Before I could speak, Martin turned green. “Hold that thought,” he said and rushed to his bathroom.
“Wow,” Martin said when he returned, “I must have drunk more last night than I usually do. I don’t usually puke after step two.”
“Lie back down,” I said. “I have something that will help. Can I use your kitchen?”
Martin moaned but lay down. “Be my guest,” he whimpered.
A few minutes later, I came in with a damp cloth and a concoction that my sister taught me after a bender I went on when I was twenty-one and new to the drinking scene, well at least legally new. It smelled almost as bad as it looked, but it worked like a charm.
“I am not going to drink that,” Martin said.
“You will if you want to feel better,” I countered.
Martin stared me as he sat back up. He held his nose and swallowed the drink. “Oh, that’s nasty,” he said and lay back down.
I opened the washcloth full size and laid the entire thing over Martin’s face. “Let that sit there until you begin feeling better,” I said, then leaned back against the coffee table while Martin lay motionless on the sofa.
Within a few minutes, Martin asked, “What did you put in that?”
“It is a family secret,” I responded with a chuckle, thinking my sister would be proud of me for pretending like it was a state secret.
“The secret is you use it before Abuela comes in and finds out you have a hangover.” I chuckled at the old family joke. “I’ll write down the recipe. You can make it beforehand and have it in the fridge when you know you are going out drinking. I learned long ago; it is always good to be prepared.”
“Mmm,” was Martin’s response as he continued to lie still with the cloth over his face.
“Tell me again why you are here, Elian,” Martin demanded.
“I’m here because my mother and aunt demanded that I come. They were both pretty angry when they found out you’d left. Mi Tia told Mama that you had a bad experience with your ex’s family, so it was come here and apologize or be disowned.”
Without taking the washcloth off his face, he signed the cross in the air, and said, “You are forgiven. Now go and sin no more.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I was wrong, Martin. I shouldn’t have thrown you to the lions, literally the lion, Lucia, and I should have asked if you minded going to the anniversary party instead of just springing it on you.”
Martin took the washcloth off his face and asked, “Yeah, why did you do that?”
“I like you,” I replied.
“If you liked me,” Martin said, “then you should’ve communicated better.”
I nodded and said, “As I’ve been told by every female in my family, as well as my uncle. They all like you, more than I’d expected, really.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t help your case, Elian,” he said.
“No, I can see that now. My family is very important to me, Martin. I’ve dated quite a bit, and I’ve never had a man I wanted to know as much as I have you. You are funny, no-nonsense, and hold me to a higher standard than most men. I just thought it’d be nice to introduce you to my loved ones and see what they thought of you—to see if their instinct was the same as mine. I was right, and they agree with me, but my tactics might have been a bit misguided.”
“Ya think?” Martin replied.
“I want to make it up to you, Martin. Can I take you on a real date? No family involved.”
“No,” Martin said, matter-of-fact. “I’m not in any condition to date, not seriously, and if we date, I can already see it will be serious—too damned serious!”
I nodded. “I thought you’d say that, so I have another proposition.”
I could tell the headache was beginning to wane because he sat up waiting for my response.
“I need to explore restaurants in the entertainment district to invest in, and you need to do reviews, I propose we use this to our mutual advantage.”
Martin squinted his eyes; I could tell he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “We are both looking for the same things,” I continued. “Great service, style, food quality, and taste. If we team up, we can get through more of them quicker, and it will be more fun doing it as a team.”
Martin put the cloth back over his eyes, but I could tell he was thinking about my proposal. “It always pays to have someone with you when you go to review a restaurant, bar, or another venue. When you go alone, it either says you are seeking a date or that you are a food critic. This could work, but there will be clear boundaries if I agree.”
I laughed. “Martin, I would expect nothing less from you.”
Lifting the corner of the cloth, he peered at me and asked, “Are you willing to hear my conditions?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, “what are your commands, General?”
“General,” Martin repeated. “You think you’re cute.”
He replaced the cloth and began. “Number one: These are not dates, and will never be dates. You can’t call them dates, and you can’t use them to get into my pants. These are strictly professional meetings where we will pretend to be on dates to evaluate the quality of the restaurants, bars, and venues. Do you agree to number one?”
I hesitated. “So, if we decide to go on a date, it will be different from these?” I waited for a reaction, and when I didn’t get one, I basically accepted it, shrugging I said, “I agree.”
“Number two: We agree not to date. This is strictly a professional relationship, and we will both agree not to mingle romance with business.” I was about to argue with him, considering the whole thing was so I could have another chance with him, but when I opened my mouth, Martin chimed in. “This one is non-negotiable. It’s a take it or leave it thing. Do you agree?”
Apparently having no choice, I begrudgingly said, “I think it is unfair that you won’t consider dating me, but if this is the only way, I agree. However, I want it on the record that I’m agreeing under duress.”
Martin chuckled. “Record noted.”
“Number three: If anyone asks if we are dating, the answer is ‘sort of.’ It will get out fairly quickly that we are teamed up to write reviews, unless the community thinks we are genuinely dating. That means you have to date when you are either out of town or somewhere it won’t get out that we aren’t together.”
“That is no problem with me,” I replied. “I rarely date someone when I seeking to invest in an area. Creates too much unnecessary drama.”
“Number four: You must be absolutely upfront and honest with your family about the arrangement. They cannot be left to imagine there is more to us than this business arrangement. I can already tell your family is like mine. Once they get something in their minds, they are relentless. If you give them even a tiny shred of hope, they will be tenacious. Correct?”
“Yes, you are correct,” I replied.
“Do you agree to sit them down and lay the rules out about our relationship, including this one?” Martin asked.
“I do.”
“Finally, and the most important, number five: If you decide to purchase a business inside my critique area, you will agree to give me three full months to publicly break up with you before you close.”
I thought for a moment. “That is probably OK, except, sometimes, I come across a business that is going to fail if not rescued. If I get one of those, I will tell you immediately, and we can have an official break-up before I sign the contract. That is all I can promise,” I replied.
“I think that’ll work; we just have to ensure there is no one thinking I’m playing favorites for you.”
“That’s it,” Martin said. “Those are my requirements for participation.”
“OK,” I agreed, then let my evil smile take over. “First mission is this morning. I have a little bistro down on the river walk that I need to check out.”
“Today?” Martin asked.
“Yep, today,” I responded.
“No, not hangover Sunday. Le
t’s start tomorrow.”
“Nope, can’t do it. I’m headed to Dallas tomorrow, but I’m available right now.”
Martin gave me a nasty look and accused me of being a sadist.
“Maybe a little,” I said, “but you’ll feel better in a moment. “
“I already feel better, but not necessarily ‘go out in public’ better.”
“We can assume that some of your readers will be going to this bistro hungover, so isn’t this a perfect opportunity for you to assess whether or not this is a good place for that kind of follow-up activity?”
Martin just stared at me blankly, totally uninspired by my hangover assessment idea.
After we stared at each other for several minutes, Martin said, “I need a shower and to get dressed. I’m planning to take my time, and you’ll just have to hang out.”
“Fine,” I agreed. “I’ll just sit here and admire your apartment. Take your time.”
My sarcasm earned another hateful look from him, but I could tell he wasn’t in the mood to argue any longer.
Martin didn’t hurry through the shower or dressing. I assumed he was exerting a bit of passive-aggressive revenge on me for forcing him to get ready.
I went outside to call the bistro to ensure we had a table. They tended to be packed on Sunday mornings after ten A.M., and if Martin’s “slow to get ready” behavior was any indication, it was going to be closer to eleven before we got there.
When I walked back in the door, Martin was coming out of his kitchen. “Oh, hi. Finally dressed I see.”
“Yeah,” Martin replied. “I thought maybe you gave up and left.”
“No such luck,” I replied.
“I decided to give the owner of the bistro a call and let him know I’m coming down this morning. I didn’t, however, tell him I was bringing a food critic. This should be fun.”
Martin gave me another one of his hateful looks, then said, “You are, under no circumstances, to tell him that I am one. This morning, I am only a dude going out for some food that will hopefully cut down on the headache that seems to get bigger the longer I talk to you.”
I laughed at Martin’s comment. “All in a day's work.” Then, I took him by the hand and led him out of the apartment. “You can ride with me. That way, the old man who owns the bistro will think you are just some arm candy I brought with me.”
“Yeah, arm candy…” Martin replied dryly.
As we cruised along in my car, once again speeding along together, I talked about my frustrations with my new business acquisition in Dallas. “I don’t really know what is causing the place to struggle. It is in a nice location. The staff that caused problems before have all been replaced. We serve tasty food, but our sales continue to stagnate.
“What type of food do you serve?” Martin asked.
“Mexican American… basically Tex Mex,” I replied.
“Where is the restaurant again?”
“Downtown.”
“Is that close to the Arts District?” Martin asked.
“Yes, right in the middle of it, actually.”
“I think I know your problem. You are competing with Los Pecos. That is where everyone goes to party, drink, eat Tex Mex, etc. They have been there for over fifty years. What is your price range?” he asked.
“Our prices are less than Los Pecos. The former owner’s goal was to undercut them and draw the night crowd with cheaper drinks,” I replied while massaging my forehead. “It should be a foolproof plan.”
“I think you are thinking about this backward. Los Pecos is a rustic, everyday eating place, and although a bit pricey, they are still affordable enough that they remain the most popular venue in town.” Martin lay his head back against the headrest but continued to talk. “There are several other Mexican restaurants using the same tactic, but what the arts district lacks is a before and after meal meeting place. If you could retrofit your restaurant so people could either start the night there with drinks or after for dessert, you could probably make more money off those items than you do your main menu. In fact, every time I’ve been in Dallas with friends, they’ve wanted a place to go somewhere after a movie or even after we ate. The problem is the only place that focuses on that is the Dessert Factory, and the line to get into there is at least an hour long, even on Sunday and Monday nights. Unfortunately, if you take my advice, your desserts will have to be as good, if not better, than Dessert Factory.”
I turned to Martin, who still had his head back and eyes closed. “Are you sure you aren’t a businessman?”
Martin laughed. “No, if I had to be a businessman, I’d be out of business. I just like to eat. It is my job to know when there is something lacking, restaurant wise, and when someone works to fill the void. If you’d read my column, you’d know I often take note and even comment on these needs in my blog. There is definitely a void there, and you could easily fill it if you are creative.”
“I think I’m going to like this arrangement,” I said.
“Good,” Martin responded.” Brunch is on you then.”
I looked back at Martin, and in a voice I’m sure reflected my surprise, I asked, “I thought you had an expense account?”
“Ha, not in this part of town,” Martin replied. “Oh, rich boy, this has to be an addendum to our arrangement. Consider this my number six. When not in the area of town I’m assigned, the food is on you.”
I laughed again but didn’t argue. Martin didn’t seem to care, though; he probably already knew he could get me to comply.
Although I knew I was good at business, I also knew business people more often than not missed the important elements of the restaurant business that only a consumer could point out to us. I knew Martin would be a valuable asset. So, there was no reason why I couldn’t be a good asset for him as well.
When we arrived at the bistro, it was a quarter past eleven. It appeared to have a good Sunday following. The server kindly took our name and informed us it would be about an hour wait. The crowd outside was younger and appeared to be the morning after-party crowd.
“Looks like you are in with the right people,” I teased. “You’re clearly not the only person here with a hangover.”
Several people around us heard me and their snickering, as well as a few green-tinted faces, confirmed my suspicions.
Within seconds of our arrival, my friend came out to meet us. “Mr. Whitman,” the man said, “Thank you for coming to our Sunday brunch.”
“It is our pleasure, Senor Hernandez,” I said.
The older man smiled, and then gestured toward the door. “Come with me. I’ll show you to your table.” I smiled at Martin, and we both followed the man into the diner.
There were more than a few hateful looks as we walked past the half hungover crowd. When we got out of earshot, Martin whispered, “I’m used to being pulled to the front of the line, but you never get used to the angry looks of hungry patrons who you’ve jumped in front of.”
The table we were shown to was in the back of the dining room next to the kitchen door. You could see everything in the dining room from this vantage point. When we sat down, the older man sat with us. “Mr. Whitman…”
“Elian, please,” I interrupted. “You have known me since before I was born.”
Senor Hernandez didn’t even pause. “Si, pero esto es un negocio, siemptre use el titulo de un hombre cuando esta hacienda negocios.” Then, the older man turned to Martin and asked, “Don’t you agree, senor, it is better to use a title when you are doing business?”
Martin smiled. “I grew up in the Texas, senor. I was taught you always use a person’s title, along with ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘yes, sir,’ when addressing anyone older than you.”
Senor Hernandes smiled back, and then turned to me and said, “This one is very smart and has been raised well.”
“So, Mr. Whitman, you want to buy my bistro, si?”
I shook my head and honestly said, “No, I’ve not made up my mind, senor. I am here to eat fir
st, get to know your business, and see if it needs me or if some other buyer may be more appropriate.”
“I see,” he said. “Your papa said you were wanting to buy businesses in the area now that you sold your brewery.”
“He told you the truth, senor, but again, I only wish to buy a business that I can improve. It appears to me you have already made the place perfect.”
The gentleman stared at me for a moment, then smiled and slapped me on the back. “You have the charm of your mama, but you are as sneaky as your uncle. I can see I will get nowhere this way. So, I will let my food and servers charm you.”
He stood up and told us to enjoy ourselves. He said he would order the house specials for us both. He disappeared into the back, and in an extraordinary time, the food began to arrive. There were plates and plates of food. So much so that he had to pull a table from the back to put all the dishes on. The other customers, who had given us hateful looks when we were given a table in front of them, now looked at us with wonder.
We ate more than we should have, and the food was nice; not top of the line but definitely nice. Martin and I had a pleasent conversation about how the area had changed over the past few years and how older venues like this one were getting a new life. We talked about Miami and how Lauderdale was so much easier to live in, both agreeing it was because there was less traffic and less tourist chaos.
We both agreed we liked Miami, though, and I promised to take Martin to a couple of my favorite restaurants there. “I promise you; you haven’t heard of these because they are not for tourists, and no one there speaks English. The food is magnificent.”
Martin reminded me that our agreement was for Fort Lauderdale, but he said he might let a couple of extra-special restaurants slide through if I promised they were over the top good, like on the same level of my sister Lucia’s restaurant.
When we were done, the servers collected all the plates, and without requesting it, they brought out three large doggie bags of leftover food. Senor Hernandez came out and sat with us again.
I could tell Martin was afraid he was about to be grilled about the food, as I assumed was the case when a restaurant owner found out he was a critic, but Senor Hernandez didn’t push for compliments. Instead, he said, “I hope you enjoyed the food. Elian, your papa probably told you, it’s time for me to sell.
Love By Chance (Chance Series Book 1) Page 7
