At the diner downtown, while a mix of local fishermen and tourist families have eggs and bacon, Emma and I dine on burgers and milkshakes. It is distinctly and satisfyingly American. I consider how, despite my passport, I have never really felt American. The one thing about Dad’s plan that felt right all along was me staying in Mexico. Now, though, I’m not so sure. Slanted sunbeams streak across the table through the blinds, lighting up Emma’s skin.
I didn’t think to pack a swimsuit when I was making my escape to the island, so we go into one of those convenient beach-goods stores on the boardwalk and buy me the cheapest, ugliest pair of swim trunks we can find, along with a beach towel depicting a kitten eating a cobra in space. Since Emma’s offended that I didn’t bring a book with me either, we go to the used bookstore and I pick out a paperback by Italo Calvino, who I’ve never heard about but sounds intriguing.
By the time we get down to the lake, the tiredness of a long week and our early meet up is sinking in. We set the towel down on a tree-shaded stretch of grass and strip down to our swimwear. We read for a few minutes, but before too long the heat has me dropping my book on my face, so I push it aside, turn so that I’m facing Emma, doze off.
I wake up briefly and see Emma’s in the same position as me, her face inches away, eyes serenely closed. Somewhere in the distance, people are splashing around in the lake. It seems like we’re miles away from anyone else, worlds away. I maneuver myself half an inch closer, amazed at the slight distance between us.
Again I wake up, and this time I’m alone. The air is a little chillier; the sun has dipped beneath the peak of the island’s hill. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, wondering where the hell Emma’s gone, instantly nervous that the date is over.
“You’re cute when you sleep,” Emma calls out from the lake, which is turning pink with the sunset. She’s only a few feet in, lying facedown in the shallow water, hands propping her head up.
“Are you saying I’m not at other times?”
She shrugs. “At least now you know.”
I run into the lake, which is so warm that I can’t help splashing past Emma until I’m fully submerged. Then I turn back around, just as she’s swimming into my arms.
*
Night falls, and we’re standing back in front of Emma’s door. Her hair’s still wet, dripping onto the faded welcome mat on her porch. I swear I can still see bioluminescence clinging to her; each drop that falls looks like tiny contained fireworks. We’re both grinning like fools.
“So, how do we start this date?” I ask.
“I had planned for an awkward hug,” Emma says. “But I really want to kiss you again.”
“Bold start,” I say.
Emma shrugs, tilts her head toward mine. “I’m okay with that.”
CHAPTER 15
TOM YUM POZOLE
Guajillo, pasilla, arbol chili peppers, toasted and rehydrated
5 cloves garlic
1 onion
5 stalks lemongrass
2 tablespoons galangal
3 kaffir lime leaves
50 grams fresh ginger
3 16-ounce cans hominy
10 cups chicken stock
10 cups water
8 pounds pork loin
8 tablespoons lime juice
8 tablespoons fish sauce
4 tablespoons oregano
METHOD:
On Tuesday morning, Chef Elise returns, and I attack my dishes with the vigor that only the happy can muster. Though all the cooks are busy replenishing mise containers, bubbling stocks and sauces meant to last the week, I’m ahead of the incoming tide of pots and pans. It’s like magic how quickly I go through the work, how much better I am at this than when I arrived a few weeks ago. I don’t know how much Mom and Dad would share in the feeling, but pride surges within me when I finish a stack. More than anything, I am happy that the sight of Felix—when he invariably shows—cannot undo this.
Roberto takes a coffee break, and I go around emptying people’s bins for them. I see Chef in the office, making phone calls, checking off items on a clipboard. Typical teasing from Matt, who seems to be the only person in the kitchen who can always see me.
Elias intercepts me near the pass. “Hey, man, how do you feel about making staff meal again?”
Though the kitchen is at its typical roar, and Chef’s on the phone in her office, I instinctively lower my voice. “Don’t you remember? Chef told me to stay away from the food. I’ll help someone else or something, but...”
“What, the mysterious hero is scared?” Elias cuts me off. “Chef’s loaded with paperwork and shit back there. If you’re handling your stuff and not messing with other people, no one cares what you do. You could teach yourself how to salsa dance if you wanted to.”
“She’s not going to, like, fire me or stab me or something? I didn’t exactly kill it last time.”
Elias rolls his eyes. “Cut the shit, man. You got time to cook or should I find someone else?”
I look back at Chef’s office. I’ve been hoping every day for another chance to cook, redeem myself. Felix appears in her doorway. “If you don’t say yes, I will haunt you in increasingly annoying ways.” I nod quietly, and Elias leads me to the walk-ins again.
I’ve got a few hours before it has to be ready, and the first thing my mind goes to is pozole, the rich aromas that’ll fill the kitchen. Felix and I used to make it at home sometimes, weekend mornings when he was hungover. We’d hang out in the kitchen the whole day, taste-testing, letting the broth simmer itself delicious. It’s the meal my friends always ask me to make for them. Dad too.
It’s relatively easy to make, so I won’t screw up, but I can find a way to mix it up too. Maybe keep the Mexican-Asian fusion theme going. I grab an assorted handful of dried chilies from the pantry, some lemon-grass, a jar of galangal, kaffir lime leaves.
After the chilies are toasted, the prep work is pretty easy. Just throw most of the stuff into a stockpot and let it simmer for a few hours while I disappear behind my partition, safe from Chef’s wrath. I relive kisses with Emma as the suds and steam surround me. Every time I come by to deliver dishes or pots to the line, I check on my creation, give it a stir, taste with a clean spoon and then carry it back to the sink with me to dispose of the evidence.
At around noon, the soup tastes exactly like I’d envisioned. It tastes so good that I’m actually a little sad that Felix can’t ever try it. When Elias comes by to ask if I’m almost done cooking, I get Roberto to cover me and then set up a tray of garnishes so that people can do what they want to it (an oregano–nam prik pao mix, limes, radishes). “Everything’s good to go,” I say. “Don’t tell Chef it was me, though.”
Elias takes a spoonful, blows on it gingerly and then swallows, shakes his head. “Fuck, man. Those sandwiches the other day were alright for staff meal. But I could tell you had something.”
I turn the music up to make the announcement. I serve myself a bowl first and then hang around to see people’s reactions. Lourdes is pouring herself a bowl when Chef turns up, among the first to do so. She leans over Lourdes’s shoulder, comments about the smell, offering her compliments. I beam so hard I’m surprised the whole kitchen doesn’t burst into flames.
“No fui yo, Chef,” Lourdes says.