Chapter Two
Alma Garcia gazed out at the breathtaking landmarks in the distance.
The Golden Gate, the Bay Bridge, and the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge surrounded her—each unique in their beauty and their horror.
From the suicides on the Golden Gate, to the Bay Bridge collapsing in an earthquake, to the high winds forcing closures on the Richmond–San Rafael, the incredible views were tainted.
But the tourists, homeowners, and businesspeople in Marin knew that having space with one of these engineering marvels in the background was priceless.
And her business looked out on all three.
It was unfathomable to her that she, a poor girl from the Canal, not only operated but also owned the hottest tequila bar in Tiburon, one of the wealthiest communities in Marin County, California.
Most days she felt like she was living in a dream, though she’d arrived here from nothing but hard work.
And today, Alma needed to focus. The city’s top critic was coming into the restaurant. She had to be on her A game.
Especially since respect in the industry was what she lacked.
Despite being a commercial success, the male-dominated liquor industry looked down on her, often dismissing her as just a pretty face.
She hadn’t earned their praise yet since she was relatively new to the tequila world.
But was it too much to ask to not have the critics comment on her looks as they did in almost every review?
There was nothing she could do about that. She wasn’t going to change the way she dressed to prove herself.
As a female tequiladora in the male-dominated industry of alcohol, she was causally reminded that she was the odd woman out.
Not only had she been the only female and the only Mexican sommelier in her courses at the Napa Valley Wine Academy, but she was also now the first female tequila master after an arduous apprenticeship in Mexico.
But she’d embraced what some would see as a disadvantage.
She had sought out other women leaders in the industry.
Women who harvested their own agave.
Women who bottled their own brands.
Women who distilled their own liquor.
Alma’s tequila bar was successful, even if she was constantly being mistaken as just some brand bimbo. Not that she could blame people who assumed she was a promoter—Alma was young, dressed sexy, and was as proud of her body as she was of her mind.
But now that Mezcalifornia was doing so well, she yearned for more.
She was financially sound and professionally successful.
She craved recognition from the leaders in the tequila industry.
But even more, Alma wanted to truly make a difference in the lives of others—others who grew up like her and didn’t have the same opportunities.
With budget cuts, rising housing costs, and the backlash against bilingual education in California, kids who grew up in her community today didn’t have the same opportunities that she had once had. She needed to change that.
She swiped the finest bottle of tequila from her bar and splashed it on her hands.
Alma wore tequila the way most girls wore perfume.
She inhaled the note—nothing like the pure scent of the world’s finest liquor—the sweetness from the vanilla, the spice from the pepper, and the heat from the smoke made her feel like she was on fire.
Her older brother, Carlos, waltzed into her bar like he owned the place, which he most certainly did not, though he might as well have.
He often helped her out when she was short-staffed.
He was a badass in his own right—a former Division I soccer player who now coached a youth club team in his community in San Rafael.
Tall, dark, and handsome. And, like her, forever single.
“Hey sis. What’s up?”
“We’re just about to open. I’m anxious and nervous as hell—that critic from the Chronicle is coming in tonight.” She bit her lip.
She already smelled like tequila, so why not indulge? She downed a quick shot. She rarely drank on the job, but a little taste to take the edge off was always welcome.
“You’ll smash it,” he said, but he glanced behind him, as if his heart wasn’t really in it.
Alma rolled her eyes at her brother. “I should ask you what’s up. What brings you by on a Friday night? Don’t you have some game to attend?” Ever since Carlos had been a little boy, he ate, drank, slept, and breathed soccer. Nothing had changed.
“Nah. Taking the night off.” He paused and pursed his lips. Yup. He was going to ask her a favor. Alma would save him the trouble of working up to it.
“So, what do you want?”
He exhaled. As her only sibling, Carlos was super close with Alma, though they were nothing alike.
“Nothing. Just wondering if you thought more about sponsoring that Cinco de Mayo festival in the Canal?”
She pursed her lips. “Yes, of course I’ve thought about it.
I’ll give money for sure, but I don’t know if I want to participate in the festival.
It seems like pandering. Let’s bring the rich residents of Marin out to the Canal one day a year to get drunk and eat tacos and pretend they care about the Mexicans who live amongst them.
They only ever went there if they wanted to go bowling because it was our last alley left, and now that it’s closed forever, they will never return.
It’s like we only matter to them if we are scrubbing their toilets or mowing their lawns.
I’d rather do more scholarship and outreach work than something like that.
The festival is so cringe. And I can’t stand all of the influencers who show up. ”
Influencers. She hated that whole industry. Making money on social media without really doing anything but promoting themselves and products. Alma was grateful that she had found her true calling.
Now it was Carlos’s turn to roll his eyes.
“You’re a piece of work, you know that? It doesn’t matter why they come; it matters that they come.
And my soccer team will be playing a game at Pickleweed Park.
Maybe one of the coaches from the rich-ass private schools around here will show up and give one of my kids a scholarship.
I normally can’t even get them to look at my boys. ”
Alma pursed her lips. She appreciated Carlos’s passion, she did. Even so, it all felt so performative.
She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer.
Carlos was right. It didn’t matter by what means she could help members of her community; it mattered that she helped them.
Period. And if she had to resort to a day of watching the little boys play soccer while plying the spectators with tequila, she was game.
“Fine. I’m in.” She paused. “Are you actually hanging around here tonight? Or did you just make the trip all the way out here to nag me? You can text, you know?”
“I know. It just seemed impersonal for a big ask.”
“Ah, you’ll make someone very happy one day.”
“We will see about that.” Carlos grinned. “Since I’m here, I’ll hang out and help. What do you need me to do?”
It was nice having a capable, sane sibling she could rely on.
He was a good man—a hard worker and not even remotely a misogynist. She had lucked out in the brother department.
Her father was awesome too—worked sixty hours a week, always brought her mom flowers, and never missed a game or recital.
Men like that didn’t exist anymore. Well, they did, but unfortunately, the only men she knew like that were related to her.
She reached behind the counter and tossed him an apron. “Barback. Ernesto called in sick.”
Carlos tied the apron on and went to work. No questions asked. No complaints about the unglamorous tasks. That was how they were raised. Work, work, work.
But sometimes, Alma missed having fun.
And now it was time for her to get centered.
The Marin County crowd, especially in Tiburon, was high-end and expected the best. With the median home price in this San Francisco Bayfront community around three million, Alma never thought she would actually live here, especially because she grew up tagging alongside Mamá when she would come to clean houses.
Honestly, she had hated this town for years—resentful of its privilege when residents in her nearby community had nothing.
But after she became a sommelier at a restaurant in downtown Tiburon on the water, everything changed.
This place that had twisted her stomach into knots was a welcome refuge from the stresses of her life.
Every morning before her shift, she would walk from her condo on the water to Blackie’s Pasture.
The cool ocean breeze and the view of dogs frolicking brought such joy to her.
After work, instead of hanging with her coworkers at a pretentious restaurant, she would have a drink at the iconic Sam’s Anchor Cafe, which was founded in 1920 and had a saloon that was fully operational during Prohibition.
It was at that iconic place steeped in history, between bites of her Dungeness crab and beet salad and sips of her prickly pear margarita, that Alma began her love affair.
But not with a man. No, she had only made that mistake once.
With something stronger.
More potent.
Something that soothed her soul.
Tequila.
For the Mexican-American sommelier, she had to admit it was a bit cliché, but once she had a taste, she became passionate about mezcal.
And now, here she was, three years later, the owner of the hottest tequila bar in Marin.
She couldn’t be prouder.
And her bar was a couple of places down from Sam’s, where the idea first took hold. Why couldn’t she be more than just a worker in this community? Start her own place?
Now, they shared the views of Angel Island, Alcatraz, and San Francisco.
Her own slice of heaven.
She even owned a condo down the street. An oceanfront condo. Who was she? Sometimes she couldn’t even believe her success.
Even so, she still sometimes felt out of place amongst the exorbitant wealth.
She had that same feeling years ago—when she had dated Jaime Montez, heir to the Taco King empire, in college.
It was a name she didn’t allow herself to think of often. But as she got ready for the evening, preparing to be judged by yet another critic, Alma suddenly couldn’t help but wonder where Jaime was now.