“They have my favorite dessert here. Panna cotta.”
Carolyn thought dessert sounded like a very good idea. If Tikki were here, she would persuade them to fully engage in the vacation spirit and eat dessert first. That would start tomorrow. Today was set aside for only Carolyn and her mother, and that meant the first thing they would order would be a salad.
Lively conversations were taking place at the tables beside them. Carolyn watched two men who were at the table behind her mom as they spoke a language she didn’t recognize. Her guess was that they were Italian. They were sipping espresso from tiny white cups balanced on white saucers. Both of them spoke loudly and were quick to use their hands to emphasize their points. Their conversation tactics fascinated her.
The waiter wore a crisply pressed white shirt, black slacks, and a bow tie. That intrigued Carolyn as well because, if she were sitting at an outdoor café in a place like Santa Cruz, the waiter might well be dressed in board shorts and a crumpled T-shirt. Here, even in the cafés, it was evident that the waiters took their position seriously as a career.
Carolyn’s mother ordered for both of them: fettuccine with chicken and a bottle of mineral water along with a salad to share. The lettuce salad arrived at the table with cubes of mango, tomatoes and olives and slices of hard-boiled eggs.
“This is a meal in itself,” Carolyn said. “It’s so fresh.”
“We won’t have room for dinner tonight.”
Carolyn looked at her watch. It was after two o’clock. She had a pretty good idea she would be ready to eat again at eight.
But then the generous servings of fettuccine were delivered to the table, and they realized they could have shared one order. The food was delicious, and Carolyn kept eating even though she was full. Her logic was that, after another nap on the lounge chair, she would walk along the shore or go swimming and burn off some of the goodness that had made itself at home in her belly.
Carolyn’s mom reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. “Thank you for this gift. I think this is my favorite present this year. Having you here and coming to the beach with you is something I will remember for a long time.”
Carolyn loved knowing that her mother felt honored.
“I believe I will have dessert,” Carolyn’s mother announced.
“How could you possibly have room?”
“I will make room. And when you have a taste of their panna cotta, you will make room in your stomach as well.”
The prediction was only half right. Carolyn did taste the panna cotta, and it was as delicious as her mother had promised. The custardlike chilled mound of wobbly goodness was drizzled with an amazing dark chocolate sauce that woke up Carolyn’s mouth and tried to entice her to eat more. But she couldn’t. She found it impossible to make room for another bite. No matter; Carolyn’s mother enjoyed every last dot of the special treat.
As they were waiting for the check, a man carrying two large plastic buckets by their handles approached the restaurant’s entrance and was warmly greeted by two of the waiters. The man stood outside waiting until a man dressed in a chef’s jacket came out to him. They shook hands, and the chef peered into each bucket. He exclaimed something in Spanish, plunged his hand in, and pulled up a large squid that seemed to still be moving.
Carolyn turned to her mother with wide eyes. “I guess the calamari will be fresh this evening.”
“Of course. You didn’t think they would use frozen fish here, did you? Carolyn, you know how highly we value our food here. Only the freshest will do.”
A street vendor passed by holding up small wooden-carved palm trees. Her mother turned away. Carolyn gazed with curiosity for a moment until she saw the young man pause and head toward them. Following her mother’s example, she looked away to discourage overly aggressive sales tactics.
They returned to their reserved loungers and picked up where they had left off as ladies of leisure. The sun had shifted, and while they were gone, their beach attendant had adjusted the umbrella for them.
Agua Man was making his return trek down the beach, and this time Carolyn waved him over. She was ready for another bottle of ice water and tipped him as her mother had for his belabored efforts to bring the luxuriously cold water to them. Carolyn took a sip and then placed the closed bottle behind her neck where the cool sensation felt wonderful down to her toes.
“I think this is the most relaxing day at the beach I’ve ever had,” Carolyn languidly observed.
“You see? This is why I love it here.”
After a nice half-hour lull to let her lunch digest, Carolyn made good on her decision to walk along the shore. She put on a cotton shirt and her flowing skirt the way she would cover up at home if she were strolling barefoot through the damp sand. All her modest instincts told her to cover up, to hide her flaws, not to provide a spectacle for observers.
The only thing was, she seemed to be receiving stares because she was so fully covered. Everyone else appeared to be enjoying the beach with innocent abandon, not concerned about their body rolls or bulges. Women of all ages and shapes comfortably walked around in bikinis even though their midriffs were thick and lapped over the bottom of their swimsuits like muffin tops. Men from a variety of European cultures confidently strode past her wearing nothing but Speedos and a pair of sunglasses.
The most unusual beach trend was that many women went topless. This cultural norm had shocked Carolyn when she first had visited this beach as an eighteen-year-old. She couldn’t imagine ever taking her top off in public. She still couldn’t.
During the several hours they had been people-watching, Carolyn had noticed maybe a half-dozen women—young and old—who took off their bikini tops as they sunbathed. The odd part to Carolyn was that no one seemed to stare. The absence of a top wasn’t shocking or unusual to the locals. Nor did it seem as if the women were being exhibitionists. But Carolyn, covered up as she walked, was aware of the heads that turned to look at her.
It was strange. All of it. She still felt uncomfortable whenever her eyes fell on a woman who was sitting in the sand, gazing at the waves and not wearing her bikini top. It didn’t seem right, moral, or normal. But for the women here, it didn’t seem to be an issue.
Leaving her cover-up on the sand, Carolyn high-stepped her way into the waves, sporting her one-piece bathing suit and wondering if she was the only woman on the beach wearing a “normal” bathing suit. She couldn’t imagine any of her friends wearing a bikini now that they were past forty. Even Marilyn, when she bought a new bathing suit for her honeymoon, would only settle on a one-piece that had a built-in tummy-tightening midriff panel. The way women here accepted their body shapes and sizes was very different from in the States.
The waves were placid this afternoon. The water felt brisk when she first entered, but as she paddled around, it felt good. The water wasn’t warm enough for her to stay in more than ten minutes, but for those ten minutes she did a lot of kicking and paddling. She hoped she was burning off a little of that scrumptious fettuccine. She wanted to make room for dinner tonight with Bryan.
Just thinking about him and realizing she was going to see him in a few hours set her heart racing. Instead of fighting the adrenaline rush as she had all the other times, she now applied her mother’s adage. We must live by the living and not by the dead.
Carolyn returned to where she had left her cover-up on the sand. Crystal droplets of the Atlantic Ocean fell from her skin and left a delicate trail from the water to her lounge chair. As she toasted her front side in the waning afternoon sunshine, she dreamed a new dream. Even in her subconscious state she knew, really knew, that it was okay for her to care again for another man. She was free to move on. Just as her mother had said, Jeff would always be in her heart, and she would miss him every day. But she was ready to get a life among the living and no longer among the dead.
“No hay mal que por bien no venga.”
“There is no bad from which good doesn’t come.”
WHAT CAROLYN NOTICED immediately about Bryan when she opened the door to him that evening was the soft fragrance of cloves and fresh herbs that followed him inside. She wasn’t sure if it was Bryan’s aftershave or the breeze in the hall bringing in the neighbor’s cooking. Either way, he was bringing in with him the strong and comforting essence of all that hinted to her of “home” in the Canary Islands.
“Come on in.”
Brian held both his hands behind him and grinned. “First, pick a hand.”
Carolyn pointed and Bryan held out his left hand, presenting her with a bouquet of mixed-colored roses.
“How pretty!”
“I thought your mom might enjoy them.”
“Oh, yes.” She quickly masked her surprise that the flowers were for her mother and not for her. “Of course. She’ll love them. Thank you.”
“And I thought you might enjoy these.” He pulled out his right hand and presented a second bouquet of mixed-colored roses.
Carolyn’s face warmed as she grinned at him. “Thank you.”
“Looks like you got some sun today. You look nice.”
“Thanks.” Carolyn knew she was blushing, but when she had stepped out of the shower an hour ago she could also tell that, in spite of the sunscreen, she had obtained a bit of a “glowy” look and now had a tan line where her bathing suit straps had been.
“My mother is almost ready. Do you want to wait while I put these in water?”
Bryan headed for the living room while Carolyn slipped into the kitchen and put the flowers in two different vases. She knew which one he had handed her, and when she brought the bouquets into the living room, she placed her mother’s on the dining room table and hers on the coffee table.
“These are really beautiful, Bryan. Thanks again. That was nice of you.”
“When I left the hotel, I was practically assaulted by a vendor who’s been by the door every time I’ve come and gone. I think he came after me this time because he saw that I was finally cleaned up and wearing nice clothes.”
Carolyn commented on his freshly pressed, long-sleeved white shirt and dark slacks, but she didn’t understand why he had said “finally cleaned up.” “Have you been running around town looking particularly scruffy?”
“My luggage didn’t make it back here with me. I called again today, and the airline said it should arrive in Madrid by tomorrow morning. Hopefully it will catch up with me before I leave.”
Suddenly Carolyn understood why he had been not so fresh during his visit yesterday afternoon. But then, she hadn’t returned from her trek to the supermercado in the freshest form either.
“If your luggage does come in tomorrow afternoon, let me know. My daughter is arriving on a flight around four.”
“We should go to the airport together, then. That’s about the time the airline predicted my luggage would arrive. Is she going through Madrid?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Will she be having some of their fresh-sneezed orange juice while she’s there?”
Carolyn grinned. “Probably not. Tikki never was a big fan of orange juice, sneezed or squeezed.”
Bryan grinned back.
Just then Abuela Teresa made her grand entrance in a flowing dress with an embroidered floral shawl over her shoulders. She looked lovely, and Bryan told her so. He stood when she entered, and Carolyn said, “Did you see the roses, Mom? Bryan brought them for you.”
“How lovely! Thank you, Bryan. That was a kind thing for you to do.”
“I got some too.” Carolyn motioned to her bouquet on the coffee table. When she turned, a strand of her hair fell in front of her face. She had carefully rolled her hair up in a French twist on the back of her head, but apparently she had been too lenient with the hairpins.
Carolyn might have imagined it, but Bryan seemed to give her a pleasant expression of approval when the strand came undone. He often had told her when she was eighteen that he liked her long hair. Maybe putting it up tonight in the same way she had worn it for Marilyn’s wedding wasn’t a good choice. Maybe she should have left it down.
Carolyn’s mother paused at the dining room table. It still was scattered with birthday gifts. The vase of roses was wedged in between the boxes. She leaned closer and drew in a long breath of the colorful beauties. A slow smile rose on her face. She plucked one of the red flowers and carried it with her to the car.
To show continued respect for her mother, Carolyn took the backseat, folding her frame into the two-door rental car with as much grace as she could manage. Bryan had parked on the street and had no trouble pulling out into the flow of cars and heading downhill, toward the old part of town.
It surprised Carolyn that the restaurant her mother selected was near the harbor but didn’t have a commanding view of the water the way La Marinera did. This restaurant was old and dark, with deep mahogany wood, high-backed chairs ornately carved, and thick cloth napkins.
The suave owner came to the table and greeted them with a flourish. Carolyn could tell her mother was eating it up. He moved through the room, scattered with early diners, like a celebrity, making recommendations on wine pairings for that evening’s fresh fish and leaning over each group to tell a joke before moving on to the next table.
The restaurant’s atmosphere revolved around the owner as well as his waitstaff and the presentation of the food. Instead of being at a dinner where the conversation between the people at the table was the main attraction, Carolyn felt as if they had been lured into becoming village extras on the stage of some Spanish opera. Waiters walked past them like sword swallowers, holding long, flaming shish kebabs. One uniformed attendant went from table to table pouring wine as well as water from handblown glass carafes by holding the vessel high above the table and hitting the intended mark of the empty glass every time.
“What do you think of my restaurant?” Carolyn’s mother asked. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” Carolyn said.
“Stellar choice,” Bryan said, just as their first course, a generous plate of smoked sardines, arrived. Carolyn’s mother demonstrated how the small fish were to be lifted by the tail and held over the mouth. The proper way to eat the sardines was by scraping off the tender white meat with only one’s teeth and swallowing the meat along with the shimmery silver skin. Done properly, all that would be left after a successful scrape would be the head and the spine. Those cartoonlike carcasses were stacked on a separate plate. In front of Carolyn, Bryan, and her mother were individual finger bowls filled with warm water and a slice of lemon. Here they dabbled their digits between sardines.
“This is quite a process. Have you ever had sardines before?” Bryan asked Carolyn after she had successfully consumed her second sardine.
“No, not like this.”
“What do you think?”
“I like them. I like the flavor. And they’re so tender.”
“It’s the fresh fish of the islands,” Carolyn’s mother said as she daintily moistened her fingers in her dipping bowl. “What do you think of the sardines, Bryan?”
“I think if we had some Cajun sauce, they would taste like crawfish. They don’t taste like chicken, that’s for sure.”
Carolyn thought his comment was humorous, but her mother paid it no mind and asked him another question. “Have you had any of the gambones con ajo since you’ve been here, Bryan?”
“I don’t think so. Is that shrimp?”
“Yes, prawns with garlic. Delicious.”
Carolyn mentioned the squid they saw being pulled from the fisherman’s bucket that afternoon at Al Macaroni Café on the boardwalk.
“They’ll be serving fresh calamari tonight,” Bryan said.
Carolyn laughed. “That’s the same thing I said.”
Bryan told her about a restaurant where he lived in Newport Beach called The Crab Cooker. “It’s been there for as long as I can remember. I’m not saying it’s the best seafood place in all of Newport Beach, but the fish always is fresh and that makes
the difference, doesn’t it?”
“That’s what I always say,” Carolyn’s mother said.
The main course arrived on a cart. Fresh fish, of course. One large fish for all of them to share. The waiter stood behind the cart and lifted his curved knife and a long fork to the broiled fish that lay on a platter of parsley and what looked like basil leaves. The head and tail were still attached, causing Carolyn a slight sense of pity for the beautiful fish.
As the waiter expertly deboned the fish, extracted the steaming white portions, and arranged them on the three plates on the cart, Carolyn noticed her mother pull back. She gave an unpleasant expression for just a moment and folded her right arm over her middle.
I wonder if the sight of the waiter ransacking the fish in front of us makes her a bit nauseous too. At least I’m not the only one.
To each of the three plates the waiter added from a covered dish a generous helping of steamed baby carrots. He then stuck a fork into another dish that appeared to be nothing but a bed of crusted sea salt. Out came a small potato, cooked in the Old World fashion. Carolyn had forgotten about this.
“Are those papas arrugadas?”
The waiter looked up at her. “Sí.”
Carolyn smiled as if the potatoes were a childhood comfort food. The waiter seemed to take note because he added an extra potato to one of the plates. That was the plate he served first, and he presented it to Carolyn.
“Someone has a fan,” Bryan teased.
The waiter then took a different fork and knife and cut into the side of the fish’s head. He extracted a small, not-quite-round, pearl-shaped object and placed it on the side of Carolyn’s plate. She looked to him for an explanation, but all he did was nod as if they had done him a service by sitting at his table.
“He presented you with the cheek,” her mother said. Carolyn thought she detected a wistful tone in her voice. “It’s given to the honored guest at the table. Tonight, that would be you.”
“I’m supposed to eat this?”
“Oh, yes, it’s a delicacy. He’s waiting to see if you like it.”
Canary Island Song Page 16
