We spent the next few hours running back and forth between the house, food tables, and barn. The tension with the Fair Verona Players only escalated as the afternoon wore on. We could hear their arguments about last-minute changes to the blocking over the sound of the blender and mixer.
“What is happening out there?” Carlos asked, wiping his hands on the towel tucked into his apron. His normally easygoing grin faded into a frown as he lowered the volume on the Latin jazz playing on speakers attached to his phone.
“I think it’s all stemming from Jimmy Paxton, the actor playing Petruchio,” I replied, filling a pastry bag with lemon buttercream. “He has been antagonizing the cast and crew.”
“It isn’t part of the play?” Carlos swept a lock of dark hair from his eye with a finger. Then he knelt to be even with the counter to appraise the neat rows of crostini. He picked up a piece of the crusty bread, tilting it slightly to examine it and assess how the light played off the carefully arranged sprinkling of fresh herbs. His skilled hands made minor adjustments to the tray—a gentle nudge to realign a garnish and a delicate flick of the fingertips to remove a stray crumb.
As head chef of the Amour of the Seas, the boutique cruise ship where we met, Carlos had honed his craft and taught his staff the importance of using a discerning eye to scan every plate before it left the kitchen. This focused attention to detail was vital in ensuring that each guest received a meal that delighted not only their taste buds but also their eyes. It was a skill I had passed on to our younger staff and at Uva. Mentoring a new generation of chefs was more rewarding than I had ever imagined. I knew that Carlos felt the same. He had taken Sterling under his wing in particular, and strutted around like a proud peacock whenever Sterling came up with a new dish that impressed Carlos and the rest of the team. “You must try this. It is the most delectable thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” he said a few weeks ago, practically pushing samples of Sterling’s asparagus tartines.
Carlos’s influence was evident in Sterling’s ability to blend unique flavor combinations as well as his consummate professionalism. Not to mention his kitchen cleanliness. Not a day went by when Sterling didn’t spend careful time going through our closing procedures and checklists. It was critical to maintain an immaculate kitchen for food safety. Additionally, having a well-organized and pristine workspace reduced accidents, ensured employee health, helped our equipment maintain longevity, and promoted customer trust. I appreciated that Sterling took his role of overseeing the kitchen so seriously.
“Isn’t Taming of the Shrew supposed to be light and funny?” Sterling asked, watching Carlos complete his inspection.
“Yep. I don’t know how they’re going to pull it off,” I replied with a grimace, as I used a star tip to create a pattern on the top of one of the cupcakes. “I feel terrible for Lance and the rest of the company. Jimmy seems intent on making everyone miserable.”
“Maybe he’s super method,” Steph suggested, grabbing a step stool to reach the top cabinet.
“Maybe, but I don’t think anyone else in the company appreciates his method if that’s the case.”
“Why did Lance hire him?” Sterling asked, continuing to plate the crostini.
A knock sounded on the door.
I turned to see an older gentleman wearing an expensive black suit with a red tie and a matching red rose boutonniere tucked into the front pocket. “Excuse me, sorry to interrupt. I’m Tom Rudolph. Lance mentioned that I might be able to find a private reserve bottle of wine somewhere around here?”
“Of course, come in,” I said, welcoming Tom into the busy kitchen. Tom and I hadn’t been formally introduced, but I knew his name well. When Lance first floated the idea of the Fair Verona Players, he knew he would need investors. Tom had stepped forward from the beginning and become the company’s biggest benefactor. “I’m Jules Capshaw. I’ve heard so much about you.” I brushed powdered sugar from my hand before extending it in a greeting.
“Likewise.” Tom’s grasp was firm, but clammy. “Lance speaks quite highly of you. In fact, your pastries are legendary. Since I’m newer to the Rogue Valley, I must admit that I haven’t had the chance to stop by the bakeshop yet, so I’m looking forward to getting a taste tonight.”
“Feel free to sample anything.” I motioned to the counter, which was packed with sweet and savory options. Then I introduced Tom to the rest of the team.
“I don’t want to keep you. It’s clear that you’re in the middle of preparations, but I will admit that I am a bit of a wine snob, and rumor has it that you have a few special bottles of reserve in the cellar. Could that be true? And might I bother you for a glass of something off the menu? Perhaps a higher price point? My palate is used to fine wine. I blame it on family genetics. My mother owns shares in a variety of vineyards in Napa, although we’re both quite impressed with the surprisingly good quality being produced here in the Rogue Valley.” Tom’s voice took on a coy tone. His eyes flickered around the kitchen like he was subtly gauging the reactions of my staff.
His insincere attempt at humility didn’t fool anyone, especially Carlos. While Carlos had high standards for his food, he had little tolerance for the idea that the quality of a glass of wine or a three-course meal should be judged by price. Trying to impress food critics was never his style. He believed firmly that an old family recipe for a simple soup or an unassuming homemade loaf of bread was the reason people should come to the table.
“Food is memory and love and connection. It isn’t Michelin stars,” he would say again and again to our staff on the ship. It was one of the things that drew me to him from the start. We agreed on the transformative power of a good, handcrafted meal served with love. There was no denying the emotional quality of food. As chefs we were innately connected to the process of preparing a dish or pastry with gentle care. Everything that left Torte’s kitchen was a reflection of each one of us. The personal touch, intimacy, and authenticity imbued in our food was what resonated with customers and kept them coming back year after year for burnt almond birthday cake or Mom’s Saturday morning cinnamon rolls.
Carlos used that same approach in wine making, tapping into the nostalgia of his formative years in Spain to infuse a hint of saffron and paprika into his blends.
I could tell from the way Carlos’s nostrils flared ever so slightly that Tom had touched a nerve. “Let me take you down there,” I said to Tom, reaching for the key to the cellar door that we kept on a hook next to the aprons.
“Many thanks.” Tom gave everyone a half bow and followed me to the basement.
When we purchased Uva with Lance, we inherited a small collection of private reserve wines from the previous owners. Their library wasn’t extensive. It was primarily bottles they had acquired from conventions and partnerships. We rarely opened anything in the cellar. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been downstairs.
“This way,” I said to Tom, leading him through the tasting room. It took up most of the main floor with a long burgundy bar with stools and ample space for guests to spend an afternoon tasting. The wall behind the bar showcased our blends, sparkling stemware, and a collection of photos from the original farm and homestead. Cozy chairs and couches were interspersed for lingering over a bottle and charcuterie board.
We had extended our seating options with the large attached deck that allowed for additional intimate tastings in the spring and summer. I loved the view from the deck that looked out over the hillside onto acres and acres of grapevines.
There wasn’t much in the basement. I flipped on the lights. “Be careful on these stairs,” I cautioned Tom. “They’re original from when the house was built in the early 1900s.”
“Noted.”
We primarily used the basement for storage and a cool space to keep any overstock of our seasonal wines. The cellar was tucked in the back corner of the basement. I unlocked the door and turned on the lights. The space had been thoughtfully designed with sturdy wooden shelves that cradled a nice array of select wines. It was Lance’s idea to have a secret “speakeasy” in the basement. We never opened the room to the public, but Lance had used it on occasion for private tastings.
The walls were constructed of weathered brick, making the small room with its exposed wood ceiling feel like a cocoon. A rectangular antique table with plenty of scuffs and dings sat in the center of the room, surrounded by four intentionally mismatched chairs and a handwoven rug. Two vintage barrels had been repurposed to serve as decoration and potentially extra space for tasting guests, although that made it quite cozy.
An assortment of wine bottles was artfully displayed on the far wall, each with a label telling the story of a far-off vineyard from growing regions around the world.
“Oh, this is quite nice.” He drew in a long breath through his nose. “I do enjoy the scent of oak and earth. It gets the olfactory senses firing, doesn’t it?”
“I get the earth smell for sure,” I replied, turning on the iron sconces, which cast a golden glow over the room.
“Shall I sit?” Tom pointed to the table.
“Feel free.” I ran my hand along the shelves. “Is there a particular style or region you’re interested in?” The compact space was efficiently organized. Something I couldn’t take credit for but appreciated. Each section of shelving was meticulously labeled by region, vintage, and varietal.
“I’m surprised you keep the key hanging out in the open. This is a fairly impressive selection.” Tom studied the dusty bottles. “I would lock it up tight if I were you.”
“It’s just our team. No one else has access to the kitchen.”
“You can never be too careful,” Tom scolded. “Take, for instance, the company. I don’t trust anyone, aside from Lance, that is. As an investor, I have to keep my eye on my money at all times.”
I couldn’t tell if he was speaking figuratively or if he literally kept watch on his cash.
“Can I see that Torgiano Rosso from Umbria to start and then we can go from there?” Tom nodded to the section of Italian wines.
For someone who didn’t want to inconvenience me, he had certainly made himself comfortable quickly.
“Why don’t you trust the company?” I asked as I removed the bottle from the shelf.
“The better question would be, what would make me trust anyone in the company?” Tom folded his arms across his chest and waited for me to open the bottle.
I poured a small taste into a glass and handed it to him.
He made a big production of examining the wine before holding the glass to his nose, closing his eyes in exaggerated concentration, and then proceeding to take a series of deep, ostentatious sniffs.
It was almost comical. “Jimmy seems to be getting under everyone’s skin,” I said, trying not to laugh.
Tom opened his eyes and swirled his glass with great gusto, watching the wine’s legs dance down the sides. “Jimmy should watch his back.”
“Why?” I brushed dust from my fingers.
He had yet to taste the wine. His eyebrows rose and fell in a choreographed display of discernment as he sniffed again. It was a good thing that Carlos hadn’t been the one to bring Tom to the cellar. Carlos wouldn’t have been able to disguise his disgust at Tom’s spectacle. “There are a number of people out to get him at the moment.”
“Out to get him,” I repeated.
Tom finally placed the glass to his mouth and took a pretentious sip, puckering his lips and swooshing the liquid like it was mouthwash. “A nuanced bouquet. I’m getting underripe peapods and petroleum along with meaty, bony, brothy, earthy notes.”
Was he making up words?
“Would you like a glass? Or I can send you with the bottle if you prefer,” I said, hoping that he’d take the hint that I didn’t have time for an extended tasting session at the moment.
“The bottle will be fine.” Tom stood. “I’ve taken too much of your time already.”
I pressed the cork into the bottle before handing over the vintage wine and waiting for Tom to exit the small space and then locking the door.
He cleared his throat and stared at the door handle. “I must say that I feel compelled to suggest that you really might want to consider tighter security measures. As a man of business, I would hate to see you taken advantage of by employees with questionable morals.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” I didn’t need a lecture, especially from him.
“The cellar. It’s not a wise move to store the key in plain sight. I couldn’t help but notice you have it hanging on a hook out in the open in your kitchen. One scheming employee could wipe out your collection.” He waited for me to go up the stairs first. “Your cellar is more extensive than I would have expected, and I would hate for you to lose valuable vintages thanks to a staff member who realizes what a treasure trove is hiding in the basement.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” I said, to end the conversation.
Tom and I clearly had different philosophies about business ownership. I trusted my team. They were like family. They had autonomy in their roles while still collaborating. I wasn’t worried about any of them stealing wine from the cellar. I knew them well enough to know that if anyone was interested in a bottle, they would simply ask. And, quite frankly, I didn’t care about rare vintage wines.
Listening to Tom’s untrusting perspective made me appreciate how grateful I was for Torte and everyone connected to it.