“Ya está,” Lourdes says, taking the lid off her vat. “Quién quiere?”
The whole kitchen clamors to try to get the first cup. It smells like cinnamon, and I try to get a glimpse of what it is. “Qué es?” I ask Memo.
“You shitting me, man?” Boris says, laughing. “Yo, Matt, check it out. The kid from Mexico City doesn’t know what atole is.”
Fuck.
“I know what it is,” I say, trying to save face. “I just couldn’t see.” I know what atole is, of course...but I’ve never actually had it. Just one of those things I’ve somehow missed out on, like a phrase you’ve misheard most your life until you’re embarrassingly corrected in public. I used to think it was nip it in the butt. So, kind of the same thing?
Whenever my family goes out to eat, it’s usually fancier restaurants—an Argentine steak house, a French bistro, one of those classic return-home tacos. Mom likes to eat healthy, and so she’s taught Rosalba to make recipes off the internet, dishes with quinoa and kale and coconut oil subbed in for butter. Felix was the biggest proponent of traditional Mexican dishes, taking me to restaurants and markets our parents wouldn’t set foot in, begging Rosalba to bust out anything in her repertoire. And there’s so many dishes in our cuisine that it’s not crazy to think that I might have missed out on this one cinnamon-y beverage, ubiquitous though it may be.
There’s no way I’m offering any of this up as an excuse, though.
“Hey, dickhead, are you lying about being Mexican?” Matt says, letting Lourdes scoop him some. I barely hear what he says afterward, his word choice stinging more than it should. I had to scrub my forehead so hard that it still kind of hurts. “Do you know what mole is? Salsa? Have you heard of salsa?”
“Ya, déjenlo en paz,” Lourdes says, handing me a Styrofoam cup and offering a smile.
“I could tell you were a rich boy,” Matt says. “Didn’t you come in here for a meal the other night?” He snaps his fingers in recognition, not waiting for me to respond. “You did. And now, what, you’re slummin’ it with us common folk?”
I want to protest, want to ask him why he’s got it in for me. Instead I shrink. I’m surprised no one reacts, because I catch a reflection of myself in a nearby soup ladle, and I look like that computer-generated tiny version of Chris Evans in Captain America before he gets turned into a superhero. I take another sip of coffee for strength, wait for an ally to show themselves. Zombie Felix creeps up behind Matt and starts gnawing on his skull. Which I guess is a sweet, protective gesture.
“Fuckin’ rich people,” Matt adds. “They always forget their country’s food. That’s a sin.”
Sous-Chef Melissa pokes her head into the prep kitchen, takes stock of the situation. “Fun times in here? You guys done all your shit for the day, then? Ready for service?”
There’s a chorus of “No, Chef. Sorry, Chef.” The congregation scatters. Boris bumps into me and tells me to get the fuck out of the way. I take my atole straight to the sink, try to take out my frustration with my scrubber. I don’t understand how the hell there’s suddenly such a large pile for me to work through when everyone’s been standing around.
The exhaustion sets in almost immediately, especially when I think about how long the day will be. I don’t understand why I’m doing this to myself, but at no point do I actually get the urge to hang up my apron and go.
If I have a spare moment, Roberto has me go out and help clean, since cleanliness reigns supreme in kitchens. I grab a dishrag and wipe away drops of sauce and oil, take out garbage. Avoiding Matt and Boris, I go around each station, asking if I can take a cutting board, if they need more rags, any pans. Chef comes in, makes eye contact, gives me maybe the slightest of nods. Felix is in the air, ready to mock her solemnness, but somehow I keep my brother from fully taking shape (whichever shape he was planning on taking).
By the time I’m finished, the kitchen is deserted, the induction hood off, making everything eerily silent, peaceful. I’m even more exhausted than I was last night, and the scene feels even more surreal, the way a recurring dream is stranger because of its slight familiarity.
Despite the tiredness, I find myself hoping everyone isn’t gone. That they’re up to something, lingering by the exit planning another night out. That I can tag along, not return to that motel room. I get the feeling Emma hasn’t left without a good-bye.
Sure enough, there’s the same group as last night hanging outside. I stand at the periphery, hoping for someone to notice I’m there and step aside to make room. The restaurant’s closed tomorrow for a holiday, and despite the long hours we’ve all pulled, no one wants to pass up the opportunity to party all night and sleep the day away. Matt suggests a late-night barbecue at his place, and everyone chimes in with their approval. They disperse to pick up beer and things to grill. Matt doesn’t even look at me, much less offer me an invite, banishing me to a night in that motel room, with nothing to do but try to beat back panic attacks, trying to figure out why I’m still seeing Felix, why I’ve started looking forward to his company.
Then Emma appears at my side, work shirt unbuttoned, a baby-blue tank top underneath. She smells like lavender and lemongrass, like a morning spent in bed, drifting off into pleasant dreams. “Thanks for those quesadillas last night. They saved my life.” She bites her lip in that way that’s probably already settling itself deep into the folds of my brain. I’m going to start missing her in little moments of the day, I can tell. “Walk with me?”
I look over at the group making their way down the street. “I don’t think Matt wants me there.”
“Matt’s an attention whore. The more people are there the better he’ll feel. Plus, he’s really an okay guy once you get to know him.” Emma nods her head in the group’s direction. “Come on, walk with me. Please?”
I can’t find it in me to resist that. We turn down the street away from the restaurant, and I let Emma lead the way. We walk along the shoulder, grass at our feet, fireflies flickering at the edge of the woods. Emma sheds her work shirt and folds it into her bag.
“So,” she says, crossing her arms, “I vaguely remember falling asleep on your counter last night. Did I do that mid-conversation?”
“More impressive: you did it mid-quesadilla.”
She laughs, makes a face. “Oh man, sorry. That’s lame.”