Sofrito. Phillippe Diederich
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“Only four stitches.” His small deepset eyes had a shine, a happiness that never faded. It was as if the trouble with the restaurant didn’t exist.
Pepe took the folder from Justo and leafed through the recipes. “I was thinking we could run a promo,” he said. “Like a two-for-one. Like the Indian restaurants on East 6th Street.”
“Coño, Pepe. Get real.”
“And what’s this?” Pepe held up a sheet of paper. “A love letter?”
Justo smiled and took it from him. “It’s from my brother.”
The fight was quickly seeping out of Frank. Or maybe he’d never had it. He wanted to say it, tell them they had to declare bankruptcy. There was no other option. Accept the loss and move on. Do something else with their lives. But at that moment his mother walked into the restaurant.
Frank met her at the front and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “How was church, Mami?”
Rosa wore a long black dress like she did every day since her husband had passed five years ago. “Fine,” she said, and maneuvered her heavy frame between the tables, her soft gray hair covered with a black lace mantilla. “Jesus sends his regards. He says you should come visit him more often.”
They took a table at the back. Frank went to the bar and mixed a batch of mango mojitos. He thought of the last five years of his life adding up to nothing. Not long ago he’d had so much ambition, hope. And now here he was—alone on the fast track to broke. He wanted to get away from the trouble of the restaurant and the ghost that seemd to squeeze his will. But he and Pepe had made a promise to their father. They had to take care of Rosa. No matter how he looked at it—restaurant or no restaurant—he was trapped. All he could do was tap the counter with the back of the thin mixing spoon and add an extra jigger of Bacardí to his drink.
When he came back to the table, Rosa was inspecting Justo’s bandage.
“Of course it hurt.” Justo used his good finger to draw the length of the cut along the knuckle of his index finger. “Look, from here to here.”
“Well, what in the name of the virgin were you cutting, chico?”
“A leg of pork. The knife caught the bone and I lost my grip.”
Rosa covered her mouth. “I do not see why you need such big knives. All my life I have been cooking, and I never had a need for such fancy cutlery.”
“Come on.” Frank raised his glass. “Let’s have a toast.”
“Yes, certainly. To Maduros!” Rosa took a short sip of her mojito. She let out a long sigh, and her eyes wandered around the dining room. “And tell me, how is business?”
“You know…” Pepe glanced at his brother.
“No. I don’t know,” Rosa said.
“A bit slow,” Frank said. “But that’s normal for this time of year.”
“And what time of year is that?” Rosa turned her palms up. “Where is everybody?”
“It’s Sunday afternoon, Mami.”
“Por favor, Cubans eat all day on Sunday.”
When no one said anything, Rosa touched her glass and turned to Justo. “And what is new with you? How is Amarylis?”
“Fine. We went to see a fertility doctor.”
“Ay no, be careful, chico. They will take all your money and do nothing for you.”
“Mami—” Frank said.
“But it’s true. Leonor’s daughter Chiquita paid a doctor in Queens ten thousand dollars and she is still not pregnant. Pobrecita.”
“Yes, but—”
“I do not believe in any of that,” she said flatly.
“And neither did I,” Justo said. “But Amarylis is not getting any younger.”
“But there are other ways, chico.”
“No.” Pepe laughed and winked at his brother. “There’s only one way to make a baby.”
“And I also got a letter from my brother,” Justo added. “He says they’re all doing fine.”
“No, mi amor.” Rosa waved violently. “Not in Cuba. Nobody can be fine living under the rule of that butcher.”
Frank rolled his eyes. He knew her speech by heart. But Justo interrupted her before she got started. “And there’s good news. My sister is expecting.”
“She got married?”
“Yes, and expecting twins.”
“Twins? ¿De verdad?”
“That’s what Eusebio said. He also said he got a job at El Ajillo, a restaurant of—”
“¡El Ajillo!” Rosa cried. “No me digas. They reopened El Ajillo?”
“Yes, he’s a waiter there. He says he makes very good tips. And in dollars.”
“I am sure he does.” Rosa sighed. “You know that used to be Filomeno’s uncle Nestor’s restaurant. It was very popular back in my day. They made the most delicious chicken in the world. Ay, tan sabroso. It was famous. Te juro, I have never had anything like it.”
“Really?” Frank leaned back on his chair. “You never mentioned it before.”
“There is a lot I have not mentioned. Your father did not like it when we spoke of Cuba. It was too painful for his weak heart.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Pepe smacked Frank on the arm. “The restaurant business is in our blood.”
“Nestor Quesada. He was quite eccentric, that one. He never told anyone where the recipe came from. There were all kinds of rumors about it. Your father suspected he stole it from an old gypsy.”
“Did you know him well?” Frank asked.
“Claro.” Rosa waved. “He used to be a machinist at my grandfather’s ingenio in Oriente. He was not a cook. We were all surprised when he opened the restaurant.”
“And when they saw it succeed, no?” Justo asked.
“Imagínate,” Rosa said. “People thought all kinds of things. Some believed the recipe was cursed.”
“Why, what happened?”
“Ay, the misfortunes that befell that poor man. His four year-old son passed away from a terrible bout of pneumonia. His wife was so grief-stricken, she committed suicide three weeks later. She tied a rock to her waist and jumped into the Almendares River. Can you imagine? Nestor became a recluse. He was quite wealthy, but he rarely left the restaurant. They said he slept in the kitchen because he was afraid someone would steal his recipe.”
“So it was cursed?” Justo asked.
“I don’t know about that. But just before Filomeno and I left Cuba, we heard they found the body of the head cook floating in the Bahía de La Habana.”
“The curse,” Justo said.
“No chico, those are just superstitions.” Rosa looked away. “Sometimes I think that chicken is what I miss the most from Cuba. I would give anything in the world to try it again.”
“What was it like?” Justo asked. “Maybe I can come up with something like it.”
“Ay, no.” Rosa laughed. She waved her index finger and her expression turned serious. “Only Nestor knew the recipe. God only knows what Fidel had to do to get the recipe from him.”
“Maybe he paid him a nice—”
“Qué va.” Rosa dismissed the idea. “Fidel only knows how to steal. If the State reopened the restaurant…Ay