Chapter 5 Beef Kare-Kare
Beef Kare-Kare
Carmello
Fourteen years ago
In the kitchen while my mom was at the stove, I couldn’t help but be curious about the girl.
Paula looked at me and smiled. “Her parents are doing some kind of clean water work here in Providence. They aren’t planning on staying for long, so she hasn’t been enrolled in school yet. Why? You think she’s cute?”
“No,” I said, confused about why Paula would jump to that conclusion. “I think she’s weird. Do you see how long she studies the menu? And she keeps you at the table forever.”
Paula grabbed the girl’s order from my mom. “For a kid, she’s pretty easy to talk to.”
***
Back out at the front-of-house while I was bussing tables, I watched as the girl picked at the beef in her kare-kare with a fork and stared at it so seriously I wasn’t surprised when she called Paula over about it.
I wondered if she was trying to do some activism of her own by criticizing the food my mom just made to her face.
But Paula didn’t ask why, just said, “The chef’s busy, kid.”
“I can wait here until she’s free. It’ll be quick, I promise,” the girl said.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Paula said before going back to the kitchen.
I shook my head and laughed. The girl glanced up, narrowed her eyes, and said, “You’re looking at me like I have two antennae.”
I knew I could get in trouble if I interacted with customers the way I was about to interact with this one, but I’d had the type of week where I cared a little less about consequences.
“Kind of audacious of you to ask to directly complain to the chef right after a busy lunch hour,” I said, and I swear she smirked a little.
“Who said I’m going to complain?”
I had a rebuttal on my tongue, but my mom cut our conversation short by walking out of the kitchen wearing her apron and hat, thick black hair spilling out the sides.
“How may I help you?” she asked the girl.
I slowly cleared a table close to them, hoping the girl’s cheeks were burning from embarrassment after what I said.
But then she surprised me by asking: “Do you think you can tell me the recipe for this kare-kare? I, uh…I’ve been trying to make it at home to surprise my dad.
He’s mixed Filipino and Italian, but he doesn’t cook…
like, at all. He burned ramen noodles the other day.
And my mom is Cape Verdean…but doesn’t cook anything anymore.
” A slight frown formed on her mouth, and I suddenly felt more curious about her.
“Anyway, whenever we have access to a kitchen, it’s just me in there doing my best. And your food…
It’s so good. But this is probably the last time I can eat here for a while since I spent all my savings already. ”
I wasn’t sure if my mom looked impressed or annoyed.
As the only chef at the time, she was constantly fighting against the clock.
“I love that you cook for your parents,” she said, “but I don’t share my recipes with customers.
They’ve been in my family for generations, and that’s what makes this place special. ”
“Oh. Yeah, sorry. I should’ve thought of that,” the girl said. Then: “What about a job? Is the owner here hiring?”
The way my mom tilted her head told me that she found this girl just as entertaining as I did. We’d have something besides my “attitude” to talk about on the ride home later.
“I am the owner,” my mom said, “but we’re overstaffed right now.”
The girl caught my eyes again before she said, “I’ve heard I’m audacious.
So I have to say…my parents just told me we’ll be in Providence for longer than they thought, but you won’t have to hire me permanently, if that helps.
And I’ll do anything. I’ll clean the tables.
Throw out trash. You could even pay me in free meals”—she wiggled her brows—“possibly with a recipe I promise I’ll forever keep secret. ”
My mother actually laughed. “What about child labor laws?”
“No one has to know,” the girl said, then pointed at me. “And I promise I can bus tables faster than him.”
My mom’s gaze flicked to me, then back to the girl. “I’m sure you could. He hates being out here.”
I glanced away, a fresh spark of annoyance rising in my body.
I did hate bussing tables, but mostly because I felt like I should be doing something else.
I was sixteen and didn’t play football for my high school or go out with my friends to the arcade at Providence Place Mall or spend hours making out with some girl at a park.
I was at Celia’s every day instead. I’d been helping my mother at her restaurant since I was a kid, and she’d never said that thing about child labor laws to me.
But sacrificing my teen years at Celia’s wouldn’t feel like that if I was the one making the kare-kare.
I loved to cook, I was already very good at it, but my mom only let me cook with her when she desperately needed me.
I realized then that maybe the girl and I had something in common.
“How old are you?” my mom asked her.
“Fifteen. No work experience, but I do have papers.”
“When can you start?”
“Today?”
“What’s your name?”
“Olivia Jones.”
“I’m Celia Rodriguez,” my mom said. “The bad table busser over there is my son, Carmello. He’ll get you a shirt and show you around. I have to get back to the kitchen.”
Olivia’s eyes bloomed wide. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry for the insult.”
My mother smiled slightly and said, “I know my son,” then walked away.
Olivia’s cheeks were kissed pink when I stood in front of her with a stack of dishes.
From here, I could see that her eyes were the color of honey in the sunlight.
She’d talked about being mixed-race. We had that in common with about 6 percent of the population in Providence.
But she had an amalgamation of features that I normally didn’t see come together in a person.
Still, they seemed to fit all the same.
“Hi,” she said. “So…I guess I work here now.”
“You do,” I said, handing her the stack of dishes, “and you’re already a better table busser than I am, apparently.”
She smiled, possibly guilt ridden, while holding the porcelain to her chest. And when she silently followed me into the kitchen for the first time, I thought maybe she was a little cute.