On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page B

make the brew bitter.
    Once the proper amount is ground, place the grinds in the little basket provided with the machine, tamp it down tightly. The basket will sit above the water as you screw on the top part of the pot.
    Next place the pot over low heat. In a few minutes, the water will boil. Steam will rapidly force the water up through the grounds and into the empty pot, filling it almost instantly.
    The stovetop method also leaves more grounds in the cup than the steam method. Grounds are essential for “readings.” Not that I’m ruled by superstitions, but I certainly don’t ignore them. Besides, when I was a child, my grandmother taught me how to read coffee grounds, and I’ve always enjoyed the parlor game.
    “I’ve had Roman baristas use thousand-dollar machines who couldn’t make a cup that good,” Madame told me that morning with a lilt of motherly pride.
    I was shocked by the light blush that came to my cheeks. It had been so long since anyone had expressed pride in me, I couldn’t even recall the last time. (The inevitable result of middle age and motherhood—let’s face it, everyone expects you to do the expressing.)
    “Oh, come on,” I said, brushing it off. “The fact is, you were relieved when you met me. You were terrified I would turn out to be some harlot with a tube top and tattoos. You liked me, so you decided to like my coffee.”
    “I never pretend to like coffee, my dear, and you very well know that. It’s either good or it’s garbage. And yours was very good.”
    “And you know very well it was my grandmother who taught me how to perfect it,” I said.
    “Yes. She taught you. And then I taught you.”
    “Yes, of course. I know. I owe you a lot, Madame—”
    “You owe me nothing. But you do owe yourself, Clare. We woman all owe ourselves. And we forget to pay.”
    I shifted, cleared my throat. “You think I’m not being true to myself?”
    “Yes, that’s right. You know where you belong. You know what will make you happy, but you ignore it.”
    I took a deep breath. “I have to.”
    “You’re just hiding. Hiding from him .”
    There it is, I thought, bracing herself. The big blue tiger.
    “It’s cowardly,” continued Madame. “And it makes no sense when it’s not what you want out of life.” Madame blew out a puff of smoke then raised an eyebrow. “I noticed what you said at the end of your Times article: ‘When we drink coffee, we drink its history, which is also our own history.’”
    I squirmed. I had not attributed that line to Madame. Under the pressure of impressing my editor, I had decided to simply convey the sentiment as part of my own coffee I.Q. But the truth was, much of my knowledge had come from my years of running the Village Blend under Madame’s tutelage.
    “I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I should have attributed the words to you—”
    “Don’t be stupid. I’m not scolding you. I’m reminding you.” Madame rose, walked to an end table, and picked up the week-old Times Magazine . She waved it proudly at me, returned to her seat, then placed her reading glasses on the end of her nose.
    “And I quote,” she began, “‘If we are a civilization of coffee drinkers, then the coffee we buy, brew, and drink should be as great as our civilized heritage. For though coffee may seem a small thing, it is a ritual that reflects the daily standards we set for ourselves throughout our lives. Whether the highest or the lowest, it is the standard we pass on to our children. And if we fail to pass on the highest standards, even in the smallest things, then how can we, as a civilization, hope to progress? Perhaps T.S. Eliot was right: Some of us do measure out our lives with coffee spoons. All the more reason to pay attention to the quality of the bean.’”
    Madame smiled. “That wasn’t me. That was you , my dear.”
    “I learned it from you.”
    “Have you? Prove it then.” She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and reached for a small bell.