two lattes during the day, from the SBC coffee bar across the street from the federal building on Fourth Street. Great stuff, got the juices going. But
buttery,
for God's sake?
Earthy?
What were they talking about, coffee or baked potatoes?
He would have had a hard time taking them seriously, except that he knew how well they were doing. Rudy, in particular, had built Caffe Paradiso, Nick's American retail outlet, from a sleepy storefront business with an ancient, secondhand, one-bag roaster in the basement into the number-three coffee-seller in the Pacific Northwest, and he'd done it largely with his nose and his taste buds.
He certainly hadn't done it with force of personality. Dyspeptic, notoriously caustic, with a sharp tongue that was too quick for its own good, his all-too-ready wit had made him more enemies than friends. Once, for example, he had had a celebrated verbal skirmish with a
Seattle Times
food critic at a cocktail party for the opening of a new restaurant. That was bad enough, but when questioned about it later that evening on live television, he had said, with mock wonderment: “But I don't understand why she's so upset. I certainly didn't mean to say anything unkind about her. I merely mentioned that she was dim-witted, undiscerning, fatuous, and uninformed. All perfectly verifiable."
His hangdog appearance didn't help either. Balding, stoop-shouldered, and naturally woebegone-looking, with dark, droopy bags under his eyes, he was nobody's idea of the driving force behind a burgeoning and aggressive coffee empire. The fact was, amazingly enough, that he didn't even like coffee and wouldn't have been able to drink it if he did because the acidity gave him gas, or so he claimed.
Rudy's father—Nick's much-loved, long-dead kid brother, Jack—had been a vintner in California, and Rudy had grown up at his father's small winery in the Simi Valley. From the beginning, wine had been his passion, or the closest thing to a passion that he'd ever had. He had majored in enology at the University of California's Davis campus and returned to manage the winery's production process, expecting to take over the business eventually. But his father, drowning in debt, had sold out to one of the conglomerates that were then gobbling up the vineyards of the Pacific coast.
Shattered, Ruby had fled California for Tahiti, seeking a job with his uncle. The always-generous Nick had come through, putting him to work on the plantation (and, by the by, bailing his father out of his not inconsiderable remaining debts). Hardworking and intelligent, Rudy had learned the coffee business and had eventually taken over management of day-to-day operations. Later, when Brian Scott had arrived on the scene with a sackful of ideas for improvement and expansion and a knack for implementing them, Nick had asked Rudy to return to the States to see if he could turn the struggling Caffe Paradiso enterprise into something worthwhile. And here he had been ever since, successful beyond Nick's dreams, let alone his own, but in his heart of hearts never ceasing to regard coffee as a poor substitute for his beloved wines.
But no one had ever said he didn't know everything there was to know about the coffee business.
His office was still here in this eighty-year-old white frame building, a onetime feed store near Coupeville on rural Whidbey Island, two hours from Seattle by car and ferry. Now, however, there was a spanking-new twenty-thousand-square-foot warehouse and processing plant a few hundred feet up the highway, with eighteen employees and a big, shiny, three-bag roaster that held 335 pounds of beans and was fired up and roasting eight hours a day, five days a week.
In short, things were going like gangbusters. From what they'd told John earlier, they were now selling more than half a million pounds a year. There were sales to gourmet shops and restaurants, there was a thriving mail-order business, and now there were two Caffe Paradiso coffee bars in downtown Seattle department stores, one at the airport, and another two about to open in Portland, every one of them upscale and pricey. Only twenty percent of the beans that went into their numerous varieties came from the plantation in Tahiti these days; the rest were bought from other coffee growers around the world, mostly on Rudy's say-so. It was Rudy too who supervised the roasting, created the blends, and ran what Nick approvingly referred to as a highly innovative marketing program.
It seemed pretty innovative to John too. Who would have thought you could make money with slogans like “Paradiso—The World's Most Expensive Coffees” and “Pure Tahitian Blue Devil, the Highest-Priced Coffee in the World...Bar None.” But make money they did. Blue Devil, not a blend but solely their own plantation's product, was Paradiso's chief claim to fame.
They were always leaving a few pounds of it with John and Marti when they came. It wasn't bad, John thought, but at $38 a pound? At $4.50 a cup in the coffee bars? You'd have to be out of your mind. Which showed how much he knew about it.
"Look, people,” he said, “about these accidents—"
"Johnny, will you shut up?” Nick said amiably. “What else is there, Rudy?"
"One more, from the Celebes. This is a first issue from a Rantepao plantation that was revived four or five years ago."
"I vote no,” Maggie said.
Nick laughed. “We haven't tasted it yet"
"We don't have to taste it. If it comes from the Celebes, it was processed with slave labor."
"Oh, for God's sake, Maggie, they don't have slave labor in the Celebes,” Nelson said disgustedly.