3. Chapter Three
Chapter 3
Risto
“ R isto, look who’s a panelist on Chopped ,” Jose said, staring at the small, ceiling-mounted television I had installed in the restaurant’s kitchen. My executive sous-chef had apparently taken a break from one of his telenovelas to gawk at the Food Network.
“Not interested,” I yelled through my open office door. If I didn’t complete our product order soon, I’d miss the deadline for tomorrow’s delivery.
“It’s Chase. Dude must have a hell of an agent,” Jose called.
Seriously?
I pushed away from my desk and stepped into the bustling kitchen prep for dinner service. Sure enough, Chase Patel’s smug face sat alongside two other chefs.
One of these things is not like the others.
I shook my head. “He spends more time on TV than cooking, and his skills are sketchy to begin with.”
Dot, my restaurant partner and the closest thing I had to a mother, pumped my shoulder as she passed. “That’s probably smart.”
I chuckled at her dig. “Oh, good point.”
When I was home from culinary school one weekend, Chase tagged along and insisted on preparing dinner. Dot rarely shared her kitchen but relented to Chase, who whipped up a batch of ceviche that gave us all food poisoning. She hadn’t eaten it since, despite me adding the dish to our seasonal menu two years ago.
“Turn it off, will you?” I called to Jose, who silenced the TV.
“That should be you,” Dot said.
Of course, she’d think I should be on television. The woman was a dreamer, like my parents before her. While former classmates like Chase pursued fame, my grandparents’ lessons about staying humble guided my path. My restaurant, Boricua, was thriving. Our recent addition had barely dented our reservation wait list, with tables still booked solid two weeks out.
When I’d opened my Puerto Rican eatery six years earlier, I hoped for a more casual experience where last-minute diners could find a table. But we’d grown too popular. I hated the idea of dinner crowds waiting for hours, clutching their cell phones while waiting for a “your table’s ready” text. Or worse, those annoying squares of plastic that vibrated and blinked.
I once ate at a seafood restaurant in Boston with a lobster-shaped buzzer. As if that made waiting outside for an hour in the scorching sun more enjoyable.
Not my style.
I wiped my brow with my forearm before stepping out the side door of the restaurant’s kitchen to get a breath of fresh air in our herb garden. I snapped a few leaves of oregano and rubbed them between my fingers to enjoy the pungent, earthy fragrance. The breeze swayed the trees overhead, casting afternoon shadows on the white house my business called home.
My restaurant.
Even years on, I still pinched myself to confirm it was real. Me, the orphaned brown boy from small-town Pennsylvania, owner of a thriving restaurant. I fed people so well they devoured my food, then returned with friends. The local radio station had approached me, asking about running advertising. But I saw no point, given how busy we already were.
I lowered myself onto the bench, the wooden boards creaking under my weight. I’d have to talk to Dot about getting a sturdier one. When my silent partner planted the small kitchen garden, she’d skimped on the outdoor furniture. This Home Depot special wouldn’t cut it. In the rare moments I had to relax outdoors, I didn’t want to worry about the damn seat cracking under me.
I closed my eyes, letting an herbal bouquet fill my senses. Birds chirped from the oak tree overhead.
This was happiness.
Or would be if Leslie were here. Thoughts of her invaded my every waking moment. The forever love that wasn’t. Whenever I strained to remember why I broke up with her, the memories of her rejection came flooding back. All the times she refused to support my culinary career and dreams of opening Boricua. She looked devastated when I got the bank loan and told her it was happening. She had passions of her own, always chasing news stories. Why was my goal less valid? Ending our relationship was painful, but how could I be with someone who couldn’t believe in me as much as I did her?
The one thing I hadn’t considered was how hard it’d be to cut ties. Her aunt was my business partner and neighbor, which meant pictures and news of Leslie were all around me. Hell, I had to stop watching my favorite news channel because The Kaelen Reed Show promos too often featured Leslie. By contrast, she likely had no trouble forgetting me. Out here in Pennsylvania, I felt like a love-lost clod, pining over someone who so clearly had no interest in me, my life, or…
“No, I will not! I must speak to him!” a man yelled from the kitchen.
“Whoa, buddy. Can’t be back here. Just turn around and—” Jose said.
“Take your hands off me!”
“Sir, sir?” Dot pleaded.
“Risto! Need a hand in here!” Freddie hollered.
What the hell was going on?
I crossed to the door in three long strides, flipping it open with such force it banged on the wall before slamming behind me.
A tiny man in black slacks and a blue-and-white striped shirt stood arguing with Freddie and Dot. He turned my way, tilting his head to scan up my 6’4” frame. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he quickly recovered.
“Ahhh, Chef Zaldo! Please, you must help.” The curious intruder shuffled over to me.
Once my eyes adjusted to the inside lighting, it was my turn to be stunned. Before me stood Silas Greene, the lead restaurant critic for Philadelphia Metro magazine. But why had he stormed my kitchen?
“I’ll handle this. Back to work, everyone,” I said. “Mr. Greene? Why don’t we step outside for a word?”
I gestured the way I’d come, and he followed me out the screen door.
He smoothed his dark hair back, glistening with so much styling product I wouldn’t be shaking hands with him.
“Chef Zaldo, you must excuse the interruption. I’ve been trying to secure a reservation for weeks, and my impatience got the better of me.”
He unfurled a printed page from his pocket. “Everyone is crowing over your food in the Philadelphia Metro chat rooms, and I can’t get a table. This article wasn’t even about you, but it was overrun with diner comments singing your praises. I rarely pull the ‘do you know who I am?’ line. But in this case I will. You must find a seating for me. Please.”
Dot heard what happened from a few of the gals in her women’s group. It was pretty comical that passionate diners were having throwdowns over my mofongo with shrimp.
“I’d be honored to serve you, if you don’t mind dining in my office. I can’t put out my guests and have no available tables tonight.”
“Splendid! Yes, absolutely!” He clapped. “Put me in a corner and you won’t even know I’m here. You’re brave to let me into your kitchen like this.”
“Anyone this desperate for my food is always welcome. I’m proud of my team and our attention to detail. We keep things immaculate and have nothing to hide.”
Greene settled into my office, but like a little mouse, he nosed out the door moments later to watch us in the kitchen. I eyed him but returned to my meal preparations. There were rice and beans to make, chicken to roast, plantains to peel and ready for frying, onions, peppers, and mounds of garlic to prep.
Periodically, I looked up to see him whispering into the voice memo on his phone. I removed a pernil from the oven and sliced him a portion of succulent roast pork. He moved to clap, but before his hands collided, he pocketed them. I smiled as I mounded his plate with a side of rice and beans, sweet fried plantains, and accepted a wooden bowl of shrimp mofongo from Jose.
Silas’ face lit up as he saw me approach, and he darted back into my office.
Armed with a bundle of cutlery wrapped in a green cloth napkin, he dove into his meal.
“Mmm, oh my Lord, this is…” Greene’s eyes reflexively closed while he chewed. “Outstanding. I… um…” He interrupted himself for another forkful. He savored each bite, his body going limp. It was such an intimate experience, I questioned whether to leave him be. But the theater of it all was utterly fascinating. It was precisely the ego boost I needed to evaporate visions of my classmate on the Food Network.
Once Silas swallowed, he glanced my way through heavy lids. “You, my friend, are a talent.”
“Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.”
“The world needs this food.” He gestured to his plate with his fork. “And the world is bigger than Easton, Pennsylvania. I drove two hours to get here.”
“You’re too kind, Mr. Greene—”
“Silas. Call me Silas.”
“I have my hands full here. We’ve just expanded…”
He waved my concerns away. “Pish, posh. You’re thinking too small. A man with your talent is a rare gift. You mustn’t deny your adoring public!”
Silas wasn’t the first person to comment about my location being a problem. I’d resisted the call to bigger markets. Philadelphia. New York. Someone visiting from Puerto Rico once offered to make connections for me in San Juan. But Easton was home. Whenever I visited Leslie in Manhattan as a teen, and later, when we dated, it’d taken me days to recover from the sensory overload. The people, the noise, the concrete. I couldn’t imagine living there. But I’d be lying to myself if I denied the temptation to grow my career. Former classmates appearing on TV made it hard not to wonder about the possibility.
Yet every time I allowed myself to dream, my grandparents’ voices would break through and urge caution. Just as they were doing now.
I blinked away starry visions to focus on dinner service. “Enjoy your meal. There’s some flan with your name on it when you’re ready.”
I turned to leave, but my guest had more to say.
“I’ve seen your type before. The bashful genius. You think Bobby Flay became a global star by being humble? Please. Give it some serious thought.” Silas bent to his plate, so I left him to it and returned to the kitchen.
“Everything okay with Lord Helmet?” Jose joked as he sautéed a pan of vegetables.
“Shhh!” I gestured a slicing motion across my neck. “Don’t offend the man who could tank our restaurant with a pen stroke.”
“Start a fan club is more like it. We heard what he said.” Freddie stopped chopping to hold eye contact.
“What do you want me to do? We just expanded. We’re up to our necks in business already.”
Jose shook his head. “Camarón que se duerme, se lo lleva la corriente.”
A shrimp that sleeps gets carried away by the current.
It was an old Puerto Rican saying, but how did me being a respected restaurant owner in my hometown equate to me getting pushed along? Our staff had solid jobs. Diners praised us in chat rooms. Life looked pretty good right now from where I was sitting.
I returned to the chef’s knife I’d abandoned before my break, taking my frustration out on a fillet of beef. My attention drifted back to my open office door, where gleeful chirps periodically floated over as Silas savored his meal.
Something told me I hadn’t seen the last of my newest culinary fan.