Page 5 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
Frank had strung his ‘afternoon breakfast’ out for a couple of hours by the time Emma and her crew arrived. He continued to gaze nostalgically out the window in a world of his own as the team set up their recording paraphernalia, and whilst my heart knew he was helping us– because how could any passerby not be entranced by the magnificent cake stand and pot of tea gracing the floral table before him?– my head worried that his slow pace of dining might lead to him thinking he could spend the whole day here. Which would be fine if I was running a New York skyscraper of a café, with hundreds of seats on multiple levels, but wasn’t so appealing when I aiming for a quick turnaround operation that captured the essence of the iconicPastéis de Belémin Lisbon; arguably the most famous custard tart café in the world, where the queue for a table snaked down the street, and then some. Give him his due, though, Frank had worked through two-thirds of the tarts already. It was anybody’s guess just where the twig of a man put them all.
I couldn’t believe Emma didn’t recognise me from school. I seem to be one of those complete oddballs who can recall every student’s name, birth month, eye colour, catalogue of love interests, best friends and enemies, favourite crisp and can of pop flavour, preferred make of trainers,andtheir school house. All with the click of my fingers. Then again, I suppose Emma’s had so many guests on her show over the years that her head must be swimming with names and faces. It slightly helped to ease my paranoia. All of this was flipping Reggie’s doing in any case. There’s no way I’d have dared get in touch with Emma’s show, to see if she wanted to do a feature on us. She would have been in Lauren’s year in upper sixth when calamity struck.Twice.I could only hope that my current hairdo wouldn’t ring any school bells, taking her back to either of those catastrophic events. It shouldn’t. I mean, today’s Ethiopian style of braiding required heaps of patience and practice, and would have been way too detailed for sixteen-year-old me to aspire to back then.
“Are we all ready, set, go?” Emma asked. Those last three words made me break out in a cold sweat, bringing back the smell of freshly-cut grass at the school playing fields, as a distant crowd roared in anticipation.
I nodded with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, hoping not to make a fool of myself in front of invisible viewers, and slightly more visible ones. A curious huddle had gathered at the door to catch a glimpse of Emma in action. See, I told you she was famous in these parts.
“And lights, camera, action!” declared one of Emma’s crew. Okay, now I really was paranoid that this was some kind of practical joke being played on me in loving memory of my school days, and that all and sundry in Emma’s crew were privy to the events of my chequered teenage years. My eyes darted left and right, seeking out an errant giggle from one of the radio team, but either they were brilliant actors or the recent dialogue was an overwhelming coincidence.
She started off with some standard questions, like ‘where did you get your inspiration from to open a café selling just custard tarts?’, ‘how do you think you’ll fare with the ever popular and slightly more traditional seaside outlets that don’t put all of their eggs in one basket?’ and ‘can me and the guys do a little taste test live on air?’ At this point we quickly rigged up a super-fun blindfold test that had everyone in hysterics at some of the guesses ref. the tarts’ fillings. After that, Emma’s questions became much more book-based, and I felt my shoulders sag in glorious relaxation. I may not have tuned in to her show every week but it was a well-known fact that she was a fiction addict.
“Are you sure you got out the right side of the bed this morning, Missy?” Frank interrupted loudly, making us all jump. Talk about embarrassing. Reggie palmed his forehead, and even Tim peeped his head through the kitchen serving hatch, sporting the strangest of lopsided facial expressions, which I don’t wish to be party to again. “Only our Willow’s opened acustard tart café, not a blinking bookshop.”
Our Willow?Heck. It really did sound like Frank intended to become part of the furniture, and evidently he had never tuned in to Emma’s show himself.
“Oh, that’s quite all right,” I countered, panicking that this was no dress rehearsal and we were live on air. “I love the idea of blending café and bookshop culture, as many places already do. The two subjects go hand in hand. I’m planning on getting a couple of those gorgeous duck egg-blue book trolleys in here.”Was I?Oh, well. I was now, so hopefully somewhere had them in stock. Thanks, Frank, for making me waffle, adding those extra items to my extraordinarily long list! “They’re all the rage in the homes of bookworms,” I nodded my head fervently as if to convince the listeners, who wouldn’t be able to see my body language anyway. “And it’s about time we brought that concept to eateries. Basically, customers will be able to bring books to The Custard Tart Café to add to the trolley– which will circulate the tables and the queue– and they’ll be able to take books home with them too. A bit like a library, but it’ll be trust based. Or they can just read a chapter of a previously undiscovered author here to see if they like their style, then head to a real bookshop to buy their own copy. Who knows, maybe we’ll get local authors in for readings in time.”
Okay, now I was getting carried away.
“Are you serious?” Emma whooped. “You do realise I will be packing up my things tonight and moving in! Hey listeners, on that note, I’ll be putting up a little online poll, so head over to Twitter later to cast your votes. It just so happens that I’m looking for unique venues to present my summer shows from. Let’s give the traditional Radio 1 Weston-super-Mare beach party a bit of competition and base ourselves here at Willow’s café for a morning, shall we? Willow, what do you say?”
“Well, erm, yes, okay, Sounds fantastic!” I spluttered.
And just like that, completely overlooking the vast scale of tarts we’d need to conjure up to feed the masses; completely overlooking Tim’s startled expression as he popped his head out the kitchen again, I’d made my own bit of marketing luck. Or rather Frank had. I was grinning just thinking about it.
Ding!
I stir with a start. My mug is still in my hands and Ovaltine stains are flecked across my beautiful pastel quilt. Damn, I must have dozed off. This is not the start of a great new routine. I fling the covers back and pick up my phone from the bedside table, squinting at the screen to see who’s contacting me. It’s almost midnight. Not good! I have to be up at the crack of dawn to help Tim.
I flick on the table lamp. Hmm, it’s Lauren, telling me to check my email. She’s working uncharacteristically late to be messaging me at this hour. Or perhaps Jamie is ‘out out,’ and she’s trying to distract herself from what that might mean.
I open the email to see the blank message with a Zip file attached. I shouldn’t be shaking, but I can’t help it. It feels as if I’ve rolled the roulette wheel and put my whole destiny in my sister’s hands. Everything downloads unbearably slowly (another entry for the to-do list: upgrade my mobile phone) but eventually I am treated to some sneak peek footage of the drone’s inaugural flight along the pier. I’m not so sure that Muse Masters has legally obtained the rights to play The Lighthouse Family’sOcean Drivesong in the background, but that’s for Lauren to fret about. I turn my attention instead to a cluster of dreamy photos that scream ‘come here, eat here, take an Instagram-worthy picture here, and show the world you live THE quintessentially cosmopolitan life here!’.
There’s no denying how fabulous everything looks. Todd really does know his stuff, credit where it’s due. And yet all I can do is worry. Because what if Lauren’s strategy makes me look as if I’m getting too big for my boots?
Sure, I want to be successful. What self-respecting, avant-garde café owner wouldn’t? But incrementally. Manageably. Enjoyably. No matter the complexity of their fillings, these are custard tarts we are talking about. Not vintage wine, caviar, or edible gold.
Ding, ding, ding!Now a flurry of WhatsApp messages comes at me like the tide, completely negating all the malty goodness of my evening brew. The anxiety flows out of my fingertips every time I scroll down the phone to read a new update. I hold my breath.
Forget what I said about influencers, we need to brainstorm celeb chefs who’d be willing to pay TCTC a visit. Who’s kind of local to W-S-M? Securing Nigella Lawson would be the apex, obvs! Just imagine her sashaying down the pier in one of her iconic black outfits. How marvelously seaside chic she’d look from above.Oh, my God, give the damned drone obsession a rest, Lauren– and I’m sure Nigella has better ways of spending her leisure time.Needless to say, a low profile, G-list presenter from Somerset’s Radio Gert Lush looking to get a leg up the career ladder with a bit of social media exposure would be more realistic.What a cheek. Radio Gert Lush was Emma’s radio station!Marco Pierre White has a place in Bath but he’s too much of a patisserie purist for rough and ready custard tarts.Why, thanks.Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall would only be enticed if the pier had a flock of free range hens whose eggs embellished your custard– or an allotment from which you were growing and incorporating organic thyme or mint in your fillings… Ooh, I’ve just had a Eureka moment: we could get in touch with José Mourinho! I know he’s head coach for Roma now but he’s exactly the Portuguese icon and brand ambassador we’re looking for. Football fans LOVE their pies, don’t they? All they’re subconsciously looking for, to swap the savoury meat and two veg pie for the sweet custard variety, is the thumbs-up from José… they just don’t know it yet.
My eyes are like saucers. I blink hard and read that proposal again. I can only imagine Lauren is halfway through her second bottle of wine at this point. I’m about to bat back a reply on the lines of, ‘the videos are great! Let’s just give them chance to do their thing… and I hate to point out the obvious, big sis, but I’m not fancy enough for any of this. OK, Nigella does always reply to my tweets on Twitter but she replies to virtually everyone, ray of sunshine that she is. It’s early days, José is not exactly a chef, and WSM doesn’t quite offer the level of sun, sand, and seaside opulence he’d be looking for.’ But WhatsApp number two (a voice note this time!) beats me to it:
“Okay, scrap that. I was getting carried away.”Thank goodness she’s come to her senses.“But we do need this to go global. Like Hollywood style.”Noooooooo! We really don’t, Lauren. Stop it!“It’s a long shot but if we could get hold of the agents or publicists for any megastars who are popping over to London to promote their films… and somehow entice them across to North Somerset… well! Can you imagine what that flicker of exposure would do for your little café? I’m thinking Jennifer Aniston ditching the diet, because custard tarts are too fricking irresistible to give a shit about her waistline. And then how could we not invite David Schwimmer along for the ride now that they’ve had their littleFriendsreunion?”
Is she for real?If my eyes were saucers five minutes ago, now they are dinner plates on stalks. What kind of budget does Lauren think I have at my disposal? My sister’s own willpower was watertight enough this morning when I offered her a bite of a tart. I’m pretty sure Jennifer Aniston has guru-level discipline. And having put the rumours of their romance to bed (terrible quip, I know), I’m pretty sure that the last thing that Jennifer and David need is Punch and Judy audiences on a British seaside pier raking said rumours up again.
But here comes message number three, which is back in text form:
I’m sure the local council will see the plus points and dig deep into its coffers to help us achieve it. Jen and Dave feeding one another romantic custardy bites at TCTC, Jen and Dave fooling around at the crazy golf, Jen and Dave making sandcastles on the beach– headline: ‘All David wanted to do was go for a Schwimm’. Alternatively, we could plump for Will Smith on the Weston-super-Mare Ferris wheel: ‘Will wheely likes to be beside the seaside!’ You’ve got a real vehicle for success here, by the way. Sauce defines pasta and your custard-fused fillings define pastry.
Okay, now Lauren really has lost the plot, she clearly hasn’t been keeping up with the gossip magazines and the latest on Hollywood’s dating scene, and I’m wondering how she ever got a foot in the door at Muse Masters, let alone into the boss’s bed.
PS. Dreamboat has moved into my office as part of the departmental reshuffle. I know! I can hardly contain myself…
Okay, now I really don’t understand what’s going on in my sister’s head, but at the same time I’m surprised she hasn’t thought of roping in this Antonio Banderas lookalike to further embellish the merits of mynatas. Lauren is six months married… six months married and ready to embark on an affair. How is this obsession with the new guy ‘a spot of window shopping’?
My thoughts circle like my seaside town’s Ferris wheel; the one that seasonally tries in vain to emulate the London Eye and something I can’t imagine Jen, Dave, Will, the real Antonio B or even the publicity-hungry Hoff choosing to rotate on at their leisure. And I wonder if I’m also biting off more than I can chew.
