The Five Year Plan

Chapter 1

I

t was my favourite time of the day. Right before I unlocked the café door and the morning rush began. I glanced around the café that my parents had bought back in the seventies when they immigrated from Italy. Sure the worn timber tables needed to be disguised by red and white checkered tablecloths and the faded black and white print of the Colosseum hid flaky paint and crumbling plaster, but I’d fix all that. One day, when the café was mine.

Ever since I could remember, the only thing I’d ever wanted was to run the café and serve Melbourne’s best coffee and Italian delights. All I had to do was wait for my father to announce his retirement so I could take over. Although, I might as well be waiting for Peter Mitchell on the six o’clock news to announce that pigs in bright blue waistcoats were flying across Port Phillip Bay. It seemed more likely.

Behind the counter, I began plating up the dessert of the day. Today it was Mum’s cherry crostata. The rich, red cherries glistened in the centre with crumbly, buttery pastry folded around the edges in true peasant style. I could have easily sliced and devoured a piece then and there, but eating the profits wasn’t good for the bottom line—or

my

own bottom line, for that matter.

The bell on the front door rattled as it swung open snapping me from my thoughts of devouring sweet pastry. The balmy March morning air gushed in along with sounds of slow moving cars and tram bells, and in walked Dad. His solid five-foot, six-inch frame shuffled towards the counter with his grey, bushy eyebrows knitted into one above his eyes.

‘Dad? What’s wrong? Are you limping?’

He swatted his hand dismissively. ‘Bah! Just my knee giving me trouble. It’s the weather.’

Dad always had some excuse for his bad knee, usually the weather. But lately it hadn’t only been his knee troubling him. Last week he had complained of aching arms. I guess a lifetime on the go running a busy café was beginning to take its toll. Or so I hoped. In the nicest possible way, of course.

‘Coffee?’ I asked.

Without waiting for a reply, I slid two cups under the spout of the coffee machine and pressed the shot button to prepare two ristrettos. I’d been working on a new blend of beans and was excited for Dad to try the new combination. I soaked up the smell of coffee as the machine whirred and poured. When finished, I removed one of the cups and lifted it towards my lips to take a sip. The sweet base notes of the Brazilian beans hit my tastebuds first, followed by the sour hints of the Colombian ones rich on my mid-palate. And finally, the high floral and citrusy notes of the Kenyan beans burst into dance at the back of my mouth as I swallowed. It took all my resolve not to do a happy shuffle on the spot. I’d finally nailed the blend. I picked up Dad’s cup and passed it along the counter to him.

‘One ristretto,’ I announced proudly.

Dad eyed my odd enthusiasm with narrowed eyes before he took a long sip of the steaming coffee. His eyes flickered, then widened as the flavours hit his palate. Then, with a lick of his lips, he tilted his head questioningly.

‘Do you like it?’ I asked, squeezing my hands together behind my back.

Dad twisted his mouth from side to side and my breath caught.

Oh, God!

He doesn’t like it?

‘It’s good.’ He shrugged half-heartedly with one shoulder. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s the new blend I’ve been working on. Thirty-eight percent Brazilian, forty-two percent Colombian, twenty percent Kenyan.’

Dad took another sip.

‘Well?’ I prompted.

‘It’s fine.’

‘It’s not fine. It’s so much more than fine, Dad.’ I snatched his empty cup from the counter. ‘I’m going to trial the new blend on the menu. I’m one hundred percent certain it will be a hit.’

Dad let out a long sigh, as if the thought of it was too much to consider. Not that it was any effort to him.

‘Why you need to do this, Demi?’ he said. ‘You are always chopping and changing. Why not leave things as they be for once?’

‘What do you mean,

leave things as they be

?’ I replied in my best mock-voice.

‘Changing things. There is nothing wrong with our coffee. Why change it?’

‘I’m not changing it. We’ll offer this as a new blend as well as our original. This is just another option to see how people like it.’

‘I think we’re best staying with what works. What’s not broke—’

‘Doesn’t need fixing,’ I finished the sentence with the roll of my eyes. I’d heard it so many—too many—times over the years. Dad didn’t like change. He was old school. What he didn’t understand was we needed to keep ahead of the game.

‘Dad,’ I said, drying off the coffee cup with a tea towel, ‘We need to change things to keep up with the competition.’

‘The competition? Those new fancy-schmancy cafés that sell all that nut milk rubbish a cat wouldn’t touch?’ He harrumphed and then tapped at the laminated menu on the counter. ‘Like this?’

‘The Mediterranean poke bowl?’

‘Bah! Poke bowl!’ Dad turned his nose up.

‘They’ve been popular.’

Dad grunted. ‘No more, Demi. This is Moretti’s. Traditional Moretti’s. The way it should be.’

‘Fine,’ I huffed, turning to wipe down the coffee machine. I ground my teeth. It wasn’t the first time Dad had knocked back my ideas. Last week, he refused to even look at the quotes I’d organised for a new counter. One was a bit pricey, but the other one was a great deal. It would certainly give the place a lift with the rustic timber and corrugated tin combination I’d chosen, not to mention the design offered more counter space on top and shelves below. But Dad had waved it off, refusing to even consider it despite my best efforts at trying to convince him. I returned to plating the crostata and raised the issue of the toilets, surely a more pressing matter.

‘Also,’ I said, slicing the last piece neatly, ‘the plumber came to look at the toilet in the ladies and he’s fixed it temporarily, but he reckons we need a new one.’

‘A new toilet? Why?’

‘Maybe because that one is over thirty years old.’

‘It will be fine for a few more months. If it starts again, we’ll look at it then.’

‘Dad,’ I said, slight frustration edging into my voice. ‘We have to keep the maintenance up on the place. Like the oven. Pat said the right-hand oven isn’t keeping temperature. It’s going to need to be replaced soon.’

‘Exactly my point. The oven will have to be done when it goes, and the toilet, it can also wait.’

I placed the crostata into the case and closed the glass door with a little more force than necessary and bit my tongue. I’d been doing a lot of that lately. Biting my tongue, holding back my opinions. Maybe I was getting too impatient. I had been putting aside money to do minor renovations and updates when I took over, but in the meantime, it was Dad who had the final say. Every day it was on the tip of my tongue to bring up his retirement, but Mum had warned me—the more I pushed, the more Dad would push back. I knew she was right. As much as I loved him, Dad was as stubborn as baked-on cheese.

Dad lumbered his cumbersome frame from the stool. ‘I going to see Pat,’ he said, making it clear our conversation was over. ‘Maybe he won’t have any problems for me.’

I shot Dad a look and his face formed a cheeky grin, his mouth pushing his rosy cheeks into plump circles. I rolled my eyes to stifle a smile. As frustrating as Dad was, he meant well. He loved this place. I just wanted him to realise how much I did too. But as I wiped the crumbs off the counter, pinpricks of annoyance began to resurface.

I was thirty-three now, and practically managing the place. Why couldn’t he step back? I was the only one who’d stuck it out with him. Not like my siblings. My older brothers, Nick and Anthony, had both treated the café as a chore and couldn’t wait to use uni and then full-time work as their escape plan. As for my younger sister, Josie, she’d also shied away from the café and went into teaching. No one loved this place as much as Dad, except me.

Just then, the door swung open. I took a deep breath and shook away the thoughts.

Just be patient

, I reminded myself.

‘Demi!’ A loud, friendly voice boomed into the café. It was Marco, one of our regulars.

‘What a beautiful morning it is,’ Marco’s offsider, Christian, added, clapping his hands together with a huge smile slapped on his wrinkled face.

‘Ciao, gentlemen,’ I chimed. I didn’t need to force the smile. These guys were like part of the furniture. Here every weekday morning—rain, hail, or shine—smack on seven o’clock for their coffee after their morning walk.

‘What will it be?’ I grinned. ‘Tea? Chai latte?’

Marco’s expression pained. ‘None of that rubbish. Two espressos, per favore.’ He tapped the counter and took up his regular spot next to Christian.

‘Coming right up,’ I said. ‘But it’s my hospitality you’re really here for, isn’t it?’

‘Of course.’ Marco grinned. ‘Although Christian, he only comes for the coffee.’

Christian feigned wounded innocence before chuckling. ‘You are the highlight of my day, mon cherie!’

‘Well, in that case,’ I said, packing the ground beans into the basket, ‘do I have a treat for you today.’

‘Oooh!’ Marco purred, raising his wiry eyebrows. ‘Is this the special blend you’ve been working on, si?’

‘Yep. And I think I’ve got it. This is going to be our signature blend. We’re going to have people coming from five suburbs over for this.’

If I get my way,

I huffed under my breath.

‘Ah, Demi, you tease us!’ Christian boomed. ‘Hurry up!’

The men chatted between themselves as I prepared each of them an espresso. Even though I knew how good it was, Dad’s reaction remained a sinking weight in my stomach. Maybe it wasn’t as good as I thought.

I placed the two espressos on the counter in front of Marco and Christian, steam curling from the cups. Then, holding my breath, I waited.

They each took a moment to inhale the aroma and then, almost in unison, they tipped the cup to their lips, took a sip and placed the cups down. Marco’s head was the first to start nodding, then Christian’s eyes widened.

‘Mmmm,’ Christian said, with a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Demi. Si! This is good.’

Marco shook his head, ‘No, no. This is not good. This is bellissimo!’

I exhaled, feeling the nervous energy disappear and the weight in my stomach transform into flutters of excitement. ‘What do you taste?’ I said, eager to know.

Christian took another sip. ‘Mmm. A perfect blend of sharp, creamy and bitter.’

Marco nodded. ‘Si, but with a sweet, almost nutty, chocolatey aftertaste.’

Christian frowned at Marco and jutted his head back with a confused look on his face.

‘What? It is what I taste! Ah, you shut up, okay?’ Marco replied, dismissing Christian with a wave of his hand.

Christian chortled. ‘Demi, it is perfecto,’ he said, with a sincere note to his voice as he finished the dregs with a satisfied sigh.

I couldn’t stifle my grin. I’d definitely nailed it. And no matter what Dad said, I knew this was the way forward. Maybe I’d have to forgo the new counter until Dad retired, but I was going to win this battle.