We loaded Mom’s car with the cakes, pasta, marzipan, and all of our supplies. The Chocolate Festival was taking place at the iconic Ashland Springs Hotel, just a short walk up Main Street from Torte. The hotel had hosted celebrities and visitors from all over the world since it opened in 1925. It’s one of my favorite buildings. At nine stories, it’s also the tallest building in town and the most regal.
Walking into the hotel’s inviting lobby always made me feel like I was stepping onto the set of an Agatha Christie movie, with its warm yellow walls, iron veranda, giant potted palms, white ceiling fans, and sparkling chandeliers. When I was a kid we would go to the hotel on special occasions for high tea or a celebratory dinner. I used to love sitting in the lobby in front of the large marble fireplace and imagining that I was in a faraway and exotic corner of the world like Morocco or Bath.
Today we entered the hotel through the back entrance, which had a long covered walkway to shield us from the rain. Mom parked the car in front of the walkway while I wheeled our boxes to the ballroom.
The ballroom was as magnificent as I remembered. It had been transformed into a chocolate wonderland. Chocolate-colored tulle and gold twinkle lights had been strung from the ceiling. Six-foot tables ran the length of the room on all sides. Each table had been draped with a dark chocolate-colored tablecloth. A stage and demo kitchen sat in the center of the ballroom with four large booths surrounding it. Overhead a massive crystal chandelier rained drops of shimmering light down onto the plush patterned carpet. Huge silver-framed mirrors reflected the light and made the room look twice its size.
A musical trio was warming up on stage. The sound of their strings mingling together warmed the space and made me feel like I was in Paris. Signs directed guests upstairs to the conservatory for spirits, wine, beer, and outdoor dining, and to the Grand Ballroom to see chocolate sculptures, the dessert contest, and the silent auction.
I couldn’t believe how many things were going on as part of the festival. The entire hotel had been made over in chocolate.
After I paused to listen to the trio for a moment and take everything in, I wheeled our supplies to our booth. The four showcase vendors, including Torte, had three six-foot tables arranged in an L-shape. Mom and I had sketched out our design for the festival. We planned to use one of the tables to display our wedding cakes and brochures. The other two would be our tasting tables. Vendors were allowed to decorate their booths in any chocolate design that they could imagine.
After much discussion, Mom and I had agreed that we wanted our products to be the star of the show. We decided to order floral arrangements from A Rose By Any Other Name, my high school friend Thomas’s family’s flower shop. Otherwise, our chocolate could speak for itself.
Mom arrived and shook off her raincoat. “Wow, this is really something. They’ve outdone themselves this year.”
“It’s amazing,” I agreed as we began unloading and organizing our supplies.
I had second thoughts about our choice of decorations as I watched a professional decorating crew assemble the booth next to ours. It belonged to Confections Couture, a high-end chocolate company that was owned by Evan Rowe. His truffles had been featured in every national magazine and were revered by chefs throughout the world. He’d won every award, graced the cover of every foodie magazine, and had exclusive deals with three major retail chains. I’d never met Evan, but his name was synonymous with chocolate not only in southern Oregon but in boutiques and five-star restaurants everywhere. A two-piece box of Confections Couture truffles would set you back a whooping twelve dollars.
Evan’s profit margin must be high, I thought as I watched his team transform his booth. There were strings of white lilies cascading from the sky to the floor. Giant iron candelabras glowed in the center of each table. They were accented with glittering crystals and beads of gold. Life-sized cutouts of Evan in various stages of the truffle-making process were displayed along the back of his booth. A chocolate fountain with shimmering gold napkins and skewers was set up at the end of the booth closest to ours. Suddenly, my wedding cakes seemed quaint and homemade. How were we going to compete with Confections Couture?
Mom caught my eye and grimaced. “It looks pretty amazing, doesn’t it? There’s a reason that Evan has been named People’s Choice and Best in Show for five years running.”
“Have you met him?” I arranged a stack of brochures that we’d had printed. It had been an additional cost, but Mom hadn’t spent any money on marketing and advertising. She had never needed to. Torte was an institution when it came to pastries and baked goods on the plaza. If we wanted to expand our business, particularly our specialty and wedding cake business, we would have to spend some dough getting the word out.
“A few times.” Mom handed me a tightly bundled package of business cards. “He’s much shorter in real life.” She pointed behind us at the cardboard cutouts of Evan Rowe. “Much shorter.”
As if on cue, Evan Rowe strolled in at that moment. The life-sized cutouts made him appear larger than life, almost superhuman. In reality, Evan probably came up to my shoulder and looked almost sickly. Granted, I’m tall, but still.
Evan sauntered toward us, surrounded by an entourage. Three women, wearing custom chefs’ uniforms with “Confections Couture” embroidered on the breast pocket, flanked Evan on each side. A younger guy in his early twenties tagged after them with a notebook and two coffee mugs.
Evan stopped in front of the Confections Couture booth. The crew working on assembling the masterpiece paused. One of them jumped off a stepladder and hurried over to Evan. “What do you think, Mr. Rowe?”
Evan didn’t respond. He snapped his fingers in the direction of the guy holding his coffee. “Make a note, Carter. This has got to go. I said classic elegance. Not gaudy Vegas strip.” He waved his arm over the chocolate cloths being draped over the back of the booth.
Carter balanced the coffees in one hand and tried to pull a pencil from the top of the spiral notebook he held in the other hand. “Got it.” His face was spotted with acne and two cowlicks at the top of his forehead twisted in opposite directions.
“You didn’t even write that down.” Evan glared at him and ignored the designer who asked him three more questions. He continued over to our booth. Mom kicked me under the table.
“Ouch,” I whispered.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but put your best face forward. It looks like you are going to have the pleasure of meeting Evan Rowe.”
I nudged her to be quiet as Evan approached our booth.
He gave Mom a forced smile. “Ellen, right? You have that quaint family shop on that plaza, what’s it called again? Cake? Layer? Something like that, right?” His skin had a slightly yellowish tint. It didn’t blend well with his dark hair and scruffy dark beard.
“It’s Torte.” Mom handed him a business card. “And I’m Helen.”
“Helen, Ellen, I was close.” Evan tossed the business card at one of his female chefs. Then he turned to me. “And who might you be?”
Before I could respond, Mom reached her arm in front of me as if she were trying to block Evan from coming any closer. “This is my daughter, Juliet, she’s just returned home from working as the head pastry chef for a world-renowned luxury ship.”
Mom never bragged. It wasn’t her nature. She must really not like Evan Rowe.
If Evan was impressed, he didn’t let it show. “Buffet lines.” He shuddered. “That is humanity and cooking at its worst.”
I thought Mom might punch him in the face. Instead she smiled broadly and handed Evan a marzipan. “You should taste Juliet’s marzipan. It will make you think twice about buffet cooking.”
Evan reeled back as if Mom had tried to take a swing at him. “Get that away from me.”
Mom stared at the marzipan and then at Evan.
“I do not want that.” He turned and stormed to his booth without another word. His entourage followed.
“What was that all about?” Mom popped the marzipan into her mouth.
“Who knows?” I shrugged. “Napoleon complex?”
“I guess. He can say whatever he wants about Torte, but he does not get to belittle your culinary talent. I’m not going to stand for that, and I don’t care that he’s been on Oprah. She would not approve of his superior attitude.”
“Mom.” I placed my hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. I’m used to working with and around guys like Evan. They have to prove their power. It’s not worth it.”
She swallowed the marzipan and stared at his booth. His young staff member, Carter, was scrambling to write down all the orders that Evan barked out. “Why did he have to be at the booth next to us? We’re going to have to see him for three days.”
I returned to displaying our marketing materials. “It could be worse.”
Mom scowled. “How?”
“Richard Lord could be here.”
“Oh, you’re right, honey. That would be much worse.”