Chapter Nine #2
This dress, at least, is mine. It might not have cost more than my monthly rent, but I know every thread and seam.
I know how it moves when I walk, how it feels against my skin.
It feels safe, even if it doesn’t scream “luxury.” Still, I can’t help but wonder if my family’s trained eyes can tell the difference.
The thought makes my throat tighten. I don’t know if I can keep pulling this off.
I grab some water to keep my throat from closing up. Immediately, a waiter appears and refills it.
“Oh, thanks,” I mumble, startled by his attentiveness.
I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from an event organized by Sofia.
The main course starts to come out of the main hall, where several servers walk down in unison, holding plates.
One of the servers places a dish in front of me.
It’s the duck confit, and it looks divine.
In fact, it looks like something I probably couldn’t afford to eat otherwise.
Maybe because it’s duck, and I wouldn’t even know where to get a duck.
Your local pond? It could be because Valentina does an excellent job at plating dishes to make them look like literal works of art.
It’s nothing compared to the Cuban sandwiches I serve at La Mariposa.
Even our fanciest flan doesn’t compete. I might as well be serving slop in comparison.
“So, mija. How’s business?” Rosita asks in between bites of the duck. The pieces are so soft they practically melt in your mouth.
I try to swallow a bite before speaking. This is my time to shine. Or lie. Mostly lie. Oh God.
“It’s going well.”
I hear Maria snort silently next to me, but I ignore her.
“We’re looking to expand to help grow our customer base and footprint in our small New Jersey area. In fact, I was hoping to talk to Luciano a bit about it.”
“I’m looking forward to hearing your big plans for the new space,” Luciano adds.
I muster a small smile, trying to project confidence. “Actually, you’ll get a little preview tonight. It’s something special, and I think it’ll give you a taste of what La Mariposa is all about.”
Luciano raises his brows, intrigued. “Now I’m even more curious about your restaurant.”
“It’s so great to see you and Mari are finally doing well for yourselves,” Maritza says.
Her words are nice, but the tone has an edge to it. Almost as if she’s trying to remind me how poor we once were. Well, still are.
“Yeah, it’s interesting. La Mariposa, you said it’s called?” Silvana says as she scrolls through her phone.
“That’s correct.”
“Weird, your social media channels are pretty bland. Not a lot of followers.”
“So?” Maria pipes in, offended since she’s the one who manages most of it.
“I’m just surprised that someone about to expand their business has such a small footprint on the internet. Where does your marketing come from?”
“Since when are you a marketing expert?” Valentina barks back, startling Silvana.
“It’s mostly through flyers, ads in the local paper, and word of mouth,” I reply.
“I just find that a bit surprising. You can’t possibly get enough business just from word of mouth.”
I stare at my half-eaten duck, trying to think of what I could say to stop this line of questioning.
“What do you plan to do about—”
“Oh my God, will you shut up?” Maria shouts. “You’re so fucking nosy. It’s none of your business, Silvie. Just eat your fucking duck. Damn.”
For a moment, everyone is quiet. Their eyes shifting back and forth between each other.
Then, almost as if it was rehearsed earlier, they all begin laughing.
Luciano nearly spits out his wine. Abuelita is giggling so hard, her eyes are completely closed from the grin on her face. Rosita has tears falling down her face.
Maritza and Silvana, on the other hand, are unamused. Silvana’s cheeks are flushed, probably from embarrassment. I can’t say I’m unhappy about this.
“Maria, you nailed it right on the head,” Rosita says, laughing even louder. “These two are the nosiest putas in this place.”
Everyone laughs so much harder. Even I can’t help but join in.
I look over at Silvana, who is just glaring at me. Something tells me I just became her new target for the week.
I was never close to Silvana or Maritza, who, like Rosita, is my mother’s sister. She and my mother were so different that they never got along. I barely saw my aunt and cousin, but when I did, I remember thinking what an absolute snob Silvie was. It looks like she still is one, if not worse now.
The first dessert course arrives, and it’s the original one they planned before I came and added another one.
It’s a merlot-poached pear. I don’t even know how to eat it.
Do I pick it up and take a bite? It’s all soggy.
There’s no way. I see everyone using a fork and a knife to slice into the pear.
I’m suddenly incredibly excited about the rice pudding afterward.
“Interesting dessert choice,” I whisper to Valentina.
“Only the best for your highness,” she mutters.
“Do you normally make desserts like this at your gigs?”
Valentina nods. “This is the norm for me. I get a lot of…bougie clients, for lack of a better word. They like to eat fancy dishes to make themselves seem important. To them, a simple plate with a random pear is decadent. A symbol of class.”
“And for you?” I say, glancing up at her eyes. The string lights above us make them sparkle.
She smirks. “I hate pears.”
I can’t help but smile back. The way her eyes crease every time she grins makes me want to melt.
Maybe it’s just the merlot in the pear getting to me or the second glass of chardonnay I had earlier.
I feel a buzzing in my head, hyperaware of her presence next to me.
The way her thigh presses up against mine, even though there’s definitely room.
The sweet scent that wafts in the air whenever she flips her hair back to reveal her long neck.
“What the fuck is this?” Maria whispers, breaking my trance.
“What do you mean? It’s obviously a fancy dessert for fancy people like us,” I joke.
“We need some flan or tres leches up in here. Who do I speak to about this?” Maria laughs as she pokes the pear with her knife.
“Just eat it, you child,” I demand. “We need to play the part.”
If it weren’t for Silvana, I would be in a perfect position to continue talking to Luciano. Now is the time, before the real dessert—Roberto’s arroz con leche—that I should gather some more information about him. I need to know everything I can to impress him with my business plan.
“So, how did you two meet?” I ask, pointing back and forth between Luciano and Sofia.
They look into each other’s eyes in perfect unison and smile like a couple of almost newlyweds, blindly in love.
“Oh, brother,” Valentina mumbles.
“Should I say or do you want to, mi amor?” Luciano coos.
“You can say it. Or I can say it.” Sofia giggles.
“I think you should.”
“No, no, you should!”
“I’ll say it then,” Maria squawks. “It all started in the men’s bathroom at Olive Gard—”
“That’s okay,” Sofia chimes in. “Luciano will start.”
“We met at a holiday party my parents threw in NYC. They invited all their friends and colleagues, including your aunt Rosita. She does all our accounting.”
“And he ignored me the entire night.” Sofia snorts. “I kept trying to get his attention, and he kept looking the other way. Acted like a total prick.”
“How chivalrous,” Valentina murmurs with a faint smile, keeping her tone light. “You spent the rest of the night complaining to me about it, desperate to go home. Remember? I recall you feeling really rejected.”
“Yeah, but right before we left, he finally approached me.” Sofia’s eyes light up as she feeds Luciano a slice of her poached pear.
Luciano smiles, putting an arm around her. “I was just so nervous to talk to such a beautiful woman.”
Valentina’s lips curl into a small smile.
“Well,” Sofia says softly, “it all worked out in the end.”
“I still think my version was better,” Maria mutters, causing a few guests nearby to snicker.
“And your parents, sorry I haven’t been able to meet them yet. Hi! I’m Isabella.” I lean over to see them past a few of the other guests. They lean in and wave back.
“Hi, I’m John, and this is my wife, Sarah,” Luciano’s father replies in a surprisingly deep voice. “Actually, I wanted to thank you all for inviting us to the wedding. We know it was pretty exclusive. We weren’t sure we would make it on the list.”
“Dad…” Luciano rolls his eyes.
A sense of longing circulates in my gut. I miss my dad’s dumb jokes.
“We really are so grateful,” his mother says. Her voice is smooth, like honey. “It’s so nice to meet people from a different culture. We tried our best with Lucie here, but we can only do so much.”
Luciano holds her hand and squeezes it. She smiles back at him.
“He’s adopted,” Maria whispers in my ear.
“No shit, pendeja,” I whisper back.
“I think that’s why he’s most excited about you, Isa,” Sarah says.
“Me?”
I watch the servers come by to take our empty dessert plates away. That means the rice pudding is coming up.
“Yes, absolutely. We invest in many restaurants, but you’ll be his first one, and he’s so excited it’s a Cuban restaurant. It’s like a way to be in a different part of the world he’s been missing.”
“Wow, I’m honored. Thank you.”
Honored, and now there’s a giant indestructible boulder on my shoulders. He’s going to be exceptionally disappointed if he finds out the truth. I should just come clean now. Let everyone know I’m a fraud.
As I consider it, I see the servers come back, now holding trays with small ramekins on top. I can smell the cinnamon as they approach us and start putting one down in front each of us.
There it is. My father’s arroz con leche.
It’s almost as if he made it himself in the kitchen.
I have to actively stop myself from running back into the main hall to see if he’s in there, whipping up more pudding for us to enjoy.
The top layer is dusted with cinnamon. There’s a lone cinnamon stick leaning against the ramekin, as if it’s relaxing in a warm, gooey hot tub.
I take the smallest spoon and scoop some of the rice, my excitement growing.
Slowly, I bite, allowing the flavors to coexist in my mouth simultaneously, feeling the rice’s softness and the pudding’s creaminess. It’s perfect.
“What is this amazing concoction?” John says in utter awe as he takes another bite.
“It’s delicious,” Luciano chimes in.
“Arroz con leche,” I say proudly.
“Valentina, did you make this?” Rosita replies, her eyes wide.
“Isa and I did, but it’s not my recipe.”
“It tastes like Roberto’s, doesn’t it, Rosita?” Maritza squeals.
“It really does,” she agrees. “Abuelita, did you try it? Here, take a bite.”
Rosita cautiously feeds Abuelita a little spoonful of the pudding.
“Ah, si. My Roberto made this. I remember this,” she says gleefully, opening her mouth for another bite.
“It’s his recipe,” I finally admit.
They all stop and look at me like a deer caught in headlights.
“No mientes!” Rosita says.
“I’m not lying! It’s really his recipe. Valentina and I made it together tonight to surprise you all. It’s my way of saying thank you for having me here.”
Rosita starts clapping with excitement.
“Wow, you nailed it, Isabellita. This is my favorite dessert!”
Valentina and I both look at each other quickly as if we had the exact same thought.
“Oh, shut it, Rosita. This was my favorite first,” Maritza replies. “You discovered it after me.”
We look at each other again. If only eyes could speak, they’d say, “what the fuck is going on right now?”
“No, it’s my favorite.” Sofia laughs. “He made it for me all the time when I would visit.”
I can’t believe this is happening right now. I also don’t know why I’m surprised. Why wouldn’t this recipe be everyone’s favorite? I remember how much everyone loved it. Except for my mother, I guess.
“No, es mía,” says small, shaky voice in the background.
We all turn to look at Abuelita, giggling to herself, holding the empty ramekin. We all laugh in unison.
“I guess it’s Abuelita’s favorite,” Rosita says.
“It’s my favorite now too!” Luciano states. “If this is how the food is at La Mariposa, I’m already impressed, Isa. I can’t wait for more.”
I can’t help but smile. I’ve already impressed Luciano.
I turn to Valentina. “I don’t know why you hate him,” I whisper to her. “He seems great.”
“It’s not about him,” she mumbles, but I ignore her, still riding the high of the possibility of saving La Mariposa.
That was easy enough. I can’t say I’m surprised—my father’s food is the best. But there’s something else lingering for me now. We have four potential suspects: Rosita, Maritza, Abuelita, and Sofia, who all said the dessert was their favorite. It could be any of them.
I glance at the list of names, the possibilities swirling in my mind.
I’m not even sure where this path is taking me, but I need to figure out who it was meant for and why my father thought this recipe mattered enough to hide it.
Maybe this will lead me to something bigger—something that could finally help me make sense of all the pieces he left behind.
Or what happened the night of the quinceanera that forced me away from my extended family.
Maybe even something that could help me save the restaurant.