Chai Another Day Page 4

  “CHAI, CHAI, CHAI-CHAI,” I SANG TUESDAY MORNING AS I flipped our sign to OPEN. Where the old Nestea jingle had come from, I had no idea, but it’s one of those earworms that stays stuck until an antidote song kicks it to the curb.

  The door flew open and Kristen entered, a cardboard tray in hand. “You said chai, Madam Boss Lady, so I brought samples.”

  Sandra’s eyebrows rose. “Chai? Since when?”

  “Since I had a great cup yesterday at Seetha’s. Perfect for fall, don’t you think? We can sell a version to brew with tea, and another for baking.” My late-night research session had my brain spinning. Spiced tea or coffee. Pumpkin bread. Oatmeal. Pound cake. Cheesecake. Apple raisin coffee cake. Even a steak rub.

  She pursed her lips, considering. When I bought the Spice Shop, it came with two employees, Reed Locke and Sandra Piniella. Reed is a college student who grew up in the Market, hanging out after school in his father’s acupuncture clinic, and a whiz at managing our computers and social media. I thank my stars daily that Sandra, the assistant manager, stayed on despite her doubts about training someone with no experience in food or retail other than eating and shopping. She is smart, capable, and opinionated, all accusations that have been leveled at me a time or two. The shop and I would be lost without her. And she and Arf are best buds.

  “We already serve a spiced tea,” Sandra pointed out, sensibly.

  “Yes, but that’s got the Caribbean influence, with the allspice and orange. These flavors will transport the customer to Delhi or Mumbai, without the jetlag.”

  Kristen had set her tray in the nook and gone to the back to stash her bag and grab her apron. She emerged, tying the strings in a bow on her left hip. She’s the only employee who turns the black, bibbed apron we all wear into a fashion statement.

  “Let’s each try both the hot and cold versions.” She grabbed sample cups from our tea cart. At first, Sandra had dismissed Kristen as my fluffy friend, the hazard of being a pretty blonde. But she’s got good taste, along with a natural flair for sales and display. Where Sandra advocates for authenticity and educating the clientele, Kristen keeps an eye on the trends.

  “Starbucks?” Sandra said.

  “To a lot of people, including some of our customers, this is what chai is.” Kristen popped the lids off the paper cups and started pouring. “Thank goodness I got there before the line stretched out the door.”

  A chain coffee shop might seem odd in a place dedicated to the homegrown and handmade, but chains are allowed if they started here. The first Starbucks opened in the Market in 1971. And the coffee pilgrims love paying homage. The Spice Shop dates back almost as far, but one location is plenty for me.

  “Start with the hot, I think.” I passed cups to Sandra and Cayenne. Matt had gone to answer the phone, so I set one aside for him. “The tastes and smells will be stronger.”

  I picked up my cup and took a good sniff. “A lot going on here,” I said. “Ginger and cinnamon, plus black pepper and cloves. Is that a hint of anise?”

  Sandra nodded. “The vanilla can’t be authentic. I suppose we could add vanilla powder.”

  “The vanilla and sugar are what make it so smooth,” I said.

  As I’d expected, the flavors were less distinct in the iced version. I totally got why the mermaid’s brew was so popular. Fun counts, with food and drink. Authenticity is important, but if customers aren’t satisfied, what’s the point?

  “We can sell the spice blend on its own, or packaged in a set with a good black tea.” Sets are popular. And that approach would let us focus on the spice.

  That is our mission, after all.

  Our first customer arrived, one of Sandra’s regulars, and she hustled off to greet the woman. Matt downed his sample chai without a pause or a word. Thank goodness he didn’t have to be a foodie to sell the stuff.

  Kristen and I stayed in the nook. “How you doin’?” she asked.

  “All right. Nate came over. He’s a good ear.”

  “And a good distraction.” Then she got serious. “I called Seetha last night. She’s pretty rattled, but a few days’ respite should settle her down. Besides, Laurel will feed her. She might forget otherwise.”

  I snorted. I can’t fathom forgetting to eat. Even with the horror of murder fresh on my mind.

  And I couldn’t keep sitting here, pretending to do business as usual. “Let’s get out of Dodge.”

  At half-past ten, Pike Place, the Market’s cobblestone main street, was jammed with delivery trucks, the rattle of engines and stink of diesel heating up the already-warm air. Drivers pushed wheeled dollies between the curbside piles of boxes and unclaimed trash and recycling bins. A hapless Toyota tried to muscle its way through. The Market is a mix of stores with doors, as the tenants call them, the highstallers or permanent stalls, like the larger produce sellers, and daystallers, who sell everything from copper bracelets to fresh-cut zinnias.

  I grabbed Kristen’s hand and we sliced our way through the crowds on the narrow, canopied sidewalks until we reached the Soames-Dunne Building, home to some of my favorite hideouts.

  And home to the best-smelling shop in the place, aside from ours.

  Although the word “souk” refers to an Arab market, the Souk’s owner takes a broader view. Since the same suppliers carry Middle Eastern and Indian products, he told me once, why shouldn’t he? “It’s America,” he’d said, raising his arm for emphasis. “The melted pot.”

  “Oh, chai,” he said now in his lilting English. What percentage of Market shops and stalls are run by immigrants, I couldn’t say, but it’s got to be significant. Besides the Souk, there are the Hmong flower ladies, the Vietnamese bun sellers, and the Chinese and Mexican grocers. The Orchard Girls, daystallers who sell their family’s fruit and jams, are granddaughters of Mexican immigrants who settled in the Yakima Valley and now own one of its largest orchards. Café Maximilien, Copacabana, the Greek deli, the Persian cafe—the list could go on and on. Not to mention all the prep cooks and dishwashers, and the artists and craftspeople. How dull and poor the Market, and the city, would be without them.

  “Masala. Spice. Life.” The grocer plucked three boxes off the shelves and tossed them in Kristen’s shopping basket. “No charge. Professional courtesy, I believe you say?”

  “Deal,” I said. “Do you have Parle-G? Apparently you can’t dunk any other cookie and pretend you’re drinking chai.”

  He handed me a yellow-and-white package adorned with the face of a smiling Indian child. “Best biscuit in the world.”

  Back outside, Kristen and I picked our way across the street and angled into the daystalls, between Herb the Herb Man and a jeweler specializing in fused glass, then descended the ramp to the Down Under, the Market’s winding wend of lower levels. We passed A Global Touch, an import shop where I’d found our silver chandeliers and the lamp with the red silk shade that lights up our tea corner.

  Our noses led us, as they often do, to the chocolate shop. We revealed our plan to the chocolatier, who gave us each a chai truffle to sample. I sniffed the dark chocolate jewel rolled in spices, then touched my tongue to the exterior. There is no way to discreetly stick out your tongue.

  “Cocoa powder, cardamom, and ginger.” I bit in. “Theez are fabulush. Any chance you can share the recipe?”

  “Oh, Pepper,” the chocolatier replied, sounding genuinely regretful. “It came from the chocolateria in Portland where I apprenticed, and I promised . . .”

  “Say no more—I understand.” When I was a kid, our family lived with Kristen’s in the big house on Capitol Hill that her great-grandparents had built, where she and her family live now. Back then, it had been the heart of an active peace and justice community. One day, a group member brought over a batch of homemade granola studded with dried apricots. When my mother asked for the recipe, the woman refused. My mother was baffled—why share a dish if you aren’t willing to share how it’s made? And wasn’t the request a compliment? But it’s different for professiona
l cooks, whose careers depend on their recipes as much as their skills.

  I bought a box of truffles for movie night, and Kristen and I continued our search.

  We visited fresh herb growers and chatted chili peppers with produce sellers. We split a chai-spiced sweet roll—the right blend could jazz up anything typically made with cinnamon—and sampled more “chai tea” at DeLaurenti’s, which doesn’t confine itself to Italian imports. Scouting the Market sparks ideas. It’s as if creativity multiplies when exposed to other people’s innovations and imaginings.

  And everywhere we went, we sipped and made notes.

  “We had a blast at the Torchlight Parade with you guys last weekend,” Kristen said as we made a left back on to Pike Place. My mother and brother and his family had joined us, too. The parade wraps up Seafair, the celebration of our maritime heritage that’s grown from boat races and a parade into a citywide blowout. “Some of our friends ignore the girls, but Nate treated them like they’re real people.”

  “And vice versa—they’re not afraid to have an actual conversation with an adult, even one they just met.” Nate and I had known each other nearly two months, but he’d spent half that time in Alaska, fishing, so full friends-and-family approval was a work in progress.

  “Things are going well?” she prodded.

  A flush crawled up my cheeks. Though maybe it was the heat, rapidly rising as noon approached. Or all the tea we’d drunk. I live on our spice tea, but at the moment, the thought of another sip made my tummy turn.

  Or maybe it was the sight of the cop on the sidewalk, his bike leaning against my shop’s pink stucco wall.

  “Hey, Tag,” Kristen called. He flashed her that brilliant smile, the two of us reflected in his uber-cool cop sunglasses, and after a brief exchange, she took our finds inside.

  He took off the glasses and fixed me with a steady gaze. “Heard you were close by that murder on Eastlake. You okay?”

  The cop grapevine never fails to astonish me. “Yeah, I am. Thanks for asking.”

  “Stay safe, and keep your nose out of it,” he said. Before I could reply, his somber expression morphed into a wicked grin. “How’s the next ex?”

  Jerk. Nate and I had run into Tag once and I’d made introductions, but that didn’t give him the right to razz me about my love life.

  He raised his hands in mock innocence. “Well, you do go through ’em. What can I say?”

  “You can say nothing,” I replied. “It is none of your business.” I’d left Tag after thirteen years of what I’d thought was a happy marriage. I’d gone out for after-work drinks with a few co-workers. On my way to the women’s room, I stumbled over him and a meter maid—I can’t say “parking enforcement officer”—practically plugging each other’s meters. On a night he’d told me he was working.

  His barb stung because there was some truth to it. In the last two years, I’d had two serious relationships, or at least, relationships I took seriously. Both ended in an odd mish-mash of emotions: I’d fretted over the future of the first, drawing the line when I once again saw an encounter I wasn’t meant to see. The second had begun as a sweet surprise, but I’d soon found myself bored. I’d decided to call it quits, only to be dumped before I could pull the plug.

  But I no longer felt as vulnerable as I had, as uncertain about my judgment. Three broken relationships in two decades is not exactly the sign of an emotional flake or failure. Even for a woman awed by her own parents’ four-plus decades of marriage.

  So I was taking things with Nate slowly, but not out of fear. He was as different from the other men in my life as pears from peas. And yet, it felt good.

  I might not know much about men. But I know what right feels like.

  I decided to drop the sharpness that sometimes taints my conversations with Tag. “He’s great. Thanks for asking. We saw you in the parade the other night.”

  Tag had been part of the bike patrol that rode the three-mile stretch from Seattle Center to the football stadium, while the rest of the squad worked the parade route as law enforcement. Flat, unlike much of their usual beat. Piece of cake.

  “He’s not out on the high seas?” Tag said.

  “He flew home for a few days.”

  “Ah-h-h.” He drew out the word. “So the fisherman is in, hook, line, and sinker.”

  Tag’s partner pedaled into view and called his name. Tag made a show of putting the glasses back on, then reached for his bike, threw one leg over, and rode off.

  But not before I saw something twinkly—something fishy—in his eyes.

  Six

  Enhance your salad dressings by infusing white wine vinegar with fresh herbs, cut-up fruit, even the last bits in a jam jar. As a bonus, jewel-like colors will develop as the bottles brew in your windowsill.

  ARF IS A MOST EXCELLENT COMPANION ON MY DELIVERIES. After Kristen and I unpacked our haul, I fetched the car and Matt helped me load up, leaving space in the backseat for Arf. At fifty pounds and two feet high at the shoulders, he’s easily portable but big enough to keep us safe on our nightly stroll. He listens well, and almost never tells me I’m barking up the wrong tree.

  On Tuesdays, our route covers Capitol Hill. It’s a busy stretch, now that the Pike-Pine corridor has been rediscovered, and I happily accepted a calzone to go from one of my pizza guys. At Starlight, I delivered a large order and visited with the owner, Danielle Bordeaux, whom I’d met last spring.

  Then we sped up Tenth and made a left at Roanoke Park, crossed over I-5, and drove down to Eastlake. Dropped off a package redolent with cinnamon, fennel, and other breakfast flavors at the corner café, then peered into the Italian restaurant a few doors from Rainy Day Vintage. Speziato doesn’t serve lunch, and prep for evening service hadn’t begun yet, but the chef was sitting at a front table, staring at an iPad, a notebook and a glass filled with deep red liquid in front of him. Campari and soda, I thought. A Salvadoran in his late thirties with a bushy black mustache, Edgar and I met when he worked in Alex Howard’s First Avenue Café. It was Alex who’d taught me not to date my customers. Edgar took over this kitchen earlier in the summer and now that he was settled, he’d called to talk business.

  He spotted me and opened the door. We hugged, and he crouched for a nose-to-nose with Arf, who loves the big guy.

  “Coffee? I make a great cappuccino. Or something stronger? And no worries about the dog. Long as he stays up front with you, he’s fine.”

  “Thanks. An Italian soda?” If I had one more drop of caffeine today, I wouldn’t sleep for a week.

  “Excellent choice.” In the blink of an eye, Edgar set a tall glass in front of me, filled with ice, sparkling water, raspberry syrup, and a splash of cream. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a small bone for Arf. From the reservations desk, he grabbed the bowl of Baci—Italian “kisses,” hazelnuts dipped in milk chocolate goo and covered with dark chocolate, wrapped in silver foil studded with sapphire blue stars.

  He tossed me a chocolate and unwrapped one for himself. Under the table, my boy gnawed happily. “I’ll tell you a secret,” Edgar said.

  “No. Don’t tell me Italian sodas aren’t Italian.”

  “They are, but they originated in the U.S. In San Francisco, where an Italian syrup maker settled and wanted to offer his new country a new taste.” He sipped his own drink. “You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve learned about Italian food in the last two months. And I know I need better spices. From you. From the best.” He raised his drink in a toast and I did the same.

  But after one sip, he set his glass on the table, his face troubled. “You hear about the murder down the block?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s not like nothing ever happened when I cooked for Howard,” he continued. “You expect some crime, downtown. You know—you deal with it in the Market. Murder, though . . .”

  Another nod. The Market is home to more than two hundred small businesses—bakeries, butchers, booksellers—operating alongside two hundred artisa
ns who rent by the day and dozens upon dozens of restaurants. Four hundred–some folks live in the Market, and ten million people a year stroll through its nine acres. Stuff happens.

  But mostly, it was small stuff: shoplifting, aggressive begging, fender benders. The occasional fight. Market security keeps a watchful eye, and the bike patrols are a huge help. There had been a murder nearly a year ago, and an arson attempt last spring. Day to day, though, it’s a safe and happy place to work, shop, and live.

  “You can’t help worry,” Edgar continued, gesturing with one big hand. “You got customers, employees heading out late at night. A building to take care of. Inventory. The daily deposit.”

  “You have any trouble lately? Any break-ins? Equipment gone walkabout?” Knives, maybe.

  “No, nothing. Nobody mess with me.” He shook a finger at an invisible opponent. “I got enough to worry about, running this place.”

  “Did you know the woman who was killed?”

  “Joelle. Tiny, pretty. She met a fellow here for a drink after work last week.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Saw ’em through the window. Looked like him asking for something, her sayin’ no.”

  A pass-through, big enough for diners to see the blur of a kitchen crew hard at work and feel like they’re close to the action. And big enough for a new head chef to keep an eye on the room.

  “Any idea who he was?” I asked. “Or what they were talking about?”

  “No clue. White guy, short hair, baggy pants. About forty? Fifty? I’m no good at guessing.”

  Justin? The baggy pants didn’t sound like him, though. But who else could it have been?

  “You see anything yesterday, when it happened?”

  “No. Good for me, to stay out of it, but better to help catch whoever hurt the poor chica.”

  We talked spice and price, and I gave him a few samples. In exchange, he gave me a very sweet order.

  Then Arf and I wandered down the street. A CLOSED sign hung in the vintage shop’s window, but the crime scene tape was down and the lights were on. Mindful of the dangers a dog’s tail can do, I told Arf to stay in the courtyard and entered the tiny vestibule, where I rapped on the shop’s door.