would be arriving in a few hours to prepare for dinner service from four until midnight—and I expected finally to see Joy, who I hadn’t heard from the entire day. Clearly, she was ignoring the five messages I’d already left on her cell phone’s voicemail.
“Hi, Carlos.” I waved at the restaurant’s reliable sous chef, Carlos Comacho. He was busy, cutting up onions and carrots, preparing for Executive Chef Victor Vogel’s arrival. He gave a quick smile and went back to his work.
The next person I encountered was Jacques Papas, who stuck his head out of his office at the sound of my voice. Papas acted as the restaurant’s manager, maitre d’, and sommelier. Half-French and half-Greek, Papas was in his early forties, swarthy, with dark eyes and ink-black hair (which I assumed he had dyed, because the only thing that occurred in nature that dark was a celestial black hole). We stood nearly eye to eye, but what the man lacked in size he made up for in belligerent energy. I had yet to see him smile. His usual demeanor was one of mild disdain mingled with boredom—either that or a sneer.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
The manager offered me a sour look, then crisply turned and disappeared back into his office.
Living in Manhattan, I was no stranger to divas of all stripes in the upscale restaurant game. But Papas had attitude beyond reason. At least he was consistent, I thought, shrugging off Papas’s chilly snub. He treated employees and guests with equal contempt.
After walking through the spotless, stainless steel kitchen, I strolled by the staff ’s break room and pushed through the burgundy leather double-doors, which took me into the two-story dining room.
While the exterior of Cuppa J was as unassuming as its name, the interior was another matter. David had taken great pains to model the decor after a pair of famous Paris coffeehouses—the traditional Café Marly, designed in the 1990s by Oliver Gagnére and Yves Taralon, and the more modern Le Café Costes designed in 1985 by Philippe Starck.
The Marly’s influence was evident as soon as you stepped into the breathtaking room. Dark burgundy-hued walls were gilded with art deco flourishes and lined with cherrywood wainscoting that perfectly matched the sixty-two cafe tables. Forest green velvet couches and low-backed ivory armchairs were interspersed with freestanding antique torchiers (a practical replacement for the Marly’s iron incense burners). A staircase of emerald marble framed by twin cenotaphs was situated on the south side of the dining room. And the brass-railed stairs led to an upper mezzanine fronted by more brass rails.
At the top of the staircase a massive clock was set into the wall. This mosaic timepiece, fashioned from sheets of translucent quartz and colored stones, was a homage to the central motif of the now defunct La Café Costes, right down to the movement of the clock’s arms, which spun around twenty-four times every hour.
David assumed this bizarre Alice in Wonderland feature was a nod to the surrealists. To me it seemed a fairly obvious statement about the nature of caffeine.
The narrow mezzanine circled the entire restaurant. Along with additional seating, the upstairs featured a cherrywood bar, a spectacular view of the main dining room below, and an eye-level view of the huge brass-and-glass chandelier that dangled from the high ceiling.
Crossing the dining room, I walked over to the first floor’s open coffee bar.
Over the years, the crimes I’d seen upscale restaurants commit against the bean truly made me shudder. Leaving pots to simmer on burners until the liquid had the consistency of muddy tar. Serving customers espressos in cold cups. Frothing cappuccinos with steam wands that hadn’t been properly cleaned. Filling stacks of paper filters with pre-ground coffee and allowing it to sit around aerating for hours before brewing. (The moment you grind your beans, they begin to lose their freshness.)
As Cuppa J’s barista manager/drill sergeant, I’d pretty much browbeaten every waiter and waitress into following the holy rituals of high-quality coffee service.
With my clipboard in hand, I was very pleased to note that the area had been left shipshape by the previous evening’s closers. The espresso machine had been properly cleaned, demitasses neatly stacked on top; the coffee canisters were left tightly sealed; and the French presses were lined up in formation on the cherrywood shelves like good little soldiers of sparkling glass.
I checked the contents of the coffee canisters. There were twenty in all, each holding a different blend or single-origin coffee featured on our menu. Back