Читать книгу Sofrito - Phillippe Diederich - Страница 5

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“Sofrito is the mother sauce of our food. All Cuban cooking must begin with a good sofrito. It is the heart of the recipe Everything else grows from there.”

—Nitza Villapol

during an interview after the publication of her book Cocina Al Minuto, 1956

Frank Delgado was sitting alone in the back of Maduros, contemplating the presence of his father’s ghost. The old man was all over the fancy white dining room—its white floor, its white walls, its white tables. Frank imagined his father’s imposing figure sitting at the bar, sipping on a rum and Coke, watching him—passing judgment on him.

Frank was despondent and a little confused. It had been four months since his fiancé walked out on him. After Julie left, his heart didn’t break. He hadn’t suffered remorse or even sadness. He didn’t feel a goddamn thing. It was just the same uncomfortable angst he’d been carrying around like a cross for most of his life.

He pushed away the papers in front of him—stacks of unpaid bills, collection notices, and a ledger that showed how deep in the red the restaurant had fallen. He leaned back on his chair, front legs off the ground, back against the wall, and stared at New York City out of the restaurant’s tall windows that faced 1st Avenue. He loosened his tie and sighed. For the first time in his life, he was putting on weight. It wasn’t what he had expected, not at thirty-three. He had never been athletic, but he was tall and had always been on the skinny side. Now he was getting soft. His dark, moody eyes were losing their glint and taking on a permanent gloom. He ran his hand over his hair and took a deep breath when a long scream pierced the dining room.

The few customers in the restaurant stared at him. If it had been only that, he could’ve lied and said it was nothing, that the chef was simply a cantankerous old Cuban with a short temper. But then came the crash of breaking glass and Justo bellowing at the top of his lungs, cursing the mother of the goat who gave him birth.

Later, Frank would joke that Justo had spilled his blood as part of a Santería ritual that promised to bring life back to the restaurant. But the accident—because that’s exactly what it was—was only another blunder in a series of mistakes that had taken them to the brink of ruin.

The kitchen was thick with smoke. The stench of burnt sofrito—olive oil, onion, garlic, peppers and cilantro—had charred into a bitter ash that stung the eyes and throat. The waiters and the cooks yelled and threw food and banged on pots and pans like a conga back in Cuba. Justo danced in circles, his hands pressed against the center of his chest, kicking and cursing every saint in the book. There was blood on the counter and all over his white chef’s coat. A sharp butcher knife and a large blood-spattered leg of roast pork lay on the floor.

Frank’s older brother Pepe wobbled his heavy frame past the prep area and took long swipes at the grill with his suit jacket. With every slap, the flames swelled.

Frank reached past him and turned the knobs on the grill. The fire died.

“He cut his hand!” Pepe cried. He was frantic, moving in quick jerks, the fat hanging from his jowls jiggling like thick slices of membrillo. “It’s bad. Really bad.”

Frank stared at him, at the panic in his tired eyes, tiny beads of sweat forming over his brow all the way to the top of his balding head. Maybe that was it. They had reached the end. He shook his head, the copper-like taste of defeat lingering on his tongue like the poison the restaurant had become.

They fell quiet. He imagined their father—Filomeno—waving a thick finger at them, angry at their failure. Filomeno had refused to be a part of anything of theirs except this restaurant. It had been the only time he’d ever stretched his arms out and hugged them like a real family. Even Justo. And Filomeno was the one who named it after the sweet fried plantains he loved so much: Maduros.

The mayhem slowly settled. The kitchen staff took over. The dishwasher began mopping up the mess. The waiters shuffled back to the dining room. Frank and Pepe joined Justo behind the prep counter. He’d wrapped his hand in a towel and was sitting on a plastic milk crate, his lanky frame hunched over, his dark skin glistening with sweat, a half-smoked Winston between his thick lips.

Frank shoved his hands in his pant pockets and avoided their eyes. “So what now?”

Five years ago it had been perfect. When Maduros first opened, they were the restaurant on the Upper East Side. There were celebrities, write-ups and feature articles about the Cuban brothers who struck gold with their magic blend of Cuban fusion and European chic. But that was a lifetime ago.

“I’ll take him to Lenox-Hill,” Pepe said. “He’ll probably need stitches—”

“I’m talking about the restaurant.”

“This is not the time.”

“Coño, it’s never the time.” Frank cursed and gestured with a wave of his arm at the catastrophe of the kitchen. “Damn it. We’re bleeding money, Pepe. Every day I’m the one who has to face our suppliers and creditors and invent excuses and beg for more time. We’re sinking. And we’re sinking fast.”

“You know…” Justo stood and adjusted the towel. “…we could always pay my friend Ramón Juárez a little visit over in East Harlem. He can make a…tú sabes, un trabajito. An offer to Yemayá never hurt anyone. We can drop some flowers and fruits into the East River and…”

“What’s the matter with you?” Frank cried, but it came out soft, like everthing he did. Like when he said goodbye to Julie for the last time. His tone was always laced with acquiescence. Maduros had been hanging by a thread of debt and favors for months. They had pumped everything they had into it. They had nothing left.

But what made him angry was that he was willing to accept it.

The following afternoon Frank stood at the espresso machine. It hissed a cloud of steam that reeked of bitter coffee, filling him with memories of his childhood in Houston. He could still hear his father singing in the shower, stretching his baritone to sound like Beny Moré singing Preferí perderte or Corazón rebelde while his mother Rosa, in pink and blue plastic curlers, paced around the kitchen, the clap-clap of her plastic sandals slapping against the bottom of her feet as she made tostadas and café con leche.

Justo came out from the kitchen and joined him and Pepe at the bar. “I brought some new recipes.”

Frank served him a café. “How’s the finger?”

Justo held up his hand. It was wrapped in a clean white bandage. “Only four stitches.” His small deepset eyes had a shine, a happiness that never faded. It was as if the trouble with the restaurant didn’t exist.

Pepe took the folder from Justo and leafed through the recipes. “I was thinking we could run a promo,” he said. “Like a two-for-one. Like the Indian restaurants on East 6th Street.”

“Coño, Pepe. Get real.”

“And what’s this?” Pepe held up a sheet of paper. “A love letter?”

Justo smiled and took it from him. “It’s from my brother.”

The fight was quickly seeping out of Frank. Or maybe he’d never had it. He wanted to say it, tell them they had to declare bankruptcy. There was no other option. Accept the loss and move on. Do something else with their lives. But at that moment his mother walked into the restaurant.

Frank met her at the front and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “How was church, Mami?”

Rosa wore a long black dress like she did every day since her husband had passed five years ago. “Fine,” she said, and maneuvered her heavy frame between the tables, her soft gray hair covered with a black lace mantilla. “Jesus sends his regards. He says you should come visit him more often.”

They took a table at the back. Frank went to the bar and mixed a batch of mango mojitos. He thought of the last five years of his life adding up to nothing. Not long ago he’d had so much ambition, hope. And now here he was—alone on the fast track to broke. He wanted to get away from the trouble of the restaurant and the ghost that seemd to squeeze his will. But he and Pepe had made a promise to their father. They had to take care of Rosa. No matter how he looked at it—restaurant or no restaurant—he was trapped. All he could do was tap the counter with the back of the thin mixing spoon and add an extra jigger of Bacardí to his drink.

When he came back to the table, Rosa was inspecting Justo’s bandage.

“Of course it hurt.” Justo used his good finger to draw the length of the cut along the knuckle of his index finger. “Look, from here to here.”

“Well, what in the name of the virgin were you cutting, chico?”

“A leg of pork. The knife caught the bone and I lost my grip.”

Rosa covered her mouth. “I do not see why you need such big knives. All my life I have been cooking, and I never had a need for such fancy cutlery.”

“Come on.” Frank raised his glass. “Let’s have a toast.”

“Yes, certainly. To Maduros!” Rosa took a short sip of her mojito. She let out a long sigh, and her eyes wandered around the dining room. “And tell me, how is business?”

“You know…” Pepe glanced at his brother.

“No. I don’t know,” Rosa said.

“A bit slow,” Frank said. “But that’s normal for this time of year.”

“And what time of year is that?” Rosa turned her palms up. “Where is everybody?”

“It’s Sunday afternoon, Mami.”

“Por favor, Cubans eat all day on Sunday.”

When no one said anything, Rosa touched her glass and turned to Justo. “And what is new with you? How is Amarylis?”

“Fine. We went to see a fertility doctor.”

“Ay no, be careful, chico. They will take all your money and do nothing for you.”

“Mami—” Frank said.

“But it’s true. Leonor’s daughter Chiquita paid a doctor in Queens ten thousand dollars and she is still not pregnant. Pobrecita.”

“Yes, but—”

“I do not believe in any of that,” she said flatly.

“And neither did I,” Justo said. “But Amarylis is not getting any younger.”

“But there are other ways, chico.”

“No.” Pepe laughed and winked at his brother. “There’s only one way to make a baby.”

“And I also got a letter from my brother,” Justo added. “He says they’re all doing fine.”

“No, mi amor.” Rosa waved violently. “Not in Cuba. Nobody can be fine living under the rule of that butcher.”

Frank rolled his eyes. He knew her speech by heart. But Justo interrupted her before she got started. “And there’s good news. My sister is expecting.”

“She got married?”

“Yes, and expecting twins.”

“Twins? ¿De verdad?”

“That’s what Eusebio said. He also said he got a job at El Ajillo, a restaurant of—”

“¡El Ajillo!” Rosa cried. “No me digas. They reopened El Ajillo?”

“Yes, he’s a waiter there. He says he makes very good tips. And in dollars.”

“I am sure he does.” Rosa sighed. “You know that used to be Filomeno’s uncle Nestor’s restaurant. It was very popular back in my day. They made the most delicious chicken in the world. Ay, tan sabroso. It was famous. Te juro, I have never had anything like it.”

“Really?” Frank leaned back on his chair. “You never mentioned it before.”

“There is a lot I have not mentioned. Your father did not like it when we spoke of Cuba. It was too painful for his weak heart.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Pepe smacked Frank on the arm. “The restaurant business is in our blood.”

“Nestor Quesada. He was quite eccentric, that one. He never told anyone where the recipe came from. There were all kinds of rumors about it. Your father suspected he stole it from an old gypsy.”

“Did you know him well?” Frank asked.

“Claro.” Rosa waved. “He used to be a machinist at my grandfather’s ingenio in Oriente. He was not a cook. We were all surprised when he opened the restaurant.”

“And when they saw it succeed, no?” Justo asked.

“Imagínate,” Rosa said. “People thought all kinds of things. Some believed the recipe was cursed.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Ay, the misfortunes that befell that poor man. His four year-old son passed away from a terrible bout of pneumonia. His wife was so grief-stricken, she committed suicide three weeks later. She tied a rock to her waist and jumped into the Almendares River. Can you imagine? Nestor became a recluse. He was quite wealthy, but he rarely left the restaurant. They said he slept in the kitchen because he was afraid someone would steal his recipe.”

“So it was cursed?” Justo asked.

“I don’t know about that. But just before Filomeno and I left Cuba, we heard they found the body of the head cook floating in the Bahía de La Habana.”

“The curse,” Justo said.

“No chico, those are just superstitions.” Rosa looked away. “Sometimes I think that chicken is what I miss the most from Cuba. I would give anything in the world to try it again.”

“What was it like?” Justo asked. “Maybe I can come up with something like it.”

“Ay, no.” Rosa laughed. She waved her index finger and her expression turned serious. “Only Nestor knew the recipe. God only knows what Fidel had to do to get the recipe from him.”

“Maybe he paid him a nice—”

“Qué va.” Rosa dismissed the idea. “Fidel only knows how to steal. If the State reopened the restaurant…Ay no, poor Nestor.”

“But what did it taste like?” Frank asked.

“It was very different. Let me see. It—” she touched her eye with the tip of her napkin. “Dios mío, it is difficult to describe. It was delicious, of course, but it was more than that. It tasted earthy…a little bitter. And sweet…like when there is a storm and the sea is raging against the Malecón. Óyeme,” she said suddenly and waved her finger. “That chicken tasted just like Cuba.”

Justo laughed. “Who could cook something like that? I mean, what does Cuba really taste like?”

“Ay, don’t worry.” Rosa took his arm. “How about a little plate of moros and some of your maduros endulzados, eh?” She smiled and focused past him at the empty restaurant.

After lunch, Rosa went home. Frank, Pepe and Justo gathered in the kitchen to review the new recipes. Justo spread out the papers and began making notes. Frank sat on the prep counter and glanced at the bizarre artifacts on the shelf behind Justo. When they first opened the restaurant, Justo had brought a Santero to bless the business. Justo insisted they place an Elegguá effigy of sandstone and seashells by the front door. He promised them Ayé-Shaluga would watch over them and bring them good fortune. The three of them argued. In the end they settled for a small altar in the back of the kitchen. It was only supposed to be a pink conch seashell and a red, black and white bead collar, but with time the altar grew as Justo added picture cards of catholic saints, candles, a small wooden ax for Changó, a decorative plate with otán stones, and an arcane collection of aluminum and ceramic urns holding various offerings to the Orishas.

Frank looked at the collection around the altar. Maybe they should have placed it at the front of the restaurant. He really didn’t know about these things. Justo could have been right all along. He glanced at him, leaning over the counter, sorting through the recipes, and recalled that September evening eighteen years ago when Justo entered their lives. Frank came home from school and there was Justo, sitting on the couch between his parents. The first thing Frank noticed was Justo’s dark skin. Then he noticed his father’s excitement.

“He came in a raft,” Filomeno said proudly. “It took him a year to build it and three days to cross. Increíble, no?”

Justo was introduced as his ahijado, Filomeno’s godson. And therefore, it was Filomeno’s duty to offer him a place to live. Later that night, Frank lay awake in bed listening to his father and Justo whisper about Cuba until three in the morning.

Now, so many years later, he still harbored a certain jealousy for the passion Justo had stirred up in his father.

“How about this duck with truffle trumpet?” Pepe said. “Sounds powerful, no?”

“Duck?” Frank couldn’t believe it. “Are you serious? Mancini and that other meat distributor from Brooklyn refuse to extend our credit. We can’t afford to change the menu.”

“Well, what about this mango grouper?” Pepe said and handed Justo another recipe. Then he looked at Frank. “If we can still afford fish.”

Frank hopped off the counter and began to pace, his eyes combing the ground, searching for an exit. As much as he wanted to keep the restaurant, he couldn’t see how to turn things around. They were in too deep.

“Here’s one for a stuffed chicken breast,” Pepe said.

Justo took the recipe and looked it over. “Can you imagine if it’s anything like that chicken in Cuba?”

“Mami really liked it, no?”

Justo leaned against the counter. “You think it could be that good?”

“Sounds like it was a big deal back then,” Pepe said.

“Sounds like it’s a big deal right now,” Frank added. “Maybe if we knew what it tastes like—”

“Sí claro.” Justo laughed. “Let’s call them. Maybe they deliver.”

“Chicken that tastes like Cuba,” Pepe whispered. And for a moment they were all silent, reading the recipes. Then Pepe slammed his hand against the counter. “I got it!”

He looked around the kitchen. The linecook was slicing Chilean sea bass filets for ceviche, and the dishwasher was stacking plates. He motioned for Frank and Justo to follow him into the walk-in freezer.

Pepe rubbed the palms of his hands together. Then he pulled Frank and Justo into a huddle. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll get in touch with your brother and offer him some money to get the recipe for us.”

Justo shook his head. “Too dangerous. He could go to prison for stealing. The government checks everything—mail, phone calls.”

“Fine,” Pepe said. “Then Frank can go.”

For a long while all they could hear was the low hum of the freezer’s fan as little white clouds of condensation floated from their lips, their eyes skipping back and forth from one to the other.

“Very funny.” Frank backed away. This is what they always did—Justo and Pepe ganging up on him. He was the youngest. He always got the short end of the deal. He waved a finger at his brother. “Very funny.”

“No, no, it’s a great idea,” Justo said and lit a cigarette.

“And if that chicken’s as good as Mami says, it can turn Maduros around just like that.” Pepe snapped his fingers.

“You’re insane.” Frank shook his head and looked at Justo. “We’d be stealing from the government. You just said your brother could go to prison.”

“Yeah, but he’s Cuban,” Justo said. “You’re not.”

“Didn’t you notice how Mami’s eyes glazed over when she talked about it?”

“That’s Mami.” Frank stepped back and waved. “Her eyes glaze over every time she talks about Cuba.”

“Yeah, but Justo’s brother said something along the same lines in his letter.”

“Coño, you’re right.” Justo pointed at Pepe with his bandage. “It’s like they’re both in love.”

“And who knows, maybe the Quesadas still work there. A relative or someone,” Pepe added.

“If they’re still there, they’re in business with Castro.” Frank turned away and ran his hands over his hair. “It’s a terrible idea. I could go to prison.”

“No, Frank, Think of this: every Cuban who left in 1959 is probably dreaming of El Ajillo and—”

“The taste of Cuba,” Justo said.

“Then maybe we should just find out about the Quesadas before we do anything rash,” Frank said. “And what about the curse?”

“It’s just a superstition,” Pepe said.

“And the secret police? Mami says—”

“No, no,” Justo interrupted. “Your mother, she likes to exaggerate.”

“Then why did you leave?” Frank asked.

Justo waved his cigarette from side to side. “It’s different for the tourists.”

“And besides.” Frank turned and flaked the frost off a shelf with his fingernail. “Mami would freak if she knew I went to Cuba.”

“We’ll tell her you went to Ft. Lauderdale or something.”

“Why can’t you go?”

“Because I was born there,” Pepe said. “Justo and I would have to get Cuban passports.”

“And that would take forever,” Justo added. “You can go just like that. We’ll buy one of those tour packages. You can fly in through Mexico or Canada. One week. Así como si nada.”

“But what if your brother doesn’t want to help us?”

“No,óyeme, my brother will help us. I’m sure he’ll find a way to get it for us. Coño, I think this is a great idea.” Justo patted Frank on the back and took a long drag from his cigarette.

“Besides, we can get some press coverage,” Pepe said. “We’ll tell them the story about how the government stole our recipe and how we went to Cuba and took it back. The press’ll love it. It’s like that whole Bacardí, Havana Club thing. We can really play this up for publicity.”

“Listen to your brother,” Justo said. “It might not be the best idea, but it’s the only one we have.”

“No.” Frank turned away to face the back of the freezer. “This is ridiculous.”

“Frank,” Pepe circled around him. “Ever since Julie left you’ve been moping around like a stray dog—”

“No I haven’t.”

“Well, that’s the point, no?” Pepe said. “You never seem to care about anything.”

“I care about the restaurant.”

“Well?”

“We have this chance,” Justo said.

“Besides,” Pepe went on. “You know how you always talk about doing something important and making a difference?”

“No.” Frank turned away and avoided his eyes. “I’m not doing it.”

“Think of the restaurant. Think of Papi.” Pepe pleaded, his hands gesturing, clutching desperately at the frozen air between them. “You have to do it.”

“No,” Frank said flatly. “I could go to jail, or worse. Besides, for all we know this business of the chicken is just a bunch of mierda.”

Frank left the restaurant early that night and went home to an empty apartment. When Julie moved out, she’d left him the small dining room table, the futon and an abstract painting they’d bought at a flea market in SoHo. In the darkness, her absence was palpable. But it wasn’t because he missed her. Her company had only been a welcome distraction from the problems of the restaurant. Being alone meant he had to face himself—his regrets. There had been a time when he believed in himself, that one day his life would come together and he would earn the admiration of his family. It wasn’t about achieving his father’s American Dream: a small suburban house with a fenced yard. He had expected more: adventure, love, maybe even wealth.

He moved slowly around the apartment, his shoulders slouched forward, his fingers tracing the places where no memories existed: the wall, the radiator, the window that was screwed shut, the side lamp without a shade. Lately, the smallest tasks had become too much for him. There was a pile of dirty laundry on the floor and a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter. The whole place had the sour smell of an old wooden trunk.

He pulled off his shoes, took two Advils and lay on the futon with his arms extended. He stared at the ceiling wanting for the whole thing to go away—Maduros’ imminent bankruptcy, the constant restlessness in his heart, and his father’s ghost chipping away at what little confidence he had. He blamed Filomeno for the way his life had turned out—stuck at the restaurant, unable to find love, unable to commit. He closed his eyes, squeezed them tight, clenched his jaw. He thought of something his father had told him during one of those rare moments when rum had softened the old man’s heart.

“Things happen for a reason.” Filomeno had waved a finger in Frank’s face in his usual dramatic fashion, his breath bitter with alcohol and nostalgia. “But do not be fooled by fate, Frank. It is your responsibility to take advantage of opportunity whenever it presents itself.”

Maybe it was true about the recipe. Maybe it could save Maduros. He understood one thing: if they didn’t have the restaurant, he had nothing. All this about dreams and ambitions was a lie. He was more like his father than he cared to admit. But his father had taken one risk in his life. He had fled Cuba. He’d sought freedom—for Rosa and Pepe. He had given up everything in Cuba, even his own family, to give them all a better future. And he had given Pepe, Justo and him his savings to start the restaurant.

Now Frank had an opportunity to save it.