Chapter 13 Salsa Verde
Salsa Verde
Jack
“Jack?”
“Come down, it’s open.” I step away from the stove, where ground beef is browning along with peppers, onions, and spices,
and wipe my hands on a dishcloth. Kiara walks down the stairs to the houseboat cabin, most of her covered by a bulging cardboard
box. “What’s that?”
“Ooh, it smells good in here.” Before I can take the box from her, she sets it down, then wraps me in a hug. “It’s stuff I
found at the house. Thought you might want to look at it.”
I eye the box warily. “What kind of stuff?”
“Old restaurant records, I think. Some recipes.” She steps away, peering at the pan on the stove. “What are you making?”
“Tacos.” I poke at the beef with a spatula. “Don’t get too excited, I just wandered around Publix until I found some things
that looked good.”
“I’m sure it’s going to be delicious. Thanks for inviting me over.”
“I do have something to ask you,” I admit.
She roots around in the fridge, pulling out a soda. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I taste the beef. Add another sprinkle of ground cumin and a touch of salt. “About the restaurant.”
When Poppy left earlier, she asked again—well, more like gave me a stern reminder—about the restaurant name.
She worked hard today, scrubbing down the tables and chairs Herman and I dragged outside.
Didn’t complain too much when I handed her a sponge and told her to do the same thing with the windows.
I owe her an answer. She’s been making all sorts of notes on her phone, sketching out plans that can’t go into motion until
she knows what, exactly, she’ll be promoting. I know it’s not helping anything, but the more she’s pushed about it, the less
I want to touch it. The restaurant might be in my name, but it doesn’t feel like mine. It’s still the Sailfish. Still Sal’s.
And yet, part of me wants to do this right. This might be my one shot at running a restaurant of my own. Even if I kept everything
the same, it wouldn’t really be the Sailfish. That version died with Sal.
Maybe Kiara won’t agree. But after everything I’ve fucked up, the least I can do is get her opinion about it.
“What about it?” Kiara asks. She grabs placemats and silverware, setting the small table that folds down from the wall.
“I drove around town earlier.”
Kiara takes a sip of her soda, accepting the change of subject without protest. “Yeah? Was it weird?”
“Fucking weird.” I spoon the taco filling into a bowl, garnishing it with lime and chopped cilantro, then bring it to the
table with the tortillas, the salsa verde I whipped together, and crema. “It looks the same, pretty much.”
Since I’ve been back, I’ve avoided town as much as possible. Most of my memories of this place aren’t exactly fond; I haven’t
seen much point in dragging them up.
But the secondhand bookstore is still there, apparently. So is the hair salon Ki used to go to, and a jewelry store I got
kicked out of because the owner thought I was trying to pocket one of the necklaces. I didn’t see the corner store that made
a decent bacon, egg, and cheese, or the boutique Ki would drag me to some weekends, but the donut shop Sal loved is still
in its old spot. Best café con leche outside of Miami.
I drove by the high school, too, and the park Chester and I used to hang out in, shooting hoops or throwing around a football or, once we knew where to get it, smoking weed.
The surf shop where I’d rent a board sometimes.
Harrison Seafood, the store Chester’s family runs, an outpost of their commercial fishing business.
Salty Joe’s, a bar that’s as much of an establishment in Diamond Bay as the Sailfish used to be.
Kiara makes herself a taco. “Well, it’s no Delray.” She takes a bite, eyes sliding shut. She dances in her chair. “Oh my god.”
“Good?”
She gives me a look. “You already know it’s delicious.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m immune to compliments.” I fix a taco of my own. It felt good to riff without a recipe in mind. Adding spices
until the flavor hit just right. I haven’t done that in a while.
“I feel so honored to finally get to taste James Beard Award winner Jack Hartman’s food.”
I snort. “Fuck off.”
“Have you gotten in touch with Chester yet, by the way?” At my look, she sighs. “Of course you haven’t.”
“I’ve been working nonstop.”
“Dad would want—”
“Why does everything have to be about what Sal would want?” The words tumble out of me before I can think better of it.
Kiara presses her lips together. “I met Poppy earlier.”
That stops me short. Somehow, I hadn’t thought about their paths crossing—stupid, considering how small Diamond Bay can be.
“Really.”
“She’s prettier in person.” She leans back in her chair, soda in hand. “Don’t you think?”
Of course she is, but like hell am I going to say that to Kiara. “Well, she’s single, if you’re interested.”
She just takes a sip of her drink, a grin playing over her features. “Uh-huh. She brought a cat she found at the marina into
the clinic earlier. Decided to adopt him. She’s calling him Alligator.”
Somehow, that strikes me as completely in character for Poppy. “She adopted the stray cat from the dumpster?”
Kiara hits my shoulder lightly. “You saw him and didn’t help?”
“I’ve witnessed him murder lizards with gusto. He seemed fine.”
“He’s just a sweet angel baby!”
“Or a predator who knows how to hunt.”
Kiara rolls her eyes. “Poppy is really nice. We might go riding together sometime. See how easy it is to be friends with someone?”
“She rides horses?”
That also checks out. Her dad probably bought her a pony for her eighth birthday.
She doesn’t take the bait. “I’m serious, Jack. Text Chester.”
“I will. I swear!” I add when she spears me with a look.
She relaxes. “Good.”
“Speaking of Poppy . . .” I polish off the rest of my taco, still stalling. “She wants to know if I’m going to change the
restaurant’s name.”
“Are you?”
I shrug. Now that I’ve brought it up, I’m not entirely sure how to approach this.
“Hmm.” Kiara wipes her hands on her napkin. “Why don’t you look in the box.”
Reluctantly, I slide out of my chair.
She raises her eyebrows. “It’s not going to bite.”
I scowl. “I know.”
“I found it in Dad’s room.” She watches as I sink to my knees and pull off the lid, revealing stacks of legal pads covered
in Sal’s handwriting, a few stained, warped spiral-bound notebooks, and recipes with notes in the margins cut out of newspapers.
I pick up one of them, a cutout from The New York Times.
Scallops with brown butter, capers, and lemon.
Sal’s note in the margin: Let scallops cook one minute longer than indicated.
More lemon. Underneath, I see an old menu for the Sailfish, the navy-blue type faded.
He always kept a lean menu, preferring to change
things with the seasons. Spring 2006, it says in the corner. The first item on it is shrimp ceviche with serrano pepper and orange juice.
I keep pulling out recipes, glancing at them before stacking them neatly beside me. I haven’t started to conceptualize my
menu, but maybe some of these will be useful. “He always had good instincts for flavor.”
Kiara slips onto the floor across from me. She digs through the box, pulling out a bent notebook. “I like this one best, though.”
I groan when I see the tape on the cover. “Ki.”
“Look at it.”
“He kept this? Really?”
She shoves it into my hands. It’s just a crappy spiral notebook, but my name is scrawled across the cover on a piece of masking
tape, the classic way of labeling something in a kitchen. I open it slowly, scanning the pages for what I know will be inside.
Messy notes and even messier drawings. I can make a beautiful dish, but it’s locked in my head until it’s time to put it all
together. At Pastiche, I was jealous of Hazel’s ability to draw the plate Jimmy described so we could use it as a guide.
I wonder if there’s any chance she’d ditch Pastiche for the Sailfish.
“Why wouldn’t he keep it?” Kiara leans over the box, flipping through to a page in the back of the notebook. “Look, this is
my favorite part.”
I stare at the list I made more than a decade ago: Future Restaurant Names. I’m glad my beard covers the proof of my embarrassment. I was still a kid, then. Dreaming for the first time in my life.
I shut the notebook quickly.
Ki doesn’t need to know that Sal wanted me to stick with the Sailfish after graduation. That for all his support, he didn’t
think I could grow beyond Diamond Bay. Or that he thought I was a coward.
“If you were going to change the name, what would you call it?”
It comes to mind immediately. Fable. A name on that original list, one I’ve carried around in my heart for years. One I thought of because of Sal.
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.” She nudges my shoulder.
“It’s not my restaurant.”
“But it’s not the Sailfish anymore, either.”
I swallow past the block in my throat. How the hell can I possibly explain how selfish it feels? How, if the Sailfish is officially
over and done with, it’ll force me to acknowledge that Sal is truly gone, and I didn’t say goodbye?
“Fable,” I admit, finally. “I’d call it Fable.” I touch the notebook lightly. “Remember how your dad would say that cooking is just another form of storytelling?”
“Of course.”
I look into Kiara’s eyes—shining just a little, as if she can’t help it—and feel the familiar weight of guilt on my chest.
A boulder, Sisyphean in nature. No matter what I do, it won’t erase the fact that I left. That I didn’t come back until it
was too late.
“Are you really sure—”
“Yes.” She snags my phone from the table. “Go on. Text her now.”
I take the phone reluctantly. Poppy already texted, as of a few minutes ago.
Poppy: Are we cooking tomorrow?
I can’t help razzing her. She was entirely too pleased with herself when we exchanged numbers, and she put her contact in
my phone as a pink heart and crown. For my contact in her phone, she chose a black heart and a knife.
Me: I thought we agreed no texts.
Poppy: You saying something doesn’t make it an immutable law of the universe
Me: You still don’t understand how kitchens work, do you?
Poppy: Not really, considering I haven’t so much as chopped an onion
Me: That’s what you want? To chop onions?
Poppy: You were the one who insisted on giving me lessons
Poppy: And if we start, I can film some of it to bank content
Poppy: BTW, did you decide on a name yet???
Poppy: Please say yes
Me: I heard you adopted a cat?
It takes a second, but then a selfie comes through. Poppy in a pair of silky jade pajamas, her hair loose over her shoulders,
hugging a cat to her chest. He’s definitely the cat from the alley; I recognize his scarred ear.
It’s not surprising that she has ADHD. I couldn’t help but admire the way she announced it, and what she needed, so matter
of fact, as if daring me to have a problem with it. Unlike me. I still struggle with acknowledging it sometimes, even though
logically, I know it’s nothing to be ashamed of. A difference in how my brain works, not a flaw.
I can’t help staring—just for a moment—at her full, uptilted lips. The spaghetti strap of her top, almost halfway down her
arm. A line of dangerously distracting freckles on her collarbone.
I clear my throat, typing out a reply.
Me: Be careful. That cat is a stone-cold killer.
Poppy: And yet much easier to win over than you
Kiara, peering over my shoulder, laughs. “God, I love her.”
“Don’t get too attached. She hasn’t started cooking yet.”
Me: We’re cooking tomorrow.
Me: And we’re calling it Fable.