The Traveling Tea Shop Read Online Free PDF Page A

Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts.” I begin mentally working my way along the coast.
    “Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont.” Pamela brings us inland. “And then back to New York.”
    The only state I’ve actually visited. Not that I’ll be mentioning that.
    “So are you including New York’s other edible celeb?” I ask as I clean off the last creamy smear from my fork.
    Pamela looks bemused. “And what would that be?”
    “Red Velvet Cake.”
    “I thought that was from the South.” She returns to her notes.
    I shake my head. “Common misconception. In fact, if you turned left out of here,” I say, motioning to the door. “Take the first right onto Park Avenue . . .”
    “Yes?”
    “Then just keep going until you hit the Waldorf Astoria.”
    She looks amazed. “That’s where Red Velvet Cake was created?”
    I nod emphatically. “I know the executive pastry chef there—Charlie.”
    “Could you arrange an interview?”
    “Of course.”
    “I’d like to stay there as well, when I come back.”
    “No problem!” I note down her request.
    I think I’ve got it! I think this is my job. It’s a lot bigger than I was expecting but that’s okay. I can rise to the occasion—’scuse the baking pun.
    “I’ll ask my agent to e-mail you over the notes from our conversation, so you have a starting point for the itinerary.”
    “That would be really helpful,” I concede. “So you’re basically looking to try out a cake recipe that’s native to each state we visit?”
    “Yes, or at least celebrating an ingredient that is specific to the area. Like maple syrup and Vermont.”
    “Cranberries and Cape Cod?”
    “Ooh, I could do with a Cape Cod cocktail about now.”
    Her whole body loosens up, suddenly looking in urgent need of being horizontal and fanned.
    “Um, I’ve actually drawn up a list for you of bars that have a great atmosphere.”
    She sits up and takes my micro-guide to NYC but skips over my secret speakeasy suggestions.
    “Ricky Martin is in
Evita
?”
    “Oh. Well, I didn’t know if you were the musicals type—”
    “I am, I don’t have time on this visit but . . . Have you seen him?”
    “Actually, yes. He was good.”
    “Good enough or really good?”
    “Really good. A proper leading man. His voice was flawless, his stage presence commanding,” I take a breath. “I just wanted him to dance more—”
    “Knowing what he’s capable of?” She gets a glint in her eye.
    “Exactly!” I grin. “He was wearing this white granddad shirt and braces the whole time. I just wanted him to do a
Dancing with the Stars
turn and whip off his baggy trousers—”
    “And the glitterball comes down from the ceiling . . .”
    “And he unleashes his Latin shimmy!”
    We take a moment to picture the scene and then Pamela sighs, “He seems a good chap, you know, decent.”
    “He does,” I agree.
    Both of us look a little wistful.
    For a second I think I might ask after Pamela’s husband, but seeing as I only know him from the press pictures of him tasting her latest bakery goodie, I realize I would just come across as nosey.
    “So.” I clasp my hands together, ready to seal the deal. “Is there anything else I should know before I start planning?”
    “Oh, there is one thing I forgot to mention!”
    I blink expectantly.
    “We’ll be traveling in a double-decker bus.”
    I blink some more.
    “You know, one of those classic red London busses.”
    “You want me to source a London bus here in New York?” I gulp.
    “Oh no. It’s already arranged. You don’t have to worry about that. Just the route. And the hotels. And the cake shops. And the cafés. And the bakers. And the recipes. And the ingredients. And the history. And the general logistics.”
    “Yes, yes, that’s fine. But, back to the bus. Where exactly is it?”
    “Newport, Rhode Island.”
    I take out my laptop and go straight to Google Maps. Approximately four hours’ drive. Mostly along the coast of