Cafe Zoey

By Martin Roth

MEET ZOEY STARR – BARISTA FROM HELL

It has been six months since champion barista Zoey Starr fled overseas after the tragic death of her young daughter. Six months during which she tried to escape the memories that continued to haunt her.

Now she is back. She is seeking revenge. And she doesn’t care who gets hurt.

Jenny Bilbey is a recovering alcoholic and an aspiring journalist. She is working on her first story, about the country town that was razed to the ground in a bushfire and has now been rebuilt as a super-trendy foodie paradise. But she quickly discovers that some of the locals do not want her to learn about their town.

She finds an unlikely ally in the impulsive and unpredictable Zoey Starr, now barista at one of the hottest cafés in this town. And together they work to unravel the mysteries that many would prefer to remain hidden.

Set in the world of specialty coffee, Cafe Zoey is a gripping psychological thriller about the dark secrets that people hold and the dark places to which they are led.

Best read with a double espresso or cappuccino in hand from your favorite barista.

About the Author
Martin Roth is a veteran journalist and foreign correspondent who lived in Tokyo for seventeen years and whose reports from throughout Asia have appeared in leading publications around the world. He now lives with his family in Melbourne, Australia, where he enjoys walking his Šarplaninac mountain sheepdog and drinking coffee in the city’s many wonderful cafés.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Roth
• Release date: Apr 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005883713

Martin Roth

Martin Roth is a veteran journalist and foreign correspondent who lived in Tokyo for seventeen years and whose reports from throughout Asia have appeared in leading publications around the world. He now lives with his family in Melbourne, Australia, where he enjoys walking his black Sarplaninac mountain sheepdog and drinking coffee in the city’s many wonderful cafés.

Book preview

Chapter 1

You think you know me, don’t you? Let’s see if you’re right.

Here’s a clue.

I’m the best you’ve ever seen.

No one makes better coffee than me.

I shall be preparing three coffees for you this morning, and I promise that you are going to find them quite unique. The first will be an espresso. The second is a milk beverage. And the final one is my special signature coffee. All within fifteen minutes.

While I’m preparing my first beverage, the espresso, I want to tell you a little about it. With this drink we are going on an adventure. I am taking you right back to the origins of coffee. My beans are from Ethiopia, and as you know, coffee originally came from Ethiopia. So these are very, very special.

In Ethiopia coffee trees still grow wild in the forests, living together with the monkeys and the snakes and the exotic birds. Some coffee trees are a hundred years old. The beans from these plants have flavors that are different from any other coffee in the world. And local people keep discovering new plants and amazing new tastes.

I was walking in the forests of Kafa, in southwestern Ethiopia, when I found some very special wild coffee trees. I picked the beans and processed them myself. I used a dry method, simply leaving them in the sun, and this has brought out the powerful fruit notes. I brought the green beans back here to Australia and have given them just a light roast, to highlight the terroir of this coffee.

So you are tasting coffee that is unlike anything else. I think you might say it is the best coffee in the world. You all know the famous gesha beans. Many coffee experts say they are the finest in the world. Well, these are better. You are going to taste some intense flavors – citrus, bergamot, honey, berries. These are explosive flavors

So now, as I serve you your espressos, I am telling you that you are about to taste coffee as you have never tasted it before. Please smell the fragrance. It is rich and powerful.

Now look at the crema on top. I want you to take a spoon and dip it into the coffee. Look how much crema is there, and look how thick it is. Taste a little.

Now taste the coffee. And as you drink, let me ask you a question. Why was I in Ethiopia? Actually, I think you all know the answer. Because I can see that you do recognize me. Yes, I am Zoey Starr, even though I registered for this barista competition under a different name.

You know me. All four of you judges know me well. Zoey Starr, the best barista you have ever met. And you know my story. You know all about the tragedy that caused me to leave Australia six months ago.

And I ended up in Ethiopia, the home of coffee. Picking my own beans and processing them too. Then I returned back home to Melbourne just a few weeks ago.

So that brings me to my second coffee. A milk beverage. In fact, it’s an old-fashioned cappuccino. And I’m going to take you on another adventure.

This time we are going back to the Vienna coffee houses of the eighteenth century where they developed this drink. Some people say it is named after the creamy brown color of the robes of Capuchin monks. My drink will be that color. But then we travel to twentieth-century Italy, where the modern cappuccino developed, with the advance of espresso machines.

And I am going to add some modern flourishes. My beans are some others that I picked myself in Ethiopia. These are also heirloom varieties, and from the same region. They are also dry processed. But I have mixed in some beans from Rwanda and some from Kenya, because I wanted a little more intensity, to set off the milk.

Many people will say that this drink should comprise one third espresso, one third steamed milk and one third milk foam. But I have increased the espresso ratio to about forty-five percent to enhance the flavor.

My milk is from here in Victoria, produced by Jersey cows. I am sure you know that these make the best milk for texturing, thanks to their high levels of protein, sugar and butter fat. This is unhomogenized milk, as that gives a better quality. It also mixes perfectly with the espresso to bring out a rich and sweet and creamy coffee taste.

I am steaming the milk at sixty-five degrees, just right to accentuate the natural sweetness of the coffee. On top I am sprinkling a little Ivory Coast cocoa mixed with icing sugar.

So here are your cappuccinos. One each. I know you are going to enjoy these. They are rich and smooth and sweet. They are not too hot, in order to heighten the sweetness.

Oh, you all look somewhat startled.

Yes, that little picture I’ve made on the top of your drinks. It’s an image of my beautiful daughter Katie. You know her. Look hard at it before you drink. I want you to remember her.

And while you are drinking, let me remind you why I left Australia so suddenly for Ethiopia. It was six months ago that my darling Katie died in the accident that you all know about, when the roasting machine exploded at our café, Café Zoey.

She was with my husband Lenno … my former husband … because he had been given custody of her. And he died too. I was so distraught I had to get out of Melbourne. I spent months in Ethiopia, just walking in the forests among the coffee trees, trying to recover.

You know that if Lenno had not been given custody of Katie she would have been with me, and she would not have died. You know that very well. And you know that it was Lenno’s friends from the coffee business who helped him get custody. They came and gave evidence against me. She’s unstable, they said. A bad mother. Unreliable. Hysterical. Neurotic. Histrionic. Those are the exact words they used.

So I was only allowed to see her at weekends. Katie. My own daughter. The daughter I loved with all my heart. And then six months ago she died. And that is why I left. I couldn’t stay here. I was devastated. In my grief I went to Ethiopia, to walk in the forests, and then to South Korea, to work with a coffee importer. And now here I am, back home in Melbourne.

I can see that you enjoyed your cappuccinos. So now for the final beverage, my signature coffee. While I prepare it I shall explain what you are going to drink.

I want you to imagine a tropical rain forest. Because that is the image I am evoking with this coffee. Exotic birds, luxuriant plants and tropical fruits and nuts.

I am again using Ethiopian coffee because of its intense fruit and floral flavor. This is not one that I picked. This bean is from the Yirgacheffe region, and I have chosen it for its powerful, penetrating floral notes.

I have also prepared some passionfruit concentrate, boiling down the fruit with coconut sugar, removing the pips and adding a touch of astringent Japanese yuzu juice.

The third ingredient is a brazil nut paste that I have mixed with a date concentrate.

I am serving this special drink in small shot glasses. First I take a slice of lemon and I gently rub it around the top of each glass. Now I am blending the brazil nut paste with the passionfruit concentrate, and I fill each glass about half full. And finally I pull the espresso and pour it over the top. I wait twenty seconds to allow the coffee to slowly seep into the thick fruit-nut mixture.

And now I want you to drink. Smell the aroma first – the fruit and the nuts and the coffee. A tantalizing combination. And then drink. Yes, please enjoy it. Drink it all.

That was good, wasn’t it. Very good. Though perhaps a little more bitter than you expected. Perhaps a little more bitter than you would have expected from passionfruit and dates and Brazil nuts.

You know, nine months ago, I went through the most bitter of divorce proceedings. I was forced to give up custody of my beautiful Katie. She was just five years old. And then six months ago came that explosion at our coffee shop, Café Zoey, while Lenno my ex-husband was roasting beans. And he happened to have Katie with him that day. Who would have expected that? And so they both died.

But why did I have to give up custody of Katie? It was because of Lenno’s friends. His friends in the coffee business. And two of you are here today, as judges. Who would have expected that? Two of the four judges here today gave evidence against me in the divorce court.

You know who you are. You gave vindictive evidence. You said I was a bad mother. That I didn’t take proper care of my daughter. That she couldn’t be trusted with me. That I had a neurotic personality. That I was hysterical or histrionic or whatever. Words like that. That I was a narcissist. I didn’t care about anyone except myself.

And the result was that I lost my lovely, beautiful daughter. She died. It would never have happened if she was in my custody.

So let me tell you what I have just done. I added rat poison to your coffee. That is why it tasted more bitter than you expected. And unfortunately it was in all four cups, because I wasn’t able to provide separate beverages.

It’s a concentrated poison, and it works very fast. Very fast. I can see already that you are looking scared. You should.

And I see you are taking out your phones. You are all looking very agitated. Yes, I think you should call ambulances. And while you are waiting for them to arrive you can reflect on what you did to me. On how I have suffered. Because of you.

So yes, I do hope you can get treatment in time. I really do.

But I think it will probably be too late.

Chapter 2

Jenny

I used to love driving along this road. That was when Brian and I were still together, back before kids and careers and life intervened.

We would tool up the highway in his blue Datsun, randomly stopping at a few of the wineries, drinking just enough at the cellar door to stay within the safe driving laws, but picking up several bottles for a night of revelry at our cottage or motel.

Even then I probably drank too much. We both did. It was just what we did. Drink heavily.

And now here I am, back on the same road after so many years, in my own cheap car – Korean, not Japanese – and I can feel my hands shaking.

Can I turn back? Do it another time? Yes, of course I can. My life is in my own hands. Mistress of your own destiny, and all that. I can simply turn the car around and go home again. As easy as that. Tell him I changed my mind. After all, I don’t really want to meet again. But then, I do have my own reasons for agreeing to this rendezvous. And it’s not as if I’m coming specifically for him.

The sun is radiant and I have turned on the air conditioner. We pass a fire warning sign, nestled under a towering eucalyptus. The danger arrow has been pointed to Very High. When I investigated once online I learned that Very High means action may be needed; leave if necessary. Does this sign convey some kind of subliminal message for me today?

I cannot believe that it is only November. Summer has yet to begin and already the temperatures are in the thirties. My battered sense of smell can scent smoke. I’ve heard nothing in the news about bushfires, and there are no smoke clouds in the sky, so I guess it is back-burning by worried farmers.

I change the radio from a golden oldies station to the more calming Classic FM and try to breathe slowly, concentrating on each breath. I straighten my shoulders and push out my chest. But then I spot the rear of a giant truck up ahead and I am forced to focus again on my driving. I ease my foot off the accelerator and touch the brake so as to align my own speed with that of the ever-so-slow truck, its tray piled high with logs.

The point is, I actually want to be here. I have been thinking about this journey for more than a week. I have been so excited about today, and what it means, that I have even had some trouble sleeping. For today marks a giant step for me. A momentous leap forward, unlike the steady march backwards – or downwards - that seemed to have become my life trajectory in recent years.

It really does not have much to do with meeting Brian again for the first time in several years. That’s secondary. I am at last ready for that, and I know I can handle it, despite all the lingering bitterness and resentfulness and guilt. Today is about much more than that.

The truck slows almost to a walking pace, and I realize we are approaching a sharp bend. And suddenly I know exactly where I am. I have arrived at my destination.

Brian and I used to drive out here to the Yarra Valley often in the early days, just an hour’s drive from the mega-metropolis of Melbourne. We could choose from a myriad of little towns for our accommodation, but one of our favorites was Yarra Bunya. It was a sleepy hamlet back then, a narrow valley encased on two sides by fields and steep eucalyptus-clad slopes. Essentially just one lengthy street with shops and some accommodation, and with picturesque unpaved lanes branching off into the surrounding hills, twisting up the inclines.

And now I am back.

Up ahead I spot a sign: WELCOME TO YARRA BUNYA – THE TOWN THAT ROSE FROM THE ASHES, with a depiction of a bottle of wine and a bowl of fruit. That seems appropriate. Since the fire, this place has become renowned for its world-class food and wine, and weekend-trippers swarm here from around Australia and even from across the globe.

The truck is rounding the sharp bend so slowly that for an instant I almost feel that I am motionless. Suspended in time. Trapped in its slipstream. In a bubble.

But I also feel I am at a threshold. Navigate this bend and there will be no turning back. I shall be committed. Irrevocably. Surrendered to this new life that I have chosen. No retreating back into my shell.

This hulking truck seems to be pulling me forward, as if with invisible strings. It seems that I have no choice. I feel powerless. I cannot resist.

And so slowly, glacially, I round the bend and cross the threshold. And I sense that my new life has begun.

***

We are meeting at the Purple Capsicum café, down at the other end of town. With typical lack of tact Brian initially suggested the restaurant at Oakridge Wines. It’s not cheap, but this is a special occasion. Quite a while since we last met. Ha, ha. Brian was always cheap.

Probably not such a good idea, I told him, and over the phone I could hear a kind of harrumph and then, Right, yes, right, right, in the somewhat stuffy, professorial manner he seems to be striving to acquire.

Followed by, Ha, ha. Of course. Silly me. I shouldn’t have suggested a winery. Always insensitive. That’s me. I think you might even have pointed that out once or twice.

And he apologized and went to the other extreme and chose Purple Capsicum, a vegan café that doesn’t serve any alcohol. Nor does it serve meat, fish or dairy, even though we both eat all those. At least, I assume Brian still does. Unless the cancer has turned him vegan.

I trail the lumbering lumber truck through the township. The place has indeed risen from the ashes. Back in the day, several decades ago, farmland still abutted much of the main Yarra Bunya Highway. Brian and I might stroll along here in the late morning, heading for the town milk bar for some breakfast, swigging all the while from a bottle of whatever wine we had left over from the previous night’s carousing.

Most of the pastureland has now gone. Instead, shop after shop offer artisan chocolates and home-made ice creams and single-origin coffee and exotic spice mixtures and all manner of upmarket gourmet provisions, along with an abundance of restaurants. This is now a bustling foodie paradise. There are even traffic lights.

I slow my car and bid silent farewell to the truck as my GPS tells me that Purple Capsicum is just ahead on the right, over a small bridge. It has its own carpark, and I easily find a space. It is a weekday and the school holidays are still a few weeks away. I check the time. I’m ten minutes early, but I know Brian might already be here. He is punctilious about time. I think he is probably punctilious about absolutely everything, and I’m not even sure exactly what the word means.

A mantle of hot air cloaks me like a tent as I walk from the car to the entrance, past a row of golden wattles. But inside is bright and airy and cool. Right in front is a high counter. Above it, suspended from the ceiling, is a paper-maché purple capsicum the size of a giant pumpkin, swaying slightly in the breeze from the air conditioning. A dozen small wooden tables stretch out on either side of the counter. Only two of the tables have customers, none of whom is Brian. A tattooed young waitress with surprisingly small hands and braces on her teeth comes and greets me. I wonder if Brian made a reservation.

Do you have a booking for Brian and Jenny Bilbey?

She checks a computer device on the counter. Yes, here we are. Brian Bilbey. A table for two.

Punctilious, I think, and I also vaguely wonder if small hands aren’t detrimental to waitressing. Surely you’re not able to carry many dishes at one time.

We’re not busy right now, she says. Sit anywhere you like.

I take a seat near a window, my back to the wall, perspiring slightly despite the air conditioning. And suddenly I start feeling some trepidation. In the car I had been indifferent about meeting Brian. I don’t have any great desire to reconnect. But now all the old insecurities are bubbling up.

Officially we are here to discuss our elder daughter Jane’s twenty-first birthday, in a month’s time, shortly before Christmas. Brian called – recently he has been calling a lot – and said it is important we do something. Let’s meet and talk about it, he suggested. After all, he said, we haven’t seen each other for a few years.

I actually feel that kids these days don’t care about these so-called milestone anniversaries the way that we did. But I didn’t argue with Brian. After all, how much do I know about the thoughts and feelings and desires of our two daughters? I spent much of their teenage years in an alcoholic fog. For all I know Jane is hungering for nothing less than a giant twenty-first bash with a DJ and heavy metal rock band and entertainers and hundreds of glamorous guests.

In any case, I have my own particular reason for wanting to meet Brian right now. But I don’t want another fight with him. I really don’t. I want to get on with this next exciting stage of my life, in which he plays no role whatsoever. But even thinking about him makes me bitter. What will meeting him do to me?

Especially as I can’t help feeling that he wants to do more than discuss our daughter’s twenty-first. This series of phone calls from him over the past couple of months, since the cancer, has made me suspect he wants the two of us to get together again.

I twist my head and glance out the window. I can see a miniature corner garden with late-blooming daffodils and behind it a ginger cat sitting in the shade of a wattle, on a low brick wall.

And then I sense a flurry of movement at the front of the restaurant. I look, and spot him walking through the door. He stops and peers around, finds me and walks over with a smile.

He hasn’t changed much – men don’t at his age – though he is perhaps a little gaunter than I recall, a little greyer in his hair. His recent problems, no doubt.

He is tall, about as tall as me, with a red-brown leathery face that looks like a well-polished cowboy boot, as if he has been spending his days surfing down at the beach and not hunched over history books. And despite his age and his recent cancer he remains handsome, with shining blue eyes and a twisted grin that I must confess still looks cute.

He is wearing baggy shorts and a blue t-shirt that I think I bought for him once at a sale. I doubt that he is wearing it in tribute to me, as he wouldn’t remember where it came from. Like me, he has little interest in fashion, which is another of the reasons we clicked. It appears he has on the same Specsavers black-rimmed glasses he wore when we were still together. He certainly hasn’t dressed up for this meeting.

He walks up. I stay on my side of the table, seated, so he cannot give me a kiss. Hello Jen, he says as he reaches across and shakes my hand. Then he sits. You’re looking good.

I know that is a lie. I have been trying to work off my beer belly – or wine belly, to be accurate – and in any case it is hidden by the table and by my choice of a loose cotton blouse, but he can see that my skin – never great - is drier than before and yellowy, while a couple of small red blotches have sprung up near my eyes. I have dyed my hair back to its original chocolate brown, but if he looks hard he will spot that it is greying and thinning.

And how are you? I enquire. How’s the prostate? Might as well get it over with.

The lack of one, you mean. He gives a hangdog smile, no doubt angling for sympathy. The urologist seems happy. My PSA levels are back down. He gives some figures, knowing that as a nurse I will understand them. It looks like they might have caught it in time. But I’m still on sick leave. Will be for the rest of the year. Though it gets me out of marking a lot of exam papers, so I can’t complain.

Still, it’s pretty tough having your prostate removed when you’re only reaching your mid-fifties. In your sixties or seventies is more normal. I stop. Here I