This is not a serious book. It makes very little sense. The plot is full of holes. It is entirely unrealistic.
In other words, it has a lot in common with musical theatre. And like musical theatre, it’s tons of fun.
Our protagonist is Adele, who is nearly resigned to giving up her dreams of Broadway/Off-Broadway/Off-Off-Broadway stardom when, out of nowhere, a distant relative she’s never heard of dies and leaves Adele her Brooklyn coffee shop, Riffraff. This inheritance comes with both a blazing hot Aussie barista named Ben and a terrible secret. Adele is warned by Ben never to go down to the basement, which (he tells Adele) contains the coffee roaster that is the source of the massive amounts of smoke that periodically come bellowing up. Oh, that rumbling and shaking? That’s totally the subway, don’t worry about it. Yes the 7 deadbolt locks on the basement door are necessary, it’s an OSHA thing.
So Adele is trying to learn the ropes of the coffee business from Ben and the agéd hippies who are the shop’s most loyal customers/friends of her late great-aunt. Meanwhile her finance bro boyfriend is trying to get her to turn Riffraff into the most Starbucksy Starbucks that ever Starbucksed - gotta get that ROI.
This book is filled to bursting with musical theatre references (my favorite being the plant growing in Riffraff named Audrey III), terrible coffee puns, and crackling sexual tension. As I said at the beginning, it’s absolutely full of plot holes, but I do not care any more than I care about where and how, exactly, all these late-19th-century New York newsboys received their classical dance training.
Settle into a comfy chair with a long black (far superior to an americano, according to Ben), turn your brain off, and enjoy this book. It’s a delight.
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