Sofrito. Phillippe Diederich
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And sweet…like when there is a storm and the sea is raging against the Malecón. Óyeme,” she said suddenly and waved her finger. “That chicken tasted just like Cuba.”
Justo laughed. “Who could cook something like that? I mean, what does Cuba really taste like?”
“Ay, don’t worry.” Rosa took his arm. “How about a little plate of moros and some of your maduros endulzados, eh?” She smiled and focused past him at the empty restaurant.
After lunch, Rosa went home. Frank, Pepe and Justo gathered in the kitchen to review the new recipes. Justo spread out the papers and began making notes. Frank sat on the prep counter and glanced at the bizarre artifacts on the shelf behind Justo. When they first opened the restaurant, Justo had brought a Santero to bless the business. Justo insisted they place an Elegguá effigy of sandstone and seashells by the front door. He promised them Ayé-Shaluga would watch over them and bring them good fortune. The three of them argued. In the end they settled for a small altar in the back of the kitchen. It was only supposed to be a pink conch seashell and a red, black and white bead collar, but with time the altar grew as Justo added picture cards of catholic saints, candles, a small wooden ax for Changó, a decorative plate with otán stones, and an arcane collection of aluminum and ceramic urns holding various offerings to the Orishas.
Frank looked at the collection around the altar. Maybe they should have placed it at the front of the restaurant. He really didn’t know about these things. Justo could have been right all along. He glanced at him, leaning over the counter, sorting through the recipes, and recalled that September evening eighteen years ago when Justo entered their lives. Frank came home from school and there was Justo, sitting on the couch between his parents. The first thing Frank noticed was Justo’s dark skin. Then he noticed his father’s excitement.
“He came in a raft,” Filomeno said proudly. “It took him a year to build it and three days to cross. Increíble, no?”
Justo was introduced as his ahijado, Filomeno’s godson. And therefore, it was Filomeno’s duty to offer him a place to live. Later that night, Frank lay awake in bed listening to his father and Justo whisper about Cuba until three in the morning.
Now, so many years later, he still harbored a certain jealousy for the passion Justo had stirred up in his father.
“How about this duck with truffle trumpet?” Pepe said. “Sounds powerful, no?”
“Duck?” Frank couldn’t believe it. “Are you serious? Mancini and that other meat distributor from Brooklyn refuse to extend our credit. We can’t afford to change the menu.”
“Well, what about this mango grouper?” Pepe said and handed Justo another recipe. Then he looked at Frank. “If we can still afford fish.”
Frank hopped off the counter and began to pace, his eyes combing the ground, searching for an exit. As much as he wanted to keep the restaurant, he couldn’t see how to turn things around. They were in too deep.
“Here’s one for a stuffed chicken breast,” Pepe said.
Justo took the recipe and looked it over. “Can you imagine if it’s anything like that chicken in Cuba?”
“Mami really liked it, no?”
Justo leaned against the counter. “You think it could be that good?”
“Sounds like it was a big deal back then,” Pepe said.
“Sounds like it’s a big deal right now,” Frank added. “Maybe if we knew what it tastes like—”
“Sí claro.” Justo laughed. “Let’s call them. Maybe they deliver.”
“Chicken that tastes like Cuba,” Pepe whispered. And for a moment they were all silent, reading the recipes. Then Pepe slammed his hand against the counter. “I got it!”
He looked around the kitchen. The linecook was slicing Chilean sea bass filets for ceviche, and the dishwasher was stacking plates. He motioned for Frank and Justo to follow him into the walk-in freezer.
Pepe rubbed the palms of his hands together. Then he pulled Frank and Justo into a huddle. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll get in touch with your brother and offer him some money to get the recipe for us.”
Justo shook his head. “Too dangerous. He could go to prison for stealing. The government checks everything—mail, phone calls.”
“Fine,” Pepe said. “Then Frank can go.”
For a long while all they could hear was the low hum of the freezer’s fan as little white clouds of condensation floated from their lips, their eyes skipping back and forth from one to the other.
“Very funny.” Frank backed away. This is what they always did—Justo and Pepe ganging up on him. He was the youngest. He always got the short end of the deal. He waved a finger at his brother. “Very funny.”
“No, no, it’s a great idea,” Justo said and lit a cigarette.
“And if that chicken’s as good as Mami says, it can turn Maduros around just like that.” Pepe snapped his fingers.
“You’re insane.” Frank shook his head and looked at Justo. “We’d be stealing from the government. You just said your brother could go to prison.”
“Yeah, but he’s Cuban,” Justo said. “You’re not.”
“Didn’t you notice how Mami’s eyes glazed over when she talked about it?”
“That’s Mami.” Frank stepped back and waved. “Her eyes glaze over every time she talks about Cuba.”
“Yeah, but Justo’s brother said something along the same lines in his letter.”
“Coño, you’re right.” Justo pointed at Pepe with his bandage. “It’s like they’re both in love.”
“And who knows, maybe the Quesadas still work there. A relative or someone,” Pepe added.
“If they’re still there, they’re in business with Castro.” Frank turned away and ran his hands over his hair. “It’s a terrible idea. I could go to prison.”
“No, Frank, Think of this: every Cuban who left in 1959 is probably dreaming of El Ajillo and—”
“The taste of Cuba,” Justo said.
“Then maybe we should just find out about the Quesadas before we do anything rash,” Frank said. “And what about the curse?”
“It’s just a superstition,” Pepe said.
“And the secret police? Mami says—”
“No, no,” Justo interrupted. “Your mother, she likes to exaggerate.”
“Then why did you leave?” Frank asked.
Justo waved his cigarette from side to side. “It’s different for the tourists.”
“And besides.” Frank turned and flaked the frost off a shelf with his fingernail. “Mami would freak if she knew I went to Cuba.”
“We’ll tell her you went to Ft. Lauderdale or something.”
“Why can’t you go?”
“Because I was born there,” Pepe said. “Justo and I would have to get Cuban passports.”
“And that would take forever,” Justo added. “You can go just like that. We’ll buy one of those tour packages. You can fly in through Mexico or Canada. One week. Así como si nada.”
“But what if your brother doesn’t want to help us?”
“No,óyeme, my brother will help us. I’m sure he’ll find a way to get it for us. Coño, I think this is a great idea.” Justo patted Frank on the back and took a long drag from his cigarette.
“Besides, we can get some press coverage,”