29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter 29
Risto
E nergy flowed through me, like the saffron dough I cranked through the pasta roller for the special arroz con pollo dumplings. I would serve them with a garlicky pimento broth. The idea came to me in the middle of the night a few weeks back after seeing a ravioli commercial on TV. Once I balanced the flavors, the dumplings tasted identical to the original dish. It’d be a sensation as part of today’s tasting menu for the investors.
Jose dropped the lid on my simmering broth with an aggressive clank. “I thought you were going to stick to our current menu? Hmm? Why are you making all this deconstructed bullshit that has no soul.”
He paced closer to where I was forming little mounds of filling on my fresh pasta sheet. I had to keep working to ensure it all was perfect. There was no time for tirades. But Jose wasn’t finished.
“You think people are dragging themselves here from Brooklyn to eat this?” He gestured to my work. “No. They’re coming for pasteles like their grandmother made. Succulent pernil without the work. A sip of coquito at the holidays because it brings them joy.”
It was impossible to explain to him how or why the act of creation was vital to my well-being. It defined me as a man and as a chef. Yes, I loved those flavors. They made me sing and inspired me to elevate them still further. A New York City restaurant would be that chance. To take the dishes swirling in my head and give them a home. They felt out of place on the Boricua menu. Jose was right. But what if I crafted an entirely new dining experience? Transformed familiar dishes into something completely new? THAT would show the culinary world I’d arrived. Even better, it would prove that Puerto Rican food was worthy of notice.
New York was THE destination for restaurateurs. This opportunity would catapult my career. At 37, I had the skills, business savvy, and experience to get called up to the big leagues. My normal Boricua menu wouldn’t cut it. Not for Manhattan. And not if I wanted to be taken seriously as a chef on the rise worthy of an agent like Brock.
I flowed a top sheet of pasta across my fillings, then pressed the sheets together with a fluted cutter. “I have a vision for this meal. You need to trust me.”
Jose grabbed my arm to still me. “Why are you doing this? It’s our big shot, and you’re blowing it with distractions. With ravioli and sea urchins. What the fuck?”
“Please. You know we’re serving each dish alongside the reimagining. They WILL eat our food, so stop worrying.” I nudged him with my elbow, smiling as I looked up at Freddie. His head bowed back to his work like he wasn’t just watching me and Jose battle.
“What? You too?”
Freddie sighed. “Why are we doing all this extra work when we have a solid menu people cherish? It’s like you’re ashamed of us and trying to be something you’re not.”
Anger shot me upright from my hunch over the counter. “And what’s that? A chef? A creator able to take the foods we love and innovate them? Anyone can cut up pork in different shapes. These flavors deserve a wider platform. I want to push it and see where they’ll go."
“But why today, mijo? Win them over, then introduce the new dishes slowly.” Jose pleaded with me to listen, but all I heard was my mother’s voice urging me to dream big.
Silas saying more people deserved my food.
Brock declaring I was a man of consequence.
All those people were depending on me to be unforgettable today, and I damn well was going to.
I wiped my damp forehead with my forearm. “Let’s get back to work. They’ll be here soon.”
Afternoon sun splashed across the tables in the dining room, sparkling on the tableware I’d set in the center of the space for the occasion. Instead of coming during a meal service, the investors wanted a leisurely opportunity to dine, then stick around by the bar to watch dinner afterward.
First to arrive were Ruben Santiago and his wife, Anita. A native New Yorker of Puerto Rican descent, Ruben led a restaurant group with holdings in the US and the Caribbean. With copper skin and a neatly trimmed beard, he wore a crisp white shirt and jeans. Anita’s flouncy blue dress with ruffled short sleeves mingled with her long, dark curls. Seeing them together reminded me I was about to have a future with Leslie. One dream come true. Was I due for another?
“Hello! Welcome to Boricua!” I said, extending my hand to each of them. “I’m Chef Evaristo Zaldo, but everyone calls me Risto.”
“Thank you for having us. The others will be along shortly.”
“Is that Brock?” Anita turned toward the hostess stand where my soon-to-be agent was removing his sunglasses.
“It is! You’re lovely as ever, Anita.”
Brock strolled in and embraced Ruben’s wife.
While they hugged, Ruben leaned in to whisper to me. “Be careful with that one. He’s slippery.”
“Brock?” I mouthed, and he nodded before plastering on a smile to greet him.
I wasn’t sure how to take the comment. If all went well, I’d be negotiating with Ruben’s company, and his interests didn’t necessarily align with mine. Could be he was trying to weaken my position. Or, given Brock’s attempt to elbow in on my future franchise revenue, I should heed his warning and keep a sharp eye on them both.
The other two partners arrived, so I signaled to my staff. A server entered to fill the water glasses while my bartender greeted my VIP guests and took drink orders. Once everyone found their seats, I stood beside Ruben at their round table.
Here we go.
“Welcome to Boricua and thank you for making the trip out. I’m a proud Puerto Rican American and have long been fascinated by the flavors of my culture. Today, I’ve prepared a special menu, which pairs some of our most popular dishes with innovative interpretations. My goal is to take you on a culinary journey. Then we can unleash the potential of any business partnership we pursue together. Please ask as many questions as you want. And after we’re done, I’ll return to have dessert.”
I bowed my head and left the dining room, pushing my way through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
“We ready?” I asked.
“Yes, Chef!” the staff cried out at once.
“Fire six app platters.”
“Six app platters, heard,” Jose called out, mobilizing the rest of the staff. We typically had assorted standard appetizers on our menu, plus a few specials. Today, we’d made them all, alongside two new ones. A sea urchin halved and splashed with some wine and shallot foam, and chorizo grilled alongside squid, sprinkled with cedar smoked sea salt.
Once composed, the plates looked magnificent. All my servers were present to simultaneously table each diner’s plate, then exit.
“My!” Anita clasped her hands together. “This looks wonderful!”
Steve Taylor, the oldest and richest of Ruben’s partners, sported white mussed hair and a ruddy complexion. He perked up in his chair and cupped a hand to flow steam toward his face. “I believe we’re in for a treat today.”
I described each dish, sharing where we sourced ingredients and explaining the special techniques we used to bring them to life. They asked questions, examining their plates at eye level before taking bites. Deadrick Jones, the last of Ruben’s partners, was a force in the restaurant world. A smooth-headed Black man with a trim white goatee, he mumbled voice memos into his phone so artfully I couldn’t catch a word. It was likely a skill held over from his days as a food critic at The New York Times .
My nerves buzzed with anticipation as these culinary titans decided my fate. Would they understand my concepts? Enjoy the flavors? Want to invest? I gripped my wrist behind my back, digging the nails in to settle myself. I had to remind myself that even if they passed on the investment opportunity, all wouldn’t be lost. There would be others enthusiastic about my food.
But I had a good feeling about my chances.
Our carefully crafted flavors exploded in their mouths, sending eyebrows arching and eyes rolling in pools of pleasure. Imperceptible nods came next as they savored mouthfuls, wanting them to endure. “Mmm” and “not bad” murmurs of surprise rounded the table. As much as they tried to play it cool, these folks were impressed.
Servers swept away their spotless plates to begin dinner service. Each entrée featured a Boricua favorite paired with a reinterpretation. Authentic flavors shared two ways. It was time to see if my whimsy would fall flat or pay off.
First up was my ravioli, which left my guests staring at their meals in confusion.
Ruben lifted his arroz con pollo ravioli to eye level, inspecting the dish up close while savoring the pimento steam from the pasta side. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
One of my grandma’s favorite dishes arrived next.
Deadrick shook his head, motioning to his plate with his fork. “Chef Zaldo, is this recipe from Ponce?”
Not waiting for my answer, he dove in for another bite, unable to contain his delight. The man’s enthusiasm brought a smile to my face.
“Yes. My family was from Ponce. It’s my twist on a family recipe.”
That Deadrick recognized the distinct spicy/earthy flavors of cocido ponceno elevated him 50 points in my book. It was a traditional dish of stewed pigs’ feet, bathed in a rich sauce of coriander, sofrito, and chorizo sausage, then thickened with potatoes and chickpeas. My twist offered pork belly crusted in chickpea flour surrounded by the strained stew sauce, so smooth it shimmered in the afternoon light like a fiery sunset.
I knew the meal turned in my favor when they abandoned all pretense of hiding their delight. Gone were the stoic notes and voice memos, replaced by lively conversation, clinking flatware, and laughter.
As they devoured their last dessert, I joined them in the dining room, and they greeted me with a standing ovation. Brock blasted a sharp whistle with his pinkies, sending Steve’s hands cupping over his ears. Hearing the commotion, my team stepped through the swinging kitchen door to bask in genuine adulation. Too enthusiastic to stop, I finally hushed them with my arms and motioned for us all to sit. I pulled up a chair tableside to join them.
“That was magnificent. Truly outstanding,” Ruben said. “Gentlemen, and lady, we have a standout here, and it’s incredible that we get to introduce his talents to the world.”
He lifted his wine glass. “To our mutual success.”
I bowed my head as they toasted.
“Now I understand the chatroom furor. You, my friend, are a talent.” Deadrick reached across the table to shake my hand.
“We’ll regroup and begin working on the offer. And don’t worry, it will be generous. Upscale Puerto Rican would be entirely unique in the City. No one has done it yet,” Steve said.
“It will be the most exclusive dining experience this cuisine has ever seen,” Deadrick added.
Ruben furrowed his brow. “There is a lot to discuss. Puerto Rico is a humble place with bold flavors. We could make a killing with a more accessible price point.”
“We can make a bigger killing at a higher one,” Steve said with a laugh.
Ruben seemed to hold his next thought, choosing to swallow a sip of water instead. The power dynamic among these three men was clear. He with the largest bank account won. And from his Forbes ranking, that was Steve.
But I’d worked too hard not to have a voice in my future.
“My thinking was that our New York location would deliver the elevated version of the menu I presented today. I’m excited about the opportunity.”
“Then you made a grave mistake, chef.” Ruben turned to me. “You wowed us with sophisticated food, yes. But you also captured the soul of a nation on the other side. You can’t yank that away. It’s the culinary story of your heritage. Of your chef’s journey. And that story needs telling.”
Ruben drove his finger into the table to emphasize the point.
But Steve was not to be deterred.
“Chef Risto took humble flavors and made magic. That’s a skill people will pay for. Pork belly and sea urchins, hours of crafting and creativity has a price tag. Be honest, Ruben. You got nostalgia for the arroz con pollo, but you wept over that saffron broth. Don’t lie. I was right here watching you.”
Steve wiggled his empty wineglass, and Brock refilled it. While he poured, my would-be agent pulsed the briefest of head shakes.
Brock’s message was clear.
Keep quiet. Don’t blow it.
I caught Ruben’s eye, and he arched an eyebrow. We’ll figure it out, so we’re all happy. Their good-cop/bad-cop routine had my defenses melting. And Ruben knew it. He borrowed an empty wine glass from the next table and placed it in front of me. Brock poured, and the ruby liquid settled into place. Finding equilibrium.
That’s what I had here at my restaurant. A world of my making where I ruled supreme. Taking an investment would upend it all. As I saw it, the situation would likely end in one of two ways: I’d achieve wild success or be left in tattered ruins.
Only time would tell, and these people wanted answers.
Now.
I tipped my nose into the wineglass, its fruity tang electrifying my senses. Swirling the legs, I thought about what it meant to toast with these people. How my world would change. How proud my parents would be if I could make it in New York City. Success at this scale would mean a financially secure future for me and Leslie. Done right, we could be set for life.
I raised my glass. “To us. Que siempre sonemos en grande.”
I’m dreaming big, Mom.