Клео Коул - French Pressed

I pressed another pot of the Kenyan for Janelle. Then I pressed the Yirgacheffe as a single-origin. The brightness, floral aroma, and citrus finish blew her away. But she hadn’t tasted anything yet. Next came the Colombian, a micro-lot produced by the indigenous Guarapamba tribe.

“They live on a reservation high in the Colombian Andes,” I explained.

Janelle sampled the coffee. Dornier did, as well.

“I taste layers of vanilla in this one,” Janelle remarked, her voice betraying only the slightest traces of that syncopated New Orleans lilt. “Sweet cherry and raisin…”

“There’s a dark chocolate in the finish, as well,” Dornier added. “Very nice, Ms. Cosi.”

“The coffee’s grown from older plant varieties,” I explained, “and the tribe of fifty families that grows it uses traditional agricultural methods, planting and harvesting by the phases of the moon.”

Janelle’s long-lashed eyes widened. She faced Keitel, who’d been watching in silence, declining to taste anything more. “Chef, we have to serve this.”

Keitel rolled his eyes toward the dining room’s laughing gargoyles. “Don’t get yourself sweet-talked by some tale of ritual harvesting. The proof is in the pudding.”

“But you haven’t tasted the pudding,” Janelle pointed out.

I cleared my throat. “Chef Keitel, I’ll make you a deal,” I said, summoning the bravado of a serious salesperson. “At least try this next coffee. If it doesn’t impress you, even a little bit, I’ll pack up my things and leave you in peace.”

Keitel folded his arms. “Bring it on.”

I ground the beans coarsely and measured them into the bottom of a clean press (two tablespoons of coffee for every six ounces of water). Then I poured in the hot water (just off the boil) from my electric pot, stirred the grounds to begin the brewing process, and set my digital timer to four minutes.

“Mmmmm,” Janelle said. “I already smell something floral…”

“It’s lavender ,” Keitel said.

I nodded. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, Ms. Cosi. Who do you think you’re dealing with?”

A man with an ego the size of New Jersey?

I cleared my throat. “This coffee comes from a family farm in the mountains of Honduras called Finca el Puente—”

“The Bridge Farm,” Keitel abruptly translated.

“A colleague in the trade, Peter Giuliano of Counter Culture Coffee roasters, calls this coffee the Purple Princess, and it’s the perfect moniker. This coffee is elegant enough to be served to a princess, and it’s greatly desired at coffee auctions.”

My timer went off, and I pushed down the plunger, forcing the spent grounds to the bottom of the glass press. Then I began to pour out the sample cups. “It’s a testament to the savvy of our own Village Blend buyer that he’s been able to secure lots of the Purple Princess for us year after year.”

Keitel grunted. “Quite a speech. But let’s sample it, shall we?”

I nodded and zipped my lips, knowing the taste of this coffee alone would sell it for me.

“Oh, my goodness,” Janelle said after a few sips. “I didn’t know there were coffees like this.”

“It’s full-bodied, and there’s a juiciness to the finish,” Dornier described, his voice quick and excited. “But I’m especially impressed with the level of lavender aroma and flavor. It’s absolutely bursting with it…and there are other fruit flavors here, too.”

“Plum,” said Keitel. He sipped again. “And grape…”

“With a note of something else, I think,” Janelle said.

“Raspberry,” Keitel added flatly.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by Chef Keitel’s spot-on description of the underlying flavor characteristics. You don’t get to be a world-class chef without a world-class palate—and, apparently, a world-class ego.

“Coffee gets its character from thousands of aromatic chemicals,” I pointed out. “This Purple Princess is probably the best illustration I’ve ever come across for that particular notion.”

“It’s a remarkable coffee,” Janelle said. She glanced hopefully at Keitel. “Don’t you think so, Chef?”

Keitel sipped more of his coffee, said nothing.

Damn. The man was one tough sell. But I refused to go down in flames.

“These and other Village Blend coffees can be paired beautifully with items on your dessert menu,” I pointed out. “The Guarapamba tribe’s Colombian, for instance, would have paired very nicely with Janelle’s modern take on the tarte Tatin that I enjoyed last night. My dinner companion ordered the profiteroles; the Kenyan would have been delightful paired with that. Its note of black currant would have resonated magnificently with the blackberry sorbet inside the pastry and black currant flavor in the casis coulis. And, of course, you can also offer a tasting of cheese and coffee pairings. If you sold an entire table on the idea, you could move as many as four presses of coffee to go with your cheeses.”

“Excuse me? You did not just suggest that coffee and cheese go together.” Keitel shook his head. “Too bad, Cosi, and I was just beginning to give you the benefit of the doubt on your gastronomic judgment.”

“Excuse me , Chef Keitel, but when it comes to coffee, you’re out of your depth.”

Keitel’s flummoxed expression was priceless.

“Hear me out,” I quickly added. “People have been eating fresh cheese and coffee for a long time. A cup of java with a morning bagel and cream cheese is practically an institution in this city, and who eats a New York cheesecake without a hot pot of joe?”

Janelle giggled.

Dornier murmured, “She has a point.”

Keitel shot them both unhappy glances.

“Not every cheese pairs well with every coffee,” I admitted. “But like wine and beer, there are coffees that pair beautifully with certain cheeses. Given the right pairing, a cup of coffee can highlight special notes of flavor in a cheese, helping it shine like a jeweler putting a black backdrop behind a white diamond.”

Keitel said not a word. He simply stared at me like he had before. Then he turned abruptly and began striding toward his kitchen.

Dornier exchanged a disappointed glance with Janelle and sighed. Then he faced me. “Well, Ms. Cosi, I’m very sorry, but—”

“Sign her up!” Keitel bellowed over his shoulder.

Dornier’s eyes widened. He turned his head. “For how long?”

Keitel stopped at the kitchen doors and spun to face us. “Seven weeks.”

“No more?” Dornier asked.

“Seven weeks from Monday,” the chef called. “After that, who knows…”

Then Tommy Keitel pressed his back against the swinging doors and disappeared into his kitchen.

Napoleon Dornier suggested that I come back again the next day to discuss the contract details.

“I just can’t do it now,” he told me, checking the digital schedule on his PDA. “I have a vintner coming in twenty minutes, reservations to review, specials to go over with my staff—”

“Of course, I understand how busy you are. Perhaps I can just take a look around the kitchen on my own—”

“Oh, no,” Dornier said. “Janelle here will show you around.” He turned to the pastry chef. “You don’t mind, do you, Janelle? You two will be working together soon enough anyway.”

Janelle smiled. “I’d be happy to show Ms. Cosi the ropes; she probably just saved my job.”

“Great,” I said. This is going well. Now I just need Janelle to agree to one more thing. “I’m actually looking forward to meeting the kitchen staff. You know, getting the lay of the land.”