Chapter 1 #2
In the distance, the beachside restaurant appears from behind the palm trees.
A thatched roof has replaced the old wood, and it radiates in the sunlight.
It’s quite a contrast to the rest of the building that’s in need of a serious renovation.
The closer we get to the building, the clearer it becomes that major maintenance is long overdue.
The wood is worn and the paint on the window frames is chipped and flaked.
Years ago, Mia and I waged a water-balloon battle that accidentally shattered the window by the main entrance.
Abuelo replaced the stained glass with a regular windowpane—a mismatch for all the other windows.
A small cobblestone path runs from the main road to the restaurant entrance. The patio isn’t visible from the road, but you can access it by taking the staircase up from the beach.
Mia parks her car on the driveway, close to the staff entrance door that leads to the kitchen.
Do you think they’re open to making some changes? I ask her curiously. Even though my grandparents are generally understanding, they do have a tendency to be stubborn and stuck in their ways. I wonder if they could get behind a new menu, maybe.
Mia displays a concerned frown. They don’t really have much of a choice, she says, turning off the ignition.
We walk up to the staff entrance, entering into the little hallway where the employees grab their aprons and leave their bags.
Everything is exactly as I remember it. There’s a piece of wood that we used to track how tall Mia and I were, still in the same place it’s always been.
I glide my hands along the wood. In 1995, I was exactly three foot four.
Mia, just a few months younger than me, was growing at a similar pace.
That balance shifted when we both hit puberty in 2003.
Summer after summer, I would show up exponentially taller and Mia would have just gained an inch or so.
Her frustration reached its peak once I hit five foot ten and she got stuck at five four.
It didn’t take long for her to start wearing heels.
Which she promptly gave up on once we started working for Abuelo and Abuela.
Her feet were so swollen by the end of the work day that she once busted through the strap of a sandal.
Are you coming? I’m startled by the interruption to my train of thought. Mia nods toward the kitchen. Let’s not keep them in suspense.
Evita! Abuela’s arms squeeze me so tight that I have a little trouble breathing.
She’s the only person who still calls me by my full name.
You’ve gotten so tall! She takes a step back, brimming with joy.
Two years ago, I was just as tall as I am now, but for some reason Abuela believes that time ceased to exist after I celebrated my tenth birthday.
Her face displays more wrinkles than I remember, but her warm, sincere eyes are unchanged.
She’s wearing a floral blouse, her now-grey hair twisted into a bun on top of her head.
The top of Abuelo’s head is bald and tanned with a little crown of wispy silver hair wrapped around the sides.
He follows Abuela’s lead, giving me two loud smooches, one on each cheek.
I’m happy to see you survived Mia’s driving skills, he chuckles.
Hey! Mia shouts, offended, as she casually leans against the counter.
Abuela rolls her eyes. Honestly, it’s a miracle you’ve never been ticketed.
Mia blinks in display of her innocence—probably the same move she’s used on many a concerned police officer—then shrugs and ties on an apron.
The other door to the kitchen swings opens and a beautiful woman walks in, all dark curls and green eyes.
Her full lips are a deep red colour. Despite serving all the required ingredients to claim total knockout status, she still manages to ruin the overall picture with an attitude of utter boredom and indifference.
She nonchalantly leans against the edge of the counter and observes us, tapping her pen against her notepad, then focuses her gaze on Mia.
Weren’t you going to take over behind the bar as soon as you got back? There are new guests waiting. They ordered the homemade lemonade and an iced tea.
I see your work ethic is firing on all cylinders, Beatriz, Mia replies, irritated, before gesturing at me. This is my cousin Eva.
The server nods in acknowledgement. Nice to meet you, she says, making her way to the door. I’m taking a smoke break.
I give Abuelo and Abuela an inquisitive look as soon as the door closes behind her. Abuelo shrugs. It’s hard to find good staff in the busy season.
Mia hums a sound of agreement, ties her hair into a high bun, and walks toward the restaurant area. It takes a moment for the swinging doors to settle in the doorframe.
Would you like a drink? Abuela asks me with a sparkle in her eye. I just made fresh lemonade and Miguelitos.
My mouth waters at the prospect of eating Abuela’s divine Spanish pastries all summer long.
But part of me wonders if I should cut to the chase and download that new weight loss app everyone is talking about while I’m still ahead.
Abuela’s love language is stuffing the recipients of said love with homemade treats.
She gives my shoulder a joyful squeeze and eagerly smacks her hands together.
Go find a comfy spot on the patio. We’ll come join you in a bit.
I thank her and walk in the direction Mia left in.
It’s quite a shock to fully take in the condition the restaurant is in.
While Abuela was busy adding wrinkles to her face and I was busy growing like a weed, the restaurant’s interior has been frozen in time.
The wear and tear to the chairs and wooden tables clearly wasn’t enough of a motivation to replace them.
Or the likelier answer is that the dire financial situation simply didn’t allow for any upgrades.
Open doors lead me out to the patio. The surface is made up of thick wooden boards and the tables and chairs are lined up in straight, organized rows.
The chairs are looking pretty shabby. Their woven plastic seats have gaps in the weave, with plastic thread hanging down in places.
The tables are in dire need of some paint, at the very least. A feeling of sadness settles in my chest. Not much remains of the vibrant, lively patio I remember.
There are exactly three tourists sitting at a table overlooking the sea as the water glistens in the sunlight.
One of the guests has gotten so much sun that he’s, at most, four stages removed from complete cremation, but he obviously hasn’t noticed as much.
In a thick Irish accent, he delivers a passionate review of all the beautiful women sunbathing on the beach.
He takes a big gulp of the lemonade that Mia deposited in front of him and continues to ogle, like he just set foot in a candy store after a months-long hunger strike.
I take a seat at a table overlooking the beach, but that also happens to be in the shade of the restaurant’s straw roof.
I hope that choice will keep my own cremation at bay for at least another sixty years.
A handsome man with tousled black hair is out for a run along the coastline.
His only piece of clothing—a pair of joggers—sits low on his hips and his bare chest wouldn’t look out of place in a gym brochure.
There’s a tattoo on his lower arm, but from this distance, it’s impossible to make out what it is.
A few children are playing in the sand with little shovels and buckets and I spot one kid with a snorkelling mask running into the sea.
This beach used to be dense with families, but now it’s mostly gym bros guzzling protein shakes and women who look like they do squats for a living.
Apparently, aside from towels and swimsuits, selfie sticks have become the essential beach accessory du jour.
There’s never a shortage of in-shape girls posing for pictures with their backs to the incoming waves, at risk of herniating a disc.
I guess that kind of injury is considered a small price to pay for a sun-soaked picture they can post to Instagram during the winter months. Hashtag-take-me-back.
The laminated menus are emblazoned with La Sirenita in curly letters.
I grab one from the menu holder and study the selection.
Churros, Miguelitos, pizzas, bread with heavenly, but fattening, Spanish dips, and a number of tapas options.
I look back to the musclemen on the beach.
No wonder business has been so slow. This menu just isn’t what people are into these days.
Beatriz walks onto the patio, tucking her pack of cigarettes back into her apron.
Mia makes her way over to her and says a few words.
Going off of the look on Beatriz’s face, Mia asked her to go clean some frat house toilets at the end of rush week.
She nods grudgingly. Mia comes my way, rolls her eyes, and sits down at the table with me.
I’ve seriously never met anyone with a worse attitude about work, she says, shaking her head at Beatriz who is now studying her manicure with deep interest. I hum in agreement and look up when Abuela appears on the patio with a huge tray full of treats and drinks that she plops down in the middle of our table.
Abuelo is right behind her. He slides out a chair for her, then sits down with us, too.
He pours everyone some lemonade from a huge pitcher that’s dripping with condensation.
Raising his glass, Abuelo proposes a toast. Cheers! To Eva!
My cheeks go pink as our glasses clink melodiously.
I take a big gulp that tastes exactly the way I remember: sweet, but refreshing with a hint of acidic aftertaste.
Abuela sets a Miguelito down in front of me and watches me with glee as I sink my teeth into the crispy puff pastry before reaching the creamy centre.
It’s delicious. My compliment sets her whole face alight.