Holiday Grind by Cleo Coyle Page A

pantries of West Indians stocked up with pigeon peas, chicken feet, freshly cut sugarcane, ginger beer, scary-hot Scotch bonnet peppers (for your jerk seasoning), and burnt sugar syrup (for your black cake).
    Also like my Nonna, Dex was a stickler for authentic products, and that included coffee. Given the world market, the Caribbean was far from a major coffee-growing player, but Matt routinely sought out its coffees for Dex—from Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, even St. Vin cent, where a single coffee farmer was attempting to bring back the crop to his tiny island home.
    Dex also depended on Matt to acquire one of the most expensive varieties of coffee on the planet: Jamaica Blue Mountain. Some roasters mixed JBM with less expensive beans to make a blend. But Jamaica Blue was such a smooth, mild brew that cutting it negated the entire reason for drinking it. My Village Blend JBM was pricey, but it was pure—which was one reason Dex dealt exclusively with us for that particular import.
    Anyway, with the winter holidays Dex’s busiest and most profitable selling season, I was surprised to see him here this evening.
    “And speakin’ of holidays,” Dexter continued. “This Blend of yours, she looks magical. The lights, the tree, the little jingle bells—to the fullness, sister!”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “And this holiday latte—” Dexter raised his glass. “Sweet!”
    “Sweet, huh?” Esther broke in. “Which one are you drinking? Because I still think Tucker’s candy cane concoction is borderline insipid.”
    “Well, that one may be. But this one’s a marvel!”
    Okay, now I was downright curious. It must have shown, because Matt caught my eye and explained.
    “I asked Gardner to mix up Dex his Caribbean Black Cake from last night’s tasting.”
    Dex took another sip. “The flavor of rum comes through first. Then the nutty sweetness of the brown sugar. And cinnamon is ticklin’ my tongue at the end, the way it tickled my nose at the beginnin’. I taste a note of heavy fruit flavor, too—”
    “That’s the black currant syrup,” I said.
    Dexter sipped again. “There’s a hint of somethin’ more. Somethin’ dark, sweet, earthy—”
    “Chocolate.” I smiled. “Gard and I agreed that authentic black cake is so rich it tricks the taste buds into thinking chocolate is one of the ingredients; we compensated with a splash of my homemade chocolate syrup.”
    “Clever! And what other flavors are you offerin’, Clare?” He glanced around the shop. “Where is your holiday menu?”
    I shifted uneasily. “To tell you the truth: I had mixed feelings about putting it up. Something happened to a friend of mine last night and suddenly the whole Taste of Christmas thing feels . . . I don’t know . . . wrong .”
    “Cha!” Dexter threw up his hands. “This Black Cake Latte brings me right back to the islands. I tell you that’s a gift, Clare, a gift for your customers, bringin’ them back to a time and a place with the simple magic of flavor. I sip this drink, and I’m with my madda and aunties again, weeks before holiday bakin’ day, when they all got together and started soakin’ their black cake fruits in wine.”
    Before I could reply, he turned to my ex. “What do you think of these drinks, Matteo?”
    “Sorry.” Matt shrugged. “Fa-la-la-la Lattes just aren’t my thing.”
    Dexter frowned at his friend’s reply. “Hmmm, well now . . .” Dex said, catching my eye. “We know what is Matteo’s thing, don’t we, Clare?” He pointed to a very familiar glossy-paged publication among the papers and trade magazines on the café table.
    I smirked when I saw it. Talk about being brought back to a time and a place. For my ex-husband, the Christmas season didn’t start until the Victoria’s Secret holiday catalog arrived in the mail. Perusing its pages was an annual event.
    “You never change, do you, Matt?”
    Matt squinted. “A man has a right to shop for lingerie gifts,