The Traveling Tea Shop (21 page)

The next morning, as Pamela emerges from the lift, I finally see the family resemblance between her and Ravenna: both have identical walking-on-air love glazes.

“I take it you had a nice evening with Charles?”

“Oh, it was heaven,” she swoons, hand to heart. “He took me to his place, cooked me dinner—”

“He can cook?”

“Actually no, but the wine was wonderful!” She giggles. “We sat out on his little terrace and just talked and talked . . .” She drifts off for a second’s reverie and then asks, “What about you?”

“I really just walked and walked.”

“Oh, like the explorer you are!”

I give an obliging smile.

“And Ravenna? How did she seem after her time with Harvey?”

I take a truth breath. “In a word? Smitten.”

“Oh isn’t it lovely that they’re getting along so well?”

“Um—”

“I think everything is just going to work out perfectly. Is she coming to the demonstration?”

“Actually, she was just about to Skype Eon when I left.”

“See? Everything is still on with those two, I knew it.”

“Pamela—”

Before I can grab her by the shoulders and shake her out of her blissfully delusional state, hotel manager John Murtha steps up to greet us.

“I don’t know if you’ve had much time to look around the lobby, but there are a couple of things I would like to point out before we go down to the kitchens . . .”

“Absolutely,” Pamela follows his lead, away from me and my words of caution.

I heave a sigh. Well, I suppose nothing can really worsen in the next hour or so. Perhaps I’ll do a Pamela and postpone all nagging concerns and concentrate on the cake.

•   •   •

Not only is Boston Cream Pie the official state dessert of Massachusetts, Mr. Murtha shows us a framed proclamation from the mayor declaring October 23rd Boston Cream Pie Day, each and every year! The Parker House has its own day, too, on account of being the longest continually operated hotel in America. Though, interestingly, the Parker Restaurant opened on this site long before the hotel.

“So food really does come first here!”

Down in the kitchens we are introduced to Tuoi, the resident Boston Cream Pie expert—she’s been making them fresh here every day for the past fourteen years.

“Imagine that!” I whisper to Pamela. “The same cake every day for over a decade!”

Originally from Vietnam, the petite yet perky Ms. Tran is apparently a big hit with dignitaries visiting from her homeland and often helps with translations. She’s certainly following an esteemed tradition, since Vietnam’s former prime minister and president Ho Chi Minh used to work here as a pastry chef. And if you think that’s crazy, Malcolm X was a busboy in the hotel restaurant.

“That’s also where JFK proposed to Jackie,” the manager tells us. “Table Forty, under the window.”

“Oh,” I laugh. “Apparently we’re doing things backward—we just came from where they were married!”

“Newport?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Beautiful there.”

Pamela and I share a look, our thoughts going to Gracie. There’s a good chance that we should be able to Skype with her today, fingers crossed.

So. The Boston Cream Pie was created on this very spot in 1856 by a French chef named Sanzian. The description is a little misleading, since it is actually a cake, but the sponge layers (two of them) were made in shallow pie tins.

We watch with amazement as Tuoi takes a long, razor-sharp knife and trims away the millimeter of golden crust from the surface, revealing the palest, most delicate sponge within.

“To make it extra light,” Mr. Murtha explains. “It’s also nice and moist on account of the rum.”

I flash back to the Dark and Stormy cupcakes for a second, wondering if Ravenna might one day fess up and apologize for the Tabasco fiasco. Mind you, that confession seems pretty small in the grand scheme of things today.

“Now the custard.”

Tuoi heaps cool dollops on the base layer and smoothes it out like a plasterer. The final layer rests gently on top.

“Chocolate ganache.” She reaches for the silky mix of melted chocolate and heavy cream.

Apparently chocolate was considered a delicacy back in the 1800s and people weren’t used to having it on a regular basis (can you imagine?), but no doubt it helped this cake quickly become a signature item.

“Originally the ganache was simply poured over the cake,” John explains. “There wasn’t much artistry to it, and in fact that look is coming back in. However, Tuoi is going to show you our distinctive style.”

This is where it becomes a Generation Game challenge. I can only imagine the mess I would get into trying to apply the perfect chocolate gloss without drippage, let alone create the spider’s-web effect on top.

She takes a small cone and pipes a white chocolate spiral from the center out—no wobbles or splurges, just a perfectly fine continuous line.

“Wow.”

Then she takes a knife and pares across the surface, again from the center out, as though creating demarcations for the slices. It conjures the most exquisite pattern.

“Now that’s an expert hand,” we applaud her.

The last touch are the shaved almonds coating the outer edge of the cake. These are an addition to the original recipe, just to make it extra special.

Mr. Murtha tells us that they also make scaled-down individual Boston Cream Pies. “Pastry chefs today want to be on trend and decorate the plate—after all, people eat with their eyes first.”

So very true. I’m already visually devouring the BCP.

“Ready?” Pamela invites me to take a forkful at the same time as she does. “Mmmm.” We savor the soft, subtle flavor.

Despite its dark chocolate cloak, it really is supremely light. One might even go so far as to say “Babycakes light.”

“It’s the kind of cake you could have two slices of and still get up and move around after eating,” is my official word.

“So I’m guessing this is your most popular dessert at the hotel?” Pamela inquires.

“We even offer it on the breakfast menu!” John laughs. “And of course people come in and have a slice for afternoon tea.”

Pamela takes that as her cue to set up her wares, apologizing that she cannot invite Tuoi onto the bus as planned. Then again, there’s a lot more room to maneuver here.

“I think in my next house I’m going to get a bigger kitchen,” she decides.

Interesting! Sounds as if she’s now willing to let the house go to Brian and start anew. Possibly not a million miles from where we’re standing today . . .

“My first thought for our trade was a Custard Slice because a) there’s the custard connection, b) it’s equally light and c) the top layer actually has a very similar design to the Boston Cream Pie, but with the colors in reverse. However, when I looked into it, I found it’s really defined as a mille-feuille of French origin, so I decided to go with an egg custard tart.” She shows them an image from one of her earlier cookbooks—little nubbly pastry case with a slightly sunken yellow filling and a smudgy dusting of brown on the top. “Now these aren’t the prettiest things to look at but they do have a unique texture and taste and I quite like the irony that they resemble little pies!”

I love watching Pamela work. She really comes into her own in the kitchen. All the hesitations and introspections of the day go out of the window and she is fully engaged. And, like Tuoi, she is ridiculously fast and dextrous.

“Do you know they even had these at the coronation banquet for Henry IV?” she notes as she brings the cream to a gentle simmer on the stove. The pastry case is already baking and she’s working on the filling with the eggs and sugar and vanilla. “Now it’s terribly important that the nutmeg is fresh,” she continues. “And freshly grated. Which shouldn’t be a problem seeing as you’re practically neighbors with the Nutmeg State!”

I must say I am a fan of an egg custard tart. I like the crumbly density of shortcrust pastry and the sleek slipperiness of the custard. You do need a cuppa with it, though, as the pastry can be a teensy bit clogging.

Pamela agrees, insisting on brewing up for everyone so they can have the full experience.

“Though really I do prefer these tarts cold as opposed to fresh from the oven.”

Sadly we don’t have time to chill, already it’s time to move on. A certain mechanic awaits . . .

“Perfect timing!” Charles walks into the lobby just as we reach the top of the stairs.

He leans in to kiss Pamela on the cheek, which responds with a flush, and then he gives me a warm smile. “So, Harvey called . . .”

Now my cheeks are flushing. Dammit.

“And he needs another hour or so on the bus.”

“That’s fine,” I fluster.

“I thought I’d take you girls to the Boston Tea Party—it’s on the list, right Laurie?”

I nod vigorously.

It is, after all, the most famous tea-related activity in America.

“I’ll just go and see if Ravenna’s ready to go.”

•   •   •

Ravenna is more than ready. Washed, dressed, packed, she’s even got my suitcase in position by the door.

“How did it go with Eon?” I ask, checking the wardrobes and under the bed for anything left behind.

“Oh. You know . . .” She squirms a little so I don’t push the topic.

“Right. I think we’re all set,” I reach for my case. “We’ve got a little diversion before we go to the garage—”

“Why, what’s the matter?” She looks concerned.

“Nothing. Harvey just needs more time so we’re going to stop off at the Boston Tea Party attraction on the way.”

I see her disappointment. “Okay. But we won’t be there long, will we?”

“Just an hour, I think.”

She nods. “That’s all right.”

Well, as long as you’re happy, Ravenna . . .

As eager as she is to see Harvey again, I almost feel like I’d rather not. At least not with an audience—just the thought of trying to curtail any stray beams of adoration is stressing me out. And I don’t want him to think I’m being dismissive if I avert my gaze, as I almost certainly will. Gawd. Will I ever grow out of my teenage-girl mentality when it comes to men? I find any/all romance-related emotions so disruptive. I take a breath and tell myself to disengage—let go of any attachment to the outcome. Stay in the present moment.

Well, I say that. We’re actually being invited to go back to 1773.

•   •   •

The Boston Tea Party Ships & Museum is one of those interactive affairs with costumed reenactors. (Love the knee-britches, brass-buttoned waistcoats and tricorn hats!) We are given alter-ego name tags and invited to heckle and rally in the mock courtroom as we protest against the taxation on tea by the British Government (Boo! Hiss!). But the best part is boarding the ship and throwing chests of tea into Boston Harbor. Of course they’re attached to a rope and get hauled back in again, zero tea leaves swirling in the water. Just as well, because we have to get Pamela to do this multiple times to get the right shot.

“Let’s try and do one where it’s just you and the old ship and then one that also has the Boston skyline in the background, for a bit of contrast,” I suggest.

As I back away to get the right angle, I realize Charles is on the phone to his son and suddenly find it hard to hold the camera steady.

“Okay!” He beckons us on. “Time for a quick stop at Abigail’s Tea Room, then Harvey should be done.”

“Fat Rascal!”

“Excuse me?” Charles startles.

“It’s a cake!” Ravenna giggles, pointing to the display.

Basically a chunky-fruity-nutty-zesty scone, originally from Yorkshire.

“It seems to have a face,” Pamela peers closer.

The girl in the frilly bonnet serving behind the counter confirms that they use glacé cherries for the eyes and thinly sliced almonds for the teeth. A few are set askew, rather giving the look of the village idiot.

“How peculiar!” she giggles. “Do you think I might I have a quick word with your pastry chef?”

While the girl goes to check, we look around us—Newport’s mansion tea rooms could certainly learn a thing or two from here: ye olde recipes, real china teapots with historically significant designs and all the staff in period costume—a positive bustle of aprons and shawls and frilly cuffs.

“Would you like to come through to the kitchen?”

While Pamela trots on her way, Ravenna decides to return to the gift shop, leaving me with Charles.

“Listen, I want to thank you again for being so understanding and accommodating of the situation between me and Pamela,” he says as we settle into a table overlooking the water.

“Oh, of course,” I give a light shrug. “I’m happy to see her happy.”

“She said you raised a concern about Ravenna and Harvey?”

I want to die. “Nooo. I don’t mean to interfere. I was just concerned that any, um,
attraction
on her part might further complicate things . . .” I look around to check that Ravenna hasn’t returned.

He nods. “We’re going to tell her today. When we get to Maine. Much fewer distractions there.”

“Whatever you think is best,” I find myself backing down. “No rush.”

God, how embarrassing. I feel even more self-conscious when we arrive at the garage. Now I definitely can’t look at Harvey. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m stirring things up because I like him and want to keep him for myself. Even though I’m aware that he’s looking in my direction, I busy myself, pretending to be checking that everything is in order, all the cases are present and correct, etc., etc.

But then at one point my head does jerk up. And this is when Ravenna says:

“Why don’t you come with us?”

I look around for Pamela and Charles but he’s busy introducing her to one of the mechanics that used to work with his father.

“That would be okay, wouldn’t it Laurie?”

“Um . . .” Oh god, oh god!

“It does sound fun,” he says, looking directly at me. “I wouldn’t be able to leave right now, I’ve got a business dinner tonight, but maybe tomorrow? Where are you headed to after Maine?”

“Um. Er . . .” I am so thrown I have to check the itinerary that five minutes ago I knew by heart. “New Hampshire,” I say, trying to will Pamela and Charles to come back and intervene. “We’re staying at the Mount Washington Hotel.”

“I’ve always wanted to go there,” Harvey enthuses.

“That’s settled then!” Ravenna looks pleased as punch.

“Isn’t that a terribly long drive from here?” I fret.

“Well, it is the way you’re going but, direct from here, it’ll just take me a couple of hours.”

“That’s nothing!” Ravenna confirms. “Hey Mum! Guess what?” she skips over and tells them the Good News.

Now Pamela and Charles are looking back at me with “What have you done?” eyes.

How did this happen on my watch?

“I haven’t messed up your plans, have I?” Harvey looks concerned.

“No, no. It’s a really big hotel, with a separate inn and a motel, so there’ll be no problem getting you a room—”

“But?”

I lean in and whisper. “I’m just very aware that everyone knows
the situation
except for Ravenna.”

He sighs. “I know. I was so tempted to tell her last night. There were so many opportunities. But I thought it wouldn’t be right, you know, coming from a relative stranger . . .”

I raise a brow. “That’s actually a very apt term!”

He smiles broadly. “I missed you last night.”

My stomach flips. Suddenly I’m so glad that I’ll get to see him tomorrow. Anything beyond that would be just Too Darn Long.