worse.’
‘You mean LaRoche’s speech?’ I asked, catching sight of Janalee approaching. Every few feet someone stopped her to talk. I was glad to see people weren’t blaming her for last night. ‘You know he doesn’t speak for the rest of us.’
The tall gray-haired man nodded. ‘Of course, my dear. And not to worry, EarthBean has taken its share of shots over the years. No, it’s the industry in general I worry about. Every man for them―’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ Janalee had finally made it to us. She was without baby, for once.
‘Not at all, Janalee. Are you OK?’
She didn’t look OK. She looked like crap.
Seeing it, Levitt took her hand and led her over to his chair. ‘Janalee, my dear, sit down. I hope you’re not upset by last night.’
‘Last night?’ Janalee looked up at him blankly. ‘Oh, you mean Marvin’s speech. No, no – that was just Marvin being . . . Marvin. I know you understand.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Levitt patted her hand. ‘Then whatever has you so disturbed?’
Janalee leaned forward in her seat and looked from me to Levitt and back again.
‘Janalee’s Place,’ she said softly. ‘Apparently someone burned it down on purpose. Who in the world would gain from starting the fire?’
She said the last in a hushed tone, but her words seemed to reverberate in the big hall. Fire, fire, fire . . .
The two old ladies from the bar last night passed by and glanced at us and then quickly away.
Now, I knew that I didn’t burn down Janalee’s Place. So why did I feel so guilty?
Despite the news about the fire, both Janalee and Amy still took part in the barista competition. By the time the audience had settled in, the stage was set and the judges and cameras were in place.
Jerome had positioned the three cameras so one was on the particular barista who was competing, the second moved between the judges and the audience and the third was on me.
And that suited me just fine.
‘Welcome to the Second Annual Java Ho Barista Competition,’ I said into the microphone.
The crowd burst into wild applause.
Already, I was one up on LaRoche.
Further buoying me was the fact that Sophie Daystrom and Henry Wested – my once and, I hoped, future customers – were seated front row center. Maybe they did still love me and Uncommon Grounds. Or maybe they were there to support Amy and Janalee from HotWired.
I tried not to let the thought throw me off-stride.
‘Each competitor today will have a chance to prepare an espresso, a cappuccino and a signature drink for each of our esteemed judges. They will be scored on taste, presentation and technical skills. All drinks must contain espresso, of course, but none can contain alcohol.’
I waved down the boos and smiled into the camera. I was liking this emcee stuff.
‘The top six point-scorers will come back for the finals tomorrow morning to vie for this trophy.’ I lifted the first-place trophy, ostensibly to show the crowd, but more to mug for the camera.
The bronze sculpture was supposed to be steam in the form of a barista, rising from a cup. But now, as I looked at it a little more closely, I realized . . .
‘She’s naked,’ Sophie Daystrom exclaimed loudly from the front row.
‘Shouldn’t she at least have an apron on?’ Henry asked in what he seemed to think was a whisper. ‘A big one?’
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Then the whole audience laughed.
I think we had a hit on our hands.
Janalee and baristas from Java the Hut and Bean There comprised the first trio of contestants.
‘Isn’t Java the Hut in the UK?’ George, the technical judge who was not sleeping with Priscilla, asked as the Java the Hut barista, a young man named Mitchell, wheeled a cart with his supplies onstage.
‘This is a different place,’ I said, handing him a technical score sheet. ‘Somewhere near Cincinnati, I think.’
When we were trying to come up with a name for our own coffeehouse, I’d learned that no matter
‘You mean LaRoche’s speech?’ I asked, catching sight of Janalee approaching. Every few feet someone stopped her to talk. I was glad to see people weren’t blaming her for last night. ‘You know he doesn’t speak for the rest of us.’
The tall gray-haired man nodded. ‘Of course, my dear. And not to worry, EarthBean has taken its share of shots over the years. No, it’s the industry in general I worry about. Every man for them―’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ Janalee had finally made it to us. She was without baby, for once.
‘Not at all, Janalee. Are you OK?’
She didn’t look OK. She looked like crap.
Seeing it, Levitt took her hand and led her over to his chair. ‘Janalee, my dear, sit down. I hope you’re not upset by last night.’
‘Last night?’ Janalee looked up at him blankly. ‘Oh, you mean Marvin’s speech. No, no – that was just Marvin being . . . Marvin. I know you understand.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Levitt patted her hand. ‘Then whatever has you so disturbed?’
Janalee leaned forward in her seat and looked from me to Levitt and back again.
‘Janalee’s Place,’ she said softly. ‘Apparently someone burned it down on purpose. Who in the world would gain from starting the fire?’
She said the last in a hushed tone, but her words seemed to reverberate in the big hall. Fire, fire, fire . . .
The two old ladies from the bar last night passed by and glanced at us and then quickly away.
Now, I knew that I didn’t burn down Janalee’s Place. So why did I feel so guilty?
Despite the news about the fire, both Janalee and Amy still took part in the barista competition. By the time the audience had settled in, the stage was set and the judges and cameras were in place.
Jerome had positioned the three cameras so one was on the particular barista who was competing, the second moved between the judges and the audience and the third was on me.
And that suited me just fine.
‘Welcome to the Second Annual Java Ho Barista Competition,’ I said into the microphone.
The crowd burst into wild applause.
Already, I was one up on LaRoche.
Further buoying me was the fact that Sophie Daystrom and Henry Wested – my once and, I hoped, future customers – were seated front row center. Maybe they did still love me and Uncommon Grounds. Or maybe they were there to support Amy and Janalee from HotWired.
I tried not to let the thought throw me off-stride.
‘Each competitor today will have a chance to prepare an espresso, a cappuccino and a signature drink for each of our esteemed judges. They will be scored on taste, presentation and technical skills. All drinks must contain espresso, of course, but none can contain alcohol.’
I waved down the boos and smiled into the camera. I was liking this emcee stuff.
‘The top six point-scorers will come back for the finals tomorrow morning to vie for this trophy.’ I lifted the first-place trophy, ostensibly to show the crowd, but more to mug for the camera.
The bronze sculpture was supposed to be steam in the form of a barista, rising from a cup. But now, as I looked at it a little more closely, I realized . . .
‘She’s naked,’ Sophie Daystrom exclaimed loudly from the front row.
‘Shouldn’t she at least have an apron on?’ Henry asked in what he seemed to think was a whisper. ‘A big one?’
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Then the whole audience laughed.
I think we had a hit on our hands.
Janalee and baristas from Java the Hut and Bean There comprised the first trio of contestants.
‘Isn’t Java the Hut in the UK?’ George, the technical judge who was not sleeping with Priscilla, asked as the Java the Hut barista, a young man named Mitchell, wheeled a cart with his supplies onstage.
‘This is a different place,’ I said, handing him a technical score sheet. ‘Somewhere near Cincinnati, I think.’
When we were trying to come up with a name for our own coffeehouse, I’d learned that no matter
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