17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter 17
Risto
F our nights after "the kiss," I was once again neck deep in disappointment. Conversations with two more restaurant groups left me sitting at my desk at Boricua, deeply unsettled.
The first investors had no footprint in Manhattan, and I had no intention of being their guinea pig. There was too much at stake, and I’d have one chance to get this right.
The second investment group was top-shelf in the culinary industry. They’d successfully launched twelve properties, five of which expanded to multiple cities. My hopes were sky-high until I met the clueless scouting team. They toured Boricua, making snide comments about the decor and how the restaurant wasn’t likely a good fit before they’d even tasted my food. Once they began eating, their condescending attitude and banal scoring sheets left me fuming.
They checked boxes and whispered, commenting like I wasn’t there.
This simple fare won’t do.
New Yorkers are too discerning.
He’s a big guy. Will diners relate to food prepared by someone like him?
I interrupted at this point.
Someone like him?
What did my size have to do with my cooking? Most diners would never see me. It made no sense.
Their comments about the menu were equally worthless.
I’m not sure Puerto Rican food is the right fit for us. It’s so basic, but that’s to be expected given the limited ingredients they have to work with.
Such a poor country.
They bristled when I reminded them Puerto Rico was part of the US and got Goya shipments from New Jersey, like the rest of us. They blinked at me as if I were insane.
Would all the investors be this ignorant?
I regretted planning a tasting menu with the third group. The expansion would be toast if I had to partner with people like them. Sure, it included Ruben Santiago, a Puerto Rican restaurateur. If not for that, I might have canceled. At least he wouldn’t look at me crosswise and ask me why so many dishes had bananas.
I was nanoseconds from yelling, They’re called plantains, you idiots. Do you know nothing about Puerto Rican cuisine?
Lucky for us all, Freddie was nearby. He saw my reddening face and dragged me to the kitchen for a question. That turned out to be, “How quickly can we get these morons out of our restaurant?” We cut down the menu and sent them packing. We had a special early dinner for ourselves and used the rest of the ingredients as daily specials.
Those investors didn’t deserve me.
The concept of who did and didn’t deserve me led me straight back to Leslie. My feelings for her had never wavered. The moment she’d hugged me and I’d landed face-deep in her curls and intoxicating scent, I’d almost let myself slip. Days later, I’d barely seen her during her shifts and now wish I jumped at the chance when I had it.
Leslie had an appointment this afternoon, so I gave her the night off. Instead of being relieved, not having her at the restaurant tonight left me listless.
Dot kept her busy during the day, but my business partner went to bed early. When I drove home each night, her living room light glowed bright, the blue glow of Leslie’s laptop lighting up her face. Not that I was spying. On her list of priorities, I didn’t register, though I’d hoped things might change for us.
I passed through the kitchen where dinner service wound down and cleaning had begun. No one paid me any mind as I strolled out the door to the garden, the sounds of evening enveloping me.
Frogs croaking
Crickets chirping.
Breeze rustling the walnut tree leaves overhead.
I shared countless stolen moments with Leslie outdoors in the summer. Evenings like this that ended with us tangled in each other’s arms.
Through the restaurant window, patrons chatted merrily, their faces lit by flickering candlelight.
A woman with dark, curly hair leaned forward to feed her dinner mate, who nodded appreciatively before puckering for a kiss.
I wiped my face in frustration.
Love was everywhere.
But not for me.
Why did she have to come back? I’d finally patched my broken heart, a sloppy job to be sure with duct tape and gum. But good enough to function. Now I’d devolved into a tormented mess, pining for a woman who didn’t want me.
“Risto!” Jose called from the kitchen.
I sighed, heading inside, but not before glancing once more at the woman with dark hair.