As the coffee and pastry shop’s overhead bell jingled, I sighed and breathed in deeply. A Whole Latte Love was a gorgeous brick building situated on a corner of Main Street, occupying a great slice of real estate. It boasted magnificently high ceilings capped off with bronze tin tiles. The walls were peppered with seventies music posters that were framed and lit like the best art in the museum.
Now this place was what I’d pictured the Hudson Valley to be. It was hipster chic down to the mosaic flooring.
It even had its own hipster barista working the massive chrome machine like he had eight arms. I spied Chad in the back, tapping away on his laptop and sipping on a large coffee, with two tiny scones ready for nibbling.
“What’s good?” I asked, pulling out the antique chair. Nothing in the place matched. Everything was deliciously eclectic and just the right amount of odd.
“It’s all good. You can’t order anything bad here. They were just featured in some café magazine for best East Coast spots. Homemade scones and muffins, and Sumatran, Italian, and French coffee blends that wake you up just by smelling it from the street. I’m not kidding, go easy on the coffee here. It’ll knock you on your very stylish ass.”
“I think I can take it,” I said, grinning, and he raised his eyebrows with a “you’ve been warned” expression.
The stunning young waitress came over. “What can I get you?” she asked, flicking her tongue ring against her teeth.
“I’ll take whatever a person orders when they need a swift kick in the ass to wake up. Plus a few of those chocolate biscotti I saw in the jar.”
Nodding, she scribbled it down and took off.
Chad Bowman shook his head and muttered, “You’ll see.”
She brought the coffee over in a dainty teacup. “This is how you serve this hard-core coffee?” I tittered, waving a hand at Chad.
It was the most out-of-place thing in the shop. Here I was among the requisite musical memorabilia and antique chairs, not to mention a cozy stage for slam poetry night—this place was right out of a CW teen drama—and I was being served in fine china.
But when she set it down, it wasn’t the beautiful rose pattern or the gold rim that made me laugh. It was the pitch-black tar goop that filled the cup.
Oh boy.
Never one to shirk a challenge, I thanked her and took the cup in a shaky hand. Eyeing it, I could already feel the jitters running through me, and I hadn’t even taken a sip.
“Go on, it’s not going to drink itself,” he teased.
The sludge in the cup didn’t even move.
“What the hell is this?” I asked, watching to see if it bubbled.
“Your kick in the ass,” the waitress said over her shoulder, with a wink in Chad’s direction.
“It’s like a coffee-scented Blob,” I said, tipping the cup. The “coffee” didn’t slosh—it crept up the side.
With a deep breath, I lifted it to my lips. After one sip, I was done. My eyes watered, my throat burned, and I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to have to chew coffee.
“It’s really good,” I mumbled around it, setting it down. Note to self: country folk like their coffee strong.
Well, pride wasn’t going to come between me and my morning joe, I thought, coughing and calling out for an ice water. Chad laughed and sipped his beautiful, nontoxic-looking cappuccino.
When the waitress came over, Chad pushed the ooze to her and ordered me a kinder, gentler cappuccino, too. I’d have ordered it . . . but I was still chewing.
“How was yesterday? You get a better feel for what makes Bailey Falls tick?” he asked, a hopeful twinkle in his eye.
I nibbled on the biscotti. The crumbly bits of cookie mixed with chocolate nibs melted in my mouth. It was no wonder this place was regionally featured. I made a mental note to search for the article to include in my proposal.
“Yesterday was very informative. You’ve got a gem here, Chad. You know it, this town knows it, and now I know it. It’s just a matter of harnessing it into a campaign that appeals to everyone,” I said, popping another bite of biscotti into my mouth. I wondered what other flavors they had, and made another mental note to pick some up before I left today.
As I toyed with the napkin and listened to Chad, tinier pieces of the grand puzzle fell into place for how I would be able to help each of these businesses. For me, this wasn’t just a huge-scale project to sell the whole of Bailey Falls to a grand audience. I was also taking the time to understand each owner’s business model. From the menu, I learned these biscotti were homemade every morning. And they packaged the coffee and sold it at the counter and local grocery store.
“Have these owners ever thought of turning an extra profit by selling their goods en masse? Open up a little bakery/factory/coffee-roaster-thingie? People lose their minds over locally sourced treats like this,” I said, scribbling a quick note on the napkin.
“I don’t know. We could ask.”
“I will. After I finish this, I may want to circle back. Plant some seeds to help them grow the business, and not just in town. I’m thinking big market picture here. Later, though.” I told myself, One thing at a time, Nat.
“We have a gorgeous office building in town that was just renovated.”
“You think the coffee shop could expand there?”
“No. I was just thinking that the whole top floor is open, and in need of a sharp city mind with a keen eye for marketing,” he answered with a small smile.
“Uh-huh.”
“Just saying . . .” He paid the bill and we ventured out in the warm sun and into the busy intersection of pedestrians, kids on bikes, and joggers.