22. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter 22
Risto
I ladled the carne guisada onto a mound of rice, topping the stew with a crispy piece of grouper, lightly breaded and fried in garlic oil. I slid the plate across the kitchen island, enjoying a late-night cook with my potential new agent. After dodging Brock’s calls for a week, he badgered me until I agreed to cook for him.
“Fish? Doesn’t carne mean meat?” He picked up his fork with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m surprised you know. This is typically a beef stew, but I removed the meat after the stew cooked, so you get the beefy flavor with a lighter protein. It’s crispy and flakey, with a light crunch, but bathed in the sauce. The combination is unexpected.”
Brock took a bite, his eyelids drooping. “Oh, yes.”
My chest swelled beneath my crossed arms. “Even without the beef, it’s got that homey goodness you want in carne guisada.”
“What happens to the beef? Sounds a little wasteful, and the investors will count every penny once they sign on.”
I was ready for this question. “I always serve ropa vieja on the same night. After shredding and bathing in the wine sauce, the beef adds another dimension to that dish that diners can’t quite place. They say my ropa vieja is their favorite, and the cross-recipe pollination is probably why.”
His grin looked slightly menacing, just like the rest of him. When my potential new agent first arrived at Boricua, I was shocked to find he towered over my 6’4” frame. That rarely happens. But unlike me, Brock was a lean guy reminiscent of the beanpoles in my abuela’s garden. My grandmother had insisted on growing, drying, and soaking her own beans. Said they tasted far better—and she was right. Once you ate them side by side, it was impossible to go back to the bland pallor of bagged beans. I locally sourced mine, given the volume we used at the restaurant. But all those little touches, like with the ropa vieja, made diners’ palates explode with pleasure the moment my food hit their mouths.
Brock took a few more bites, then pushed his mostly full plate away. “I hope that’s the last dish. I can’t remember when I’ve been this stuffed.”
While he’d sampled four appetizers, two soups, and six entrées, my stomach churned with anticipation. And hunger. I had a small snack when the crew left at 10:00 p.m., and the aromatic fragrance of onions, garlic, cilantro, and oregano finally registered. That’s how it was for me when I cooked. My complete focus was on food someone else would enjoy. Many days, I forgot to eat until Jose or Freddie shoved a bowl in my hands. Who would do that if I moved to New York? Friendships like ours would be hard to replace. A pang of doubt crept across my psyche.
“Your food is amazing and totally earns all the raves in the online chat rooms. Puerto Rican cuisine is humble, made of simple ingredients, but I wonder if it’s too basic.”
That got my attention.
“There’s nothing about my food that’s basic. It takes time, care, special sourcing of fine ingredients, and a shit-ton of creativity to put those flavors together. No other chef in the world makes these dishes in this way. Not. One.”
While speaking, I leaned onto the counter in an aggressive display that usually made my opponents wither. But not Brock. He refolded his napkin and placed it on the butcher block island where we sat.
“That’ll do. Remember that answer when this question comes up at dinner.”
I bolted upright. “Wait?! That was a test?”
“You’re green, Chef. Not in the kitchen, in the boardroom. The investors are money people. Sure, they like food, but they open their wallets for the right combination of food, passion, and personality. They covet chefs bold enough to think what they cook has never been tasted before in the history of planet earth. THAT generates reservations. THAT makes foodies fear they’re going to miss out on the next big thing. And oh, foodies want their bragging rights. They crave early access so they can boast about having eaten a chef’s food BEFORE they made headlines. Never forget, we’re not just selling food. We’re selling you.”
My blood drained, leaving me lightheaded and grateful to be leaning on the counter for support. Until Brock mentioned it, I forgot the chat room posts didn’t simply talk about the food. They talked about me by name. In my heart, Boricua was an embodiment of me. It held my dreams and all the staff who’d become family. It was how I built my reputation as a solid community member. It provided a pathway to financial freedom. My restaurant was everything to me. But I was fast learning I was getting noticed too. And because of that, a seasoned agent like Brock was sitting in my rural Pennsylvania restaurant instead of off with one of his famous clients.
He had faith that the next star would be me.
“So I take it you’re impressed enough to represent me?” I asked.
Brock slipped a folder out of the black canvas backpack at his feet, sliding it across the butcher block to me.
The first page had “Contract of Representation” printed up top. I flipped the pages with my thumb. Despite being bleary-eyed, I was sufficiently savvy not to sign on the spot.
“I’ll have my lawyer review it and ping you with any questions.” I closed the folder.
“You do that. But I’ll still be here when the investors come. To advise. To support. You want them to see me here, so they know they’re dealing with someone of consequence.”
“This all started before you called, so you don’t get a cut of my restaurant deal,” I said as Brock stood to gather his things.
“That’s true. But not to worry. I’ll sink my hooks into you just the same.” He winked and headed out the side door into the humid evening.
Boxes crowded every surface in the kitchen as our Tuesday food deliveries arrived. This week they included a few extra seafood items I ordered to experiment with for recipes for the tasting menu. Despite being said as a test, Brock’s comment about my food being “basic” kept me up the last four nights. It led me to completely reconceive the meal I planned for the investors into one that would have New York diners buzzing with delight.
Modern.
Complex.
My food would have their eyes and taste buds whirling in delicious confusion.
The investor dinner couldn’t arrive fast enough.
A feisty lobster arched in my gloved hand, its blue and brown mottled legs crawling in protest when my attorney walked in. I returned the critter to its crate of mates and wiped the lingering dampness off my chef’s jacket.
“Hola, Maria.” I kissed both her cheeks, being careful to keep my briny mitt away from her tailored gray suit and tightly bunned hair.
“In your office?” she asked, not waiting for me.
“Sure,” I replied as she strode off.
Freddie sidled over. “What’s she doing here?”
“I need her to review a contract. Brock offered to represent me.”
“The agent?” Jose yelled from the refrigerator, his arms full of cellophane-wrapped packages of pork chops.
“Yeah. Sounds like he wants to make me famous. Book me on Food Network panels and food festivals. Could be good for the restaurant. Especially if we expand to New York.”
The two exchanged glances, shrugging and saying nothing. No lit-up faces. No “attaboys” or back slaps at this tremendous news. Something smelled fishy, and it wasn’t the lobster.
“Out with it,” I said.
Freddie flipped his chin at Jose to start.
“Why always me?”
Freddie shrugged.
“Fine.” Jose turned to face me. “Ever since that food critic showed up, you’ve been chasing your tail, talking about investors and expansion. Bra, we just expanded here. I’ve never heard about you wanting any of this. And suddenly Maria is looking at contracts and blancos are cruising in from New York to whisper in your ear? You’ve never once asked what we think or mentioned how this will impact what we have here. What happens to us?”
Damn it. They were absolutely right. Every spare moment, I’d sneak over into a corner to work on recipes. Food service swirled around me while I tinkered and made notes, never stopping to tell them why—or as Jose said—ask for their opinions or blessing. I hadn’t signed one deal and was already taking them for granted.
Was this who I’d become if I got famous? A douchey egomaniac?
My arms dangled at my sides in defeat. “You’re right. And I’m so sorry. Come here.”
They finished their immediate tasks and gathered next to me by the island. It reminded me of talks with my grandparents around our kitchen table. When they told me harsh truths I’d rather not hear.
Mom and Dad aren’t coming back.
We can’t afford to send you to culinary school.
Grandma has cancer, but she’ll be okay.
We’ve left everything to you in our will.
Freddie, Jose, and I had been through a lot. I owed them a solid explanation for where my head was at and where I saw the restaurant’s future headed. Without them, none of it would be possible.
Their hurt brown eyes awaited answers.
“When Silas showed up, he mentioned I was thinking too small about my career. It got me to wondering whether I was.”
Jose stiffened in offense, so I squeezed his shoulder. “Not that what we have here isn’t amazing, but that it’s so special that we should bring our vision of Puerto Rican food to more people. Celebrate the cuisine and take pride in the flavors that give us such joy. Food traditions have held us close as a community since coming to the United States. When I named this place Boricua, it was because I was proud to be Puerto Rican and wanted the world to know. Now I’m obsessed about the opportunity to gain a broader platform to serve our food. Forgive me for not discussing it sooner, but I think it can be good for all of us.”
“Go on,” Freddie said.
“If we open a New York location, everyone here gets a promotion. Jose, you’d become executive chef. Freddie, you’d become chef de cuisine, and so on.”
Jose scratched his head, a smile erupting before he tamped it down. But it beamed through anyway. “Executive chef, huh?”
“Yeah, and while you two are running things here, I’d work on opening the new place in New York. I’m thinking of overhauling the menu, which means Boricua stays unique. If you want these dishes, you have to come here. It gives each of us a chance to stretch our skills and grow. Then who knows? Maybe there’s a Boricua empire in our future with more locations!”
My enthusiasm for the idea was impossible to hide, so I stopped trying.
“Suena en grande.” I quoted my mom, the rightness of it all falling into place.
Jose nodded. He’d heard me say it often enough as I tried to get Boricua off the ground. He, more than anyone, even my late grandparents, knew how driven I was to make my parents proud. To live the dream they were robbed of achieving for themselves.
“Okay, I’m in.” Freddie extended his hand to shake, his firm grip pressing his approval into mine.
I turned to Jose. “It’s a lot for you. But I know you can do it. Give it some thought?”
“No worries. I’m good. Who knows? I might even toss a few of my grandma’s dishes on the menu to test them out.” Jose stuck his arm out to shake, but I knocked it aside for a hug, which I wrapped around Freddie too. We huddled, knocking heads like we did when we played soccer in our restaurant league.
I sniffed tears back, breaking our circle. “Okay, I better go talk to Maria. She looked pissed.”
I entered my office to find Maria sitting behind my desk, marking up what I knew to be Brock’s contract.
“Have you read this?” she asked, leveling me with her stare.
“No, you have the only copy.”
She reclined, lacing her fingers in her lap. “According to this, you may need to drop everything to pounce on media opportunities. It’s going to stretch you thin. We can work some language in about remote versus in-person options and put some scope to the requests that require travel. You’re not hopping on a plane to speak at a library in the middle of nowhere.”
“I think Brock is aiming bigger.” I took a seat opposite her at my desk.
“Yeah, well, the contract has to specify that. And we need to insert a more favorable ‘out’ clause, plus adjust the fee structure. Looks like he’s making a grab for a percentage of restaurant expansion beyond Manhattan.”
What a shady move! We talked about him not getting New York revenue, but it didn’t stop him from clawing into me thereafter. From what I could tell, Brock was the best agent going. But I’d have to keep a tight watch on him. I could easily picture him agreeing to deals before asking me. While a big guy, I had softy plastered across my forehead. He’d called me “green” himself.
“There’s also a physical appearance clause. He wants you to maintain a certain BMI, and you are way over what he’s suggesting. If you sign this, you’d need to lose weight.”
A weight clause?
“Let me see.” I reached for the contract, and Maria pointed to the section she’d circled in red ink. Sure enough, I would be expected to drop down to what BMI charts called “overweight.” Currently, I was considered obese, though the stupid charts had no accommodation for muscle mass, bone structure, or genetics.
My grandmother detested dieting, saying it was all gringo bunk. That our people—even the big ones—lived to a ripe old age, and forbade me to diet. I had tried a few times in high school. The teasing got to me, and my trim friends already had girlfriends. It certainly seemed like you had to be thin to make it in life. But when abuela found out, she grounded me. I missed a road soccer game, and everyone blamed me for the loss.
I never dieted again.
“Give me your pen,” I said. She handed it over, and I crossed the section out. “No fucking way. That has to come out. What else did you find?”
Maria showed me the sections in question, and I gave her Brock’s contact information to sort it out. By then I had more important things to think about. In two days, the investors would arrive for a meal.
It had to be the best one of my life.