A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,63

of the brewed coffee over the crema and dollop a little bit of the foam into both our cups. Finally, I pour coffee into the cups, careful to not disturb the foam.

We move stools to the island. “You already had brunch, but you know me.”

“If I said I’d lied about brunch and I’m on an empty stomach, would that get me closer to whatever you’re offering?”

I drag over a fresh loaf of pan Cubano and cut two thick slices. Irish butter clouds on top. I slide his plate across wood.

He licks his lips before he drinks.

My eyes go there, then up. “You don’t lie.” But I do now. Please let it matter. And then there’s the matter of Andrés. The other night I spoke so freely about him to Orion; I should be able to spill about the surprise call. I can’t, even though my silence feels wrong. I need some time alone with it—time to tell myself what Andrés’s reappearance means before I can tell a boy I can tell anything to.

Almost anything.

“I knew I’d find you in here,” Cate says, the push door swinging behind her. “And you, Orion, are never far from her baked goods. Is that Café Bustelo?”

“I’m getting an initiation. It packs a worthy punch,” Orion offers.

“I can make you one?” I tell Cate.

She sniffs over my cup. “Mmm, next time. I spoke with tu mamá last night and now this. Oh Miami, te extraño tanto.” She smacks one hand over her heart, missing her childhood city. “Anyway, I was just chatting with one of our guests. I told her all about La Paloma. She was so taken with your baking and wanted to meet you before checkout.”

“Sure, of course.”

Within minutes, Cate has ushered a petite redhead, likely in her twenties, into the Owl and Crow kitchen. She introduces herself as Lauren, and we introduce ourselves as Lila, who made her breakfast, and Orion, who sells the English breakfast tea she drank with it.

“The tea was superb,” Lauren says. “I’ll have to pop into Maxwell’s on the way to the train.” Then to me, “But, Lila is it?” On my nod, she says, “I was here for a wedding all weekend and got to sample many of your offerings. I must say, the flavor balance and texture were noteworthy. Those flaky pastries and adding cinnamon to those fig rolls—clever.” She points to the cooling oven. “And your breads were extraordinary.”

“She is that,” Orion says.

I pout-smile at him then tell Lauren, “Thank you. It’s always nice to hear my cooking made someone happy.”

“I agree,” Lauren says. “I’m in culinary arts school, myself. Le Cordon Bleu in London.”

I’ve heard of Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. Any cook worth her kitchen clogs knows about the most prestigious school of French cuisine in the world. But… “There’s a London campus?”

“Yes, it’s fantastic. I’m part of the Diplôme de Cuisine program but there are a few courses of study. We have the Diplôme de Pâtisserie coursework too. Pastry and baking. Have you had any formal training?”

“Just my grandmother.”

“She taught you well. But check out the school, if it fancies you. Goodness, you’re so close to London.”

She says this like I’m from here. Like I belong in this little medieval town that happens to be so close to London. I don’t correct Lauren before Cate leads her to check out.

Orion’s buttering another slice of pan Cubano when I shuffle back to my stool, phone out. After a few moments he asks, “You’re looking it up, aren’t you? Le Cordon Bleu?”

“Just curious.” I shift my phone so we both can see the grand website, fit for a grand institution. We scroll through, finding the details of the extensive program and full-color food photos. “Look! The desserts and cakes. I can make good pastries, but these are on another level.” Intricate details and delicate shapes, almost too beautiful to eat. Works of art.

“Have you even thought about culinary school before?” Orion asks.

I shake my head. “Abuela taught me everything I need for La Paloma.” I scroll through and find the three successive levels of classes. Nine months of study in exquisite French pastry, learning new techniques that I could apply to my own baking, setting it apart even more. London. Another city elbows in: Miami and all it’s ever been and still is. “This is, I mean, it’s kind of impossible.”

“But you keep looking at it.” Orion sips his coffee. “Let me see the school’s address.” I show him then he dashes his