French Pressed (2 page)

While it is widely recognized that New York City is crowded, costly, competitive, and occasionally downright dangerous, New York is also a foodie mecca. It’s the kind of town where you can attend an open-to-the-public culinary talk and find yourself sitting next to a young Cordon Bleu graduate while listening to legendary chef Jacques Pepin speak extemporaneously about such things as butchering a chicken. The aforementioned 92nd Street Y restaurant panel along with my two decades of speaking with restaurant professionals while dining out in New York were among the many experiences that contributed to the backdrop of this novel.

I would also like to acknowledge the gracious help of Douglas Snyder, general manager of Bin Fifty-Four Steak and Cellar. Doug is a consummate professional who chivalrously answered countless questions about running an upscale restaurant, while also giving me one of the finest dining experiences I’ve ever had.

A succulent shout-out additionally goes to Bin Fifty-Four’s executive chef, Andrew Bales, for giving me an after-hours tour of his efficiently run domain, a professional kitchen that consistently produces the most delicious fire-grilled steaks being served in America today.

Dear reader, if you ever find yourself in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, do not miss the dining experience at Bin Fifty-Four. And please be assured that the characters, situations, and murders in this book are completely fictitious figments of my imagination. Although Bin Fifty-Four is
the
scene for fabulous food and wine, it has never been ruled a
crime
scene!

Joe the Art of Coffee and Murray’s Cheese Shop, both located in Greenwich Village, New York, have also been great sources of information. My sincerest thanks go out to them, as well. If you are ever in New York’s West Village, these first-rate establishments are a genuine delight to visit—you might even see me there.

My special thanks also go out to editor Katie Day, executive editor Wendy McCurdy, and literary agent John Talbot for making my job so much easier.

Last but in no way least, I’d like to thank the roasters at Counter Culture Coffee in Durham, North Carolina, for their inspiration, as well as their superior beans. If anyone knows and loves coffee, it’s the intrepid coffee hunter Peter Giuliano, coffee director of Counter Culture. To learn more about the coffees mentioned in this book and the art of making them, drop by my virtual Village Blend coffeehouse at:

www.CoffeehouseMystery.com
Where coffee and crime are always brewing.

“You can tell when you have crossed the frontier…because of the badness of the coffee.”

—Edward VII (1841–1910)

“Food and sex…what else is there?”

—Wolfgang Puck

S
TABBING
flesh was no big deal. That was the way to think about it. The boy was just another piece of meat…

From across the dark avenue, the killer stood, expression grim. There were three stories in the redbrick building, six apartments, a roofless porch. The boy was alone on the highest floor. Through bright windows, the killer watched him pacing. He looked like an animal, like panicked game.

This wasn’t something the killer wanted, but the decision had been made. Now time was a slow freeze and the waiting was unbearable on this dank, noisy street. Pub crawlers stumbled along littered sidewalks, Latino teens clustered amid grimy subway girders, and cop cars patrolled too visibly beneath the Number 7 line’s elevated tracks.

The killer hugged shadows, tried to stay hidden, maneuver some shelter from the pitiless wind. Glacial gusts continued to whip down Roosevelt, straight off the East River a mile away. Manhattan had been warmer, the killer thought. Queens was an ice cave, its buildings too low to dull the lash.

Finally, on the street, an opportunity came: a take-out delivery for someone inside. The brown-skinned man in the bright green jacket buzzed the intercom. Behind three pizzas and a liter of soda, the killer slipped in.

Laughter exploded behind a thin door. Some kind of party. A game on TV.

Noise, thought the killer, noise was good.

There were thirty-nine steps to the third floor, thirteen to each landing. The door to the boy’s apartment was cheap, nothing more than flimsy wood. The killer loitered quietly in front of it, one minute, two…

The breathing must be even, the killer reasoned. The hand must be steady.

The killer knocked lightly, like a neighbor, like a friend. The boy answered fast, expecting someone else. Confusion set in. There’d been no buzzer. No request for entry. His brown eyes went wide. Anxiety. Dread.

“What do you want?”

“To explain,” the killer said. The smile seemed to help. “You might have gotten the wrong idea…about what you heard last night. Let me come in and talk to you.”

The killer’s right pocket was a holster now. Resting inside was the hard silver handle of the ten-inch blade, which poked through the lining. The coat was long enough to conceal the threat, old enough to be discarded after.

“I can quit my internship,” the boy pleaded. “I don’t have to go back to the restaurant. Not ever. How about that?”

“Did you tell anyone, Vinny? What you heard last night?”

“No! No one!”

“Then let’s sit down and discuss it. You don’t have to quit. I’ll just explain everything, and you won’t have to worry anymore.”

“Well…” the boy said, glancing into the empty hall. “Okay…I guess you can come in.”

“Thanks, Vinny.”

Gloved fingers slipped inside the coat pocket, grasped the silver handle. The French blade was steel, high carbon and stainless, sharp as a surgical instrument, manufactured for the utmost precision.

Precise, the killer thought, I must be precise. No flinching. No hesitation. Thrust down fast. Plunge hard and true…

Vinny turned his back, and the knife went in smoothly, past skin, through muscle, avoiding bone. The flailing was minimal, the noise a weak howl. It was done now—over. And so was Vincent Buccelli. The boy was just another piece of meat.

“U
GH
,” I murmured. “This coffee’s absolute poison…”

No, the lukewarm ebony liquid sloshing around my bone china cup wasn’t actually lethal, just bitter, old, and lifeless—the kind of adjectives I would have been mortified to hear uttered about my coffee, God forbid my person.

“It can’t be that bad,” Madame said. “Let me give it a try.”

Sitting across from me at one of Solange’s linen-shrouded tables for two, my ex-mother-in-law lifted her cup and sipped. “Oh, my…” With a frown, she brought a napkin to her gently wrinkled face, closed her eyes, and discreetly spat out the offending liquid—a routine gesture for an industry cupping, not for one of New York’s finest French restaurants.

Up to now, the meal had been astounding. My appetizer of oysters had been poached in champagne, lovingly sauced, and placed back in their shells with a flavor and texture that defined delicate. My entrée of butter-browned lobster—artfully arranged around a flan of porcini mushrooms and earthy foie gras—had danced across my taste buds with savory succulence. And for desert, a modern execution of a traditional tarte Tatin, with spicy-sweet cardamom-laced apples and a drizzle of ginger-caramel coulis, had been presented in a pastry so tender it melted on my tongue like newly spun cotton candy.

The entire experience had been orgasmic, a seduction by color, taste, and sensation, with bite after bite making me shiver. Not that I was a restaurant critic.

I, Clare Cosi, middle-class working stiff, was the manager of a landmark coffeehouse in Greenwich Village, and although my experience with food was long-standing—from my childhood years making stove-top espressos in my grandmother’s Pennsylvania grocery to my part-time catering work and culinary writing—it was small-time stuff in light of this four-star establishment.

In short, I was a cook, not a chef. I didn’t have the authoritative status to officially declare whether or not Solange’s particular take on nouvelle cuisine deserved its place alongside Per Se, Le Bernardin, and Daniel, the highest-flying stars in the Big Apple’s culinary circus. But even a long-haul trucker could have judged that Solange’s food was exquisite, while its coffee had all the appeal of Mississippi swamp mud.

“It’s like a seduction gone wrong,” Madame proclaimed. “A princely suitor who shows up with impeccable manners, romances you all night, and escorts you gallantly to the door, then lunges at your breasts with octopus hands and breath foul enough to choke a horse.”

A knee-jerk cackle bubbled up in my throat; considering the mannered dining room, I promptly choked it down. “Don’t hold back, Madame. Tell me what you really think.”

My former mother-in-law rolled her eyes to the chandeliered ceiling. “There’s no point in mincing words past your eightieth birthday. What good is being subtle when you might drop dead midsentence? If you’ve got a point to make, make it, for goodness’ sake!” She lifted her hand, and our waiter instantly appeared. “Please take this away. I’m sorry to tell you, it’s undrinkable.”

René, a somber Haitian gentleman with a heavy French accent, bowed slightly. “
C’est dommage
. I am profoundly sorry.” He snapped his fingers, and another uniformed staff member—a young Latino man—swept in to remove the coffee service.

“Perhaps I can suggest a dessert wine,” René said.

Madame glanced at me, but I tapped my watch and shook my head. “I’ve had enough wine. More will just put me to sleep. I still have to lock up downtown.”

“Just another bottle of water,” Madame told René.

“Of course. Please enjoy it with my compliments.”

The young Latino busboy returned to pour our comped container of twelve-dollar water, and we sank back into the buffed leather upholstery to sip our palates clean again.

By now, the hour was late, and few tables around us were occupied. Most of the restaurant’s chic clientele had cleared out already: The older couples were making their long drives back to estates on Long Island and north Jersey. The CEOs and brokers were strolling toward their Park Avenue pieds-à-terre to check overseas markets. Even the Yuppsters were gone, running up bar tabs at the Second Avenue pickup marts or the artisanal gin mills of the Meatpacking District.

Observing the now-serene dining room, I could see why Solange had become so popular. Aside from the abysmal coffee and typical astronomical prices of a New York house of haute cuisine, the restaurant truly was adorable. The interior was based on Paris’s famous Les Deux Magots café, where Simone de Beauvoir liked to write. There were maroon banquettes topped by polished rails of brass, crystal and copper chandeliers, columns the color of crème fraîche, and even a bit of whimsy in the form of carved wooden gargoyles affixed high on the sunny yellow walls.

The corners held cherrywood end tables with vases of fresh lilies, and the plain white signature china displayed the word
Solange
, handwritten by the restaurant’s acclaimed executive chef, Tommy Keitel. According to a note on the menu, the signature had been reproduced from a cloth napkin, taken from a legendary restaurant on the west bank of Paris, where the American-born Keitel had trained and first envisioned his own New York establishment.

Also according to the menu, the name of the restaurant had its roots in a French religious legend: Saint Solange had pledged her chastity to God, then lost her young life fleeing a smitten abductor.

I actually blanched when I’d read that tragic tale, given what I’d recently learned about my own daughter’s love life.

“On balance, a marvelous experience,” Madame said, interrupting my reverie. “You should be quite proud of Joy.”

Of course, I was proud of my daughter. I’d watched her progress from a young teen, struggling to master Martha Stewart’s recipes, to an accomplished student at a challenging New York culinary school. The typical intern in a kitchen wouldn’t do more than assist a prep cook: wash and cut vegetables, clean chickens, peel shrimp, crack dozens of eggs, and generally fetch and carry. But because of her “special friendship” with Tommy Keitel, Joy excitedly told me that for two dinner services a week she’d been promoted to
legumier
; she was to prepare the menu’s vegetables.

Unfortunately, that fact failed to make me proud, because the “special friendship” with her boss was a euphemism. Joy was carrying on an affair with Chef Keitel, a man who wasn’t just thirty years her senior but also happened to be married with children.

The subject reminded me of why I was here in the first place: to snoop.

“Speaking of Joy,” I said, setting down my leaded crystal goblet of water, “I was hoping I might slip into the kitchen and pay her a visit. Since starting her internship year, I’ve hardly seen her. Would you like to come along?”

Madame raised a silver-white eyebrow. “So I can referee your next mother-daughter knock-down-drag-out?”

“We’ve called a truce.”

“The terms?”

“We’ve agreed to disagree about her affair.” I shrugged. “If I don’t bring it up, she won’t—and she’ll keep talking to me.”

“Is that so?”

“Joy’s an adult now,” I said with a profoundly distressing sigh, “and, as her father pointed out to me—several times—judging her won’t do much more than push her away. Frankly, I’m expecting her to be let down badly by Keitel, and I want our relationship to be intact when that happens.”

“In other words, your
only
reason for agreeing to ‘butt out’ of her business is to make certain that you can be there for her when she really needs you?”

I shifted in my seat, wondering if Madame was about to criticize me. “Truthfully…yes,” I admitted. “That’s exactly my reason.”

“Good,” Madame said with a little smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

With relief, I leaned back, happy to know she thought I was doing the right thing. Not that I wasn’t confident in my own decisions, but Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois was more than my former mother-in-law. For going on twenty years now, she’d been my mentor and friend (not to mention my employer, since she owned the Village Blend). So, of course, I respected her opinion; I also just plain admired her.

Despite her age and the lateness of the hour, Madame’s effortless elegance was something to which I—at half her years—could only aspire. Her bearing was all the more impressive to me because I knew her background.

The woman had lost everything in her youth, including her mother and sister. Then she’d remade herself in America, only to lose the young husband she’d passionately loved. Antonio Allegro’s death had left her completely alone to raise their son and keep alive the century-old coffee business begun by Antonio’s grandfather.

More recently, Madame had lost her older, second husband, a French-born businessman whom she’d highly esteemed. Yet through the challenges of her life, her outlook remained focused and positive, her bearing invincibly regal.

Tonight, for example, her dress of deep violet draped wrinkle-free on her slender form. Her only jewelry was a tasteful necklace of pearls and platinum. Her shoulder-length silver-white hair was swept into a
still
neat chignon, and her big blue eyes continued to appear alert and alive, their lids maintaining their stylishly applied hint of lilac.

As for me, I’d managed to dig a cocoa-colored pinstriped business suit out of my usual wardrobe of khakis, jeans, and hoodies. I’d even managed to jazz it up with a necklace that I’d bought from a local street artisan. As cheap as that sounded, the tigereye stones set in distressed gold didn’t look half bad with the cocoa suit. Plus I’d done up my own Italian-roast brown hair into a twist, shoved my hastily shaved legs into sheer stockings, my feet into high heels—at five two I needed all the height I could get—and stuck my lobes with earrings that sort of matched the necklace.

Suffice it to say, I was presentable enough to avoid embarrassing my daughter, who was apprenticing behind the double doors at the back of this
très
fashionable dining room.

“You go on, Clare,” Madame advised. “Visit Joy at her cook station. New York restaurant kitchens are terribly crowded, busy places. I’ll just be in the way. Besides, there might be a very good reason for me to sit here alone for a few minutes.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes…there’s an intriguing man sitting alone at a corner table.”

“A man?” I began to turn and look.

“No, no! Don’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“I suspect he may be a bit shy or easily embarrassed. He’s been eye-flirting with me for the past half hour, but he hasn’t acted. I think perhaps, if he sees me sitting here alone for a few minutes, he’ll make his move.”

“On the make already?” I teased, since Madame had just broken up with her last boyfriend, a charming oncologist who’d finally retired at the age of seventy-five.

In Dr. McTavish’s grand plan, Madame was to have married him and moved immediately to New Mexico, where she was to take up golfing, camping, and trail hiking. Madame gently told him that although she cared for him, she had no intention of uprooting herself from her New York life. And since he’d set his plans in unbreakable stone, he should definitely take a hike—with another woman.

“At my age, dear, one shouldn’t waste an opportunity for amour,” she said, pausing to drain her water goblet. “And, quite frankly, I’ve been conjugated too many times to play coy.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, rising. “I’ll be right back.”

“No hurry,” Madame said with a wily smile. “Take your time.”

Resisting the urge to check out Madame’s newest potential flame, I instead sought out the maître d’.

Napoleon Dornier was a tall scarecrow of a man in his early thirties. He had narrow shoulders, a beaked nose, and a large head with short, spiked radish-colored hair and long red sideburns. Clearly a fussy, meticulous manager, he’d been breathing down the neck of the waiters and busboys since Madame and I had been seated. It seemed nothing was quite good enough for him, not even the position of his tie’s knot, which he’d adjusted twice as I approached.

“Excuse me,” I said.

Dornier had been watching a member of the waitstaff deliver a bill to one of the last large tables, a gathering of six businessmen. Behind his catlike amber eyeglasses his dark gaze focused on me.

“Can I help you?” he asked, flicking an imaginary speck of lint from his black jacket.

“Would it be possible to see the kitchen?” I asked.

The man sniffed, the sort of mildly disdainful gesture that I swear every Frenchman learned to master in maître d’ school. “If you’re hoping to meet our renowned chef de cuisine,” he said, “I fear you’ll be disappointed. Chef Keitel is not in the kitchen tonight.”

“Oh, thank goodness!”

My outburst obviously surprised Monsieur Dornier, but I just couldn’t help myself. I’d met Tommy Keitel exactly once, when Joy had brought him to a Village Blend function a month ago. I’d been caught off guard that evening, learning about their affair in the most in-your-face way possible. (The image of that lecher’s fiftysomething arm around my innocent daughter’s young waist made me want to strangle him with my bare hands.)

But how was I supposed to explain that to Dornier?
Sorry for the outburst, monsieur
.
But I’m thrilled to miss seeing a guy I’d like to choke till he turns the color of pomegranate juice.

Clearing my throat, I decided to keep it simple. “Monsieur, I’m not here to see Chef Keitel. My name is Clare Cosi. I’m the manager of the Village Blend coffeehouse in the West Village, and my daughter is one of your interns. Joy Allegro—”

“Mademoiselle Joy! She is your daughter?” Dornier’s demeanor changed immediately. “She is a sweet and lovely addition to our staff.” He glanced at his watch. “Dinner service is nearly concluded, and I’m sure we can take a peek behind the veil without being too disruptive.”

Behind the veil? Good Lord. This guy’s really into the restaurant-as-theater thing.
“Uh, thank you.”