Copyright Page

      Sofrito. Copyright © 2015 by Phillippe Diederich. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations for reviews. For information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas, El Paso, TX 79901 or call at (915) 838-1625.

      This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

      Printed in the U.S.

      First Edition

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Diederich, Phillippe, 1964-

      Sofrito / by Phillippe Diederich. —First edition.

      pages ; cm

      ISBN 978-1-941026-14-4 (softcover : acid-free paper)

      ISBN 978-1-941026-15-1 (e-Book)

      1. Cuban Americans—Fiction. 2. Cuba—Fiction. I. Title.

      PS3604.I338S67 2015

      813’.6—dc23

      2014031844

      *

      Book and cover designed by BluePanda Design Studio

      Cover and title photo by Phillippe Diederich

      Author photo by Selina Roman

      Electronic Edition handcrafted at Pajarito Studios

      Dedication

      FOR MY PARENTS

      1

      “Sofrito is the mother sauce of our food. All Cuban cooking must begin with a good sofrito. It is the heart of the recipe Everything else grows from there.”

      —Nitza Villapol

      during an interview after the publication of her book Cocina Al Minuto, 1956

      Frank Delgado was sitting alone in the back of Maduros, contemplating the presence of his father’s ghost. The old man was all over the fancy white dining room—its white floor, its white walls, its white tables. Frank imagined his father’s imposing figure sitting at the bar, sipping on a rum and Coke, watching him—passing judgment on him.

      Frank was despondent and a little confused. It had been four months since his fiancé walked out on him. After Julie left, his heart didn’t break. He hadn’t suffered remorse or even sadness. He didn’t feel a goddamn thing. It was just the same uncomfortable angst he’d been carrying around like a cross for most of his life.

      He pushed away the papers in front of him—stacks of unpaid bills, collection notices, and a ledger that showed how deep in the red the restaurant had fallen. He leaned back on his chair, front legs off the ground, back against the wall, and stared at New York City out of the restaurant’s tall windows that faced 1st Avenue. He loosened his tie and sighed. For the first time in his life, he was putting on weight. It wasn’t what he had expected, not at thirty-three. He had never been athletic, but he was tall and had always been on the skinny side. Now he was getting soft. His dark, moody eyes were losing their glint and taking on a permanent gloom. He ran his hand over his hair and took a deep breath when a long scream pierced the dining room.

      The few customers in the restaurant stared at him. If it had been only that, he could’ve lied and said it was nothing, that the chef was simply a cantankerous old Cuban with a short temper. But then came the crash of breaking glass and Justo bellowing at the top of his lungs, cursing the mother of the goat who gave him birth.

      Later, Frank would joke that Justo had spilled his blood as part of a Santería ritual that promised to bring life back to the restaurant. But the accident—because that’s exactly what it was—was only another blunder in a series of mistakes that had taken them to the brink of ruin.

      The kitchen was thick with smoke. The stench of burnt sofrito—olive oil, onion, garlic, peppers and cilantro—had charred into a bitter ash that stung the eyes and throat. The waiters and the cooks yelled and threw food and banged on pots and pans like a conga back in Cuba. Justo danced in circles, his hands pressed against the center of his chest, kicking and cursing every saint in the book. There was blood on the counter and all over his white chef’s coat. A sharp butcher knife and a large blood-spattered leg of roast pork lay on the floor.

      Frank’s older brother Pepe wobbled his heavy frame past the prep area and took long swipes at the grill with his suit jacket. With every slap, the flames swelled.

      Frank reached past him and turned the knobs on the grill. The fire died.

      “He cut his hand!” Pepe cried. He was frantic, moving in quick jerks, the fat hanging from his jowls jiggling like thick slices of membrillo. “It’s bad. Really bad.”

      Frank stared at him, at the panic in his tired eyes, tiny beads of sweat forming over his brow all the way to the top of his balding head. Maybe that was it. They had reached the end. He shook his head, the copper-like taste of defeat lingering on his tongue like the poison the restaurant had become.

      They fell quiet. He imagined their father—Filomeno—waving a thick finger at them, angry at their failure. Filomeno had refused to be a part of anything of theirs except this restaurant. It had been the only time he’d ever stretched his arms out and hugged them like a real family. Even Justo. And Filomeno was the one who named it after the sweet fried plantains he loved so much: Maduros.

      The mayhem slowly settled. The kitchen staff took over. The dishwasher began mopping up the mess. The waiters shuffled back to the dining room. Frank and Pepe joined Justo behind the prep counter. He’d wrapped his hand in a towel and was sitting on a plastic milk crate, his lanky frame hunched over, his dark skin glistening with sweat, a half-smoked Winston between his thick lips.

      Frank shoved his hands in his pant pockets and avoided their eyes. “So what now?”

      Five years ago it had been perfect. When Maduros first opened, they were the restaurant on the Upper East Side. There were celebrities, write-ups and feature articles about the Cuban brothers who struck gold with their magic blend of Cuban fusion and European chic. But that was a lifetime ago.

      “I’ll take him to Lenox-Hill,” Pepe said. “He’ll probably need stitches—”

      “I’m talking about the restaurant.”

      “This is not the time.”

      “Coño, it’s never the time.” Frank cursed and gestured with a wave of his arm at the catastrophe of the kitchen. “Damn it. We’re bleeding money, Pepe. Every day I’m the one who has to face our suppliers and creditors and invent excuses and beg for more time. We’re sinking. And we’re sinking fast.”

      “You know…” Justo stood and adjusted the towel. “…we could always pay my friend Ramón Juárez a little visit over in East Harlem. He can make a…tú sabes, un trabajito. An offer to Yemayá never hurt anyone. We can drop some flowers and fruits into the East River and…”

      “What’s the matter with you?” Frank cried, but it came out soft, like everthing he did. Like when he said goodbye to Julie for the last time. His tone was always laced with acquiescence. Maduros had been hanging by a thread of debt and favors for months. They had pumped everything they had into it. They had nothing left.

      But what made him angry was that he was willing to accept it.

      The following afternoon Frank stood at the espresso machine. It hissed a cloud of steam that reeked of bitter coffee, filling him with memories of his childhood in Houston. He could still hear his father singing in the shower, stretching his baritone to sound like Beny Moré singing Preferí perderte or Corazón rebelde while his mother Rosa, in pink and blue plastic curlers, paced around the kitchen, the clap-clap of her plastic sandals slapping against the bottom of her feet as she