The Secret Ingredient

by Stewart Lewis

  “Don’t worry,” Lola says, “we’ll get you sorted. Let’s get out of here. I’m taking you to the mall.”

  As Lola weaves her Mini Cooper through Hollywood to the Beverly Center, I tell her about the psychic woman in the elevator.

  “It’s not like you to pay any mind to someone like that, Livie!” Lola sounds incredulous.

  “I know, but—it felt like she knew me. The first thing she said to me was ‘I know what it’s like not having a mother.’ And this morning I had this feeling that today was going to be different. I thought it was just about the job, but maybe it’s more.”

  This makes Lola think.

  “That is a bit odd. But roots, a past, a boy? That’s all fairly standard stuff. And food’s important to everyone—although admittedly more to you.”

  “I don’t know, there’s a lot going on right now, you know? Jeremy’s floundering, and my dads seem stressed.… I think they’re basically on the verge of losing the restaurant. It would just be nice to think that maybe …”

  “Livie, you concentrate too much on others. I know it’s your family and all, but you have to sort yourself out. It’s time. You do the laundry for your whole family! Not to mention cook for them. I know you love that, but the truth is, you give a bit too much. I used to be the same way, but lately I’ve stopped worrying about my totally dysfunctional family and am just trying to work on myself.”

  “I know. How’s the art class?”

  Lola has a thing for art, and always takes me around to museums, although I never understand it the way she does. Lately she’s been taking art classes, but it might be just another one of her temporary projects. Last month it was volunteering at a homeless shelter, which lasted two whole days.

  “The teacher’s a bit weird, but I like working with oil. I’m making a piece for Jin. It’s got some Japanese letters in it.”

  “But he’s Korean.”

  “Same continent.”

  Lola takes the ticket at the parking garage and winds the car too fast up the circular ramp. By the time she parks, I feel queasy. She grabs her purse, flips her hair, and says in an American accent, “Okay, girl, let’s get you business casual!”

  Malls make me nervous, but aside from when she’s driving, being with Lola puts me at ease. She chooses two outfits for me. It feels weird wearing new clothes with the tags still on them, but maybe it is time for a change, for me to focus on my own life rather than everyone else’s. And with me making my own money, I’ll be able to afford it. Lola plops down her credit card, and I promise to pay her back with my first paycheck.

  As we walk over to Banana Republic, Lola keeps talking about Jin. Then, out of the blue, she asks me if I still haven’t heard from Dish Boy. She means Theo.

  Last summer when I first started cooking at FOOD, Theo got hired as a dishwasher. He was saving up for a racing bike, and he taped a picture of it over the sink. One afternoon I was flipping through a magazine and saw a black-and-white picture of a windy road with a leafless tree at the end of it. I taped it next to the picture of his bike, and he smiled at me in a way I had never seen before. His smile said: I’d like to get to know you.

  I had kissed a few boys, but I never really liked any of them that way. Theo had jet-black hair, and his bottle-green eyes easily upstaged the lightly scattered acne on his face.

  One day, after weeks of shy flirting, he asked me out on a date. He was really nervous, and kept staring down at his feet. He told me to meet him at the 99-cent store the next night. Something came over me, like a wash of light. I felt beautiful, and very alive. I debated what to wear for hours, which I had never really done before. I put on mascara and lip gloss. I dabbed a little vanilla extract behind my ears.

  Theo never showed up. I waited for over an hour. And the next day, he didn’t come into work. Bell didn’t have a home number for him, and he wasn’t picking up his cell. That was it; he just vanished.

  I know it seems like it shouldn’t have affected me so much. I’d known Theo for less than a month. But he was the first boy I ever thought I could really like … maybe even love. It took me months and months of wondering why, what, and how, until I finally let it go. Well, more like buried it deep inside me, because when Lola says the words Dish Boy, my breath shortens, and I have to sit down in the little faux living room set up in the back of Banana Republic. She knew what a nightmare it was for me, so I’m wondering why she’s even bringing it up.

  “No,” I say.

  “Oh. I was just thinking about the ‘young man’ part of the psychic’s ‘prediction,’ you know? Regardless, we’ll have to get you on the market, Livie,” she says, holding a frilly white top in front of me. Lola has tons of advice about boys, but I’ve never actually seen her date anyone.

  Back in Silver Lake, we pass by a bunch of kids in an alley, and I recognize Jeremy and his drummer, Phil. They’re lighting fireworks. When we were little, Jeremy used to protect me. One time these Mexican kids were teasing me about having two dads, and he slashed the tires on their bikes. He ended up getting beaten up pretty badly, but that’s the way Jeremy is. He takes dares and rushes headfirst into things, and I have a feeling his wounds make him feel alive.

  For as long as I could use a knife, I’ve made Jeremy gazpacho, his favorite thing to eat, and it makes sense. It’s more of an angry dish, especially the way I make it. The chili pepper element isn’t exactly subtle. When Lola and I get home, I decide to make him a batch, maybe because I’m feeling a little frustrated that Lola brought up Theo. It’s simple to make, but it requires a lot of labor, and chopping always calms me down. The tomatoes are from our neighbor Davida’s garden. She’s a former Broadway actress who is now a “life coach,” among other things. Is that the dumbest phrase ever? Life is not something that can be mastered by some strength training or through a miraculous goal in overtime. It’s more like learning through experience.

  Lola is already trying the gazpacho before I add the fresh lemon juice and cilantro. She calls it “divine,” which is pretty much her highest compliment. I tell her she always eats my dishes before they’re done.

  “That’s the best bit! You have to taste the process.”

  I love how she says “pro-cess.” I smile and start to chop the cilantro, also from Davida’s garden. In exchange for Davida giving us produce, I walk her big chocolate Lab named Hank. If there’s anything on the planet that embodies love, it’s that dog. He loves everyone unconditionally, even the mean guy at the video store. I’ve been walking him for six years, so a lot of people think he’s my dog. Sometimes at night I can hear Davida singing to him. It might sound weird, but it’s not if you know Davida.

  Lola has to run and pick up her “auntie” from the airport, and when she leaves I put on KCRW. It’s a college station that plays a lot of cool stuff. As a matter of fact, they were the first station to play Coldplay when they were nobodies. One time Jeremy went to the station with his guitar and camped outside their offices until someone finally let him in and actually allowed him to play a little. The guy said he was talented but didn’t have the right songs. This is the feedback Jeremy has been getting for years. Right now the station’s playing someone named M. Ward. He sounds groggy, and the music is a little creepy, but it has a soothing effect. I zone out until Davida’s big head appears in the window behind the sink.

  “What’s wrong, Chef? I know that look.”

  “Well, I met a psychic.”

  “Oh.” She seems skeptical. When she offered to “coach” me in the past, I wanted none of it. Now she probably thinks a phony tricked me.

  “Come in, try some gazpacho.”

  Davida is wearing her usual mix of sweats and loose bohemian clothes. She tries the gazpacho, and her eyelids slowly close, the first sign I’ve done a good job. I tell her about the elevator woman. The more I talk, the more intrigued she is. She takes another bite and says, “Yummers.” Her dorky word choice would embarrass me if she were my mother, but with Davida it somehow works.

&
nbsp; “Thanks.”

  “Listen, Chef, she may be on to something.”

  “I don’t know. I do feel like something is happening, or about to happen. Or maybe I’m just gullible.”

  “If there’s one thing you’re not, it’s gullible. By the way,” Davida says as she steps toward the door, “how’s that brother of yours?”

  “I’m about to find out.”

  “Well, tell him I said hi.” Then she’s gone.

  I fill a large Tupperware bowl with my freshly made gazpacho and head over to Jeremy’s place. It’s about four stops on the bus, and two skater kids sitting across from me stare at my big bowl like they haven’t eaten in weeks. Or maybe they have the munchies. I cover it a little with my arm and count the palm trees out the window. There are twelve between our two bus stops. I’ve used palm trees to measure distance for as long as I can remember. That’s one thing I can always count on. I may not have a mother, a boyfriend, or a brother who stays out of trouble, but the palm trees will always stand tall and strong for me—mile markers of my city, and sturdy beacons of survival.

  CHAPTER 5

  My brother’s apartment has steep, faded green steps that lead to a dull brown building split into two small units. At first it seems like it’s going to be a cute place, but then reality sets in. I think they each pay two hundred dollars a month. I don’t really know where Jeremy gets his share of the rent, but I know it’s not from Bell. Enrique, on the other hand, has been known to secretly fund Jeremy’s “pipe dream,” as Bell calls it.

  The window is open, so I peek in. Jeremy’s recording on the vintage four-track recorder he got at a garage sale in Echo Park. He claims it once belonged to Elliott Smith. The song he’s doing has a catchy hook, like something old and new at the same time. It’s the type of song I could actually imagine hearing on the radio. He sings into the microphone that Bell got him for his eighteenth birthday.

  “There’s a hole in the sky

  And there’s acid in the air

  Toxic waste in the sea

  And there’s dirt on our hands

  And blood at our feet

  Whatcha doin’ there, people?

  Whatcha doin’ there, people?

  Destroyin’ the world.”

  He hits a bum chord on his guitar and yells, “Damn!”

  I take the opportunity to knock. He opens the door and smiles.

  “Hey, Ol, what’s going on?”

  “Brought you some gazpacho.”

  “No way, you rock. I’m starving. I’ve been eating day-old bagels for three days.”

  I give him a look. “So technically they’re three-day-old bagels. Sounds starchy,” I say.

  He grabs a big used spoon that’s lying on the coffee table and digs in. He takes a couple bites while playing back the track. Over the music, he says, “Dude, you have to like, mass produce this or something.”

  Jeremy is the only person who can call me dude without it feeling weird.

  He turns the track down a little. “What’s the secret?”

  When we were little, before Bell had his own restaurant, he used to manage a place that had some underground success. The cook was this guy named Eli, who would always squeeze my cheeks. I would stand there, mesmerized by how he cut his onions, waiting for him to slice off a finger. He told me that with every dish I make, there should be a secret ingredient, something that comes from that chef alone, like a handprint. Something that completes the dish and makes it unique.

  I smile and say to Jeremy, “If you must know … honey.”

  “Wow. Can I just get an IV of this next to my bed?”

  “Then you wouldn’t be able to taste it, dummy.”

  Jeremy smiles like he knew that already. I tell him I like the song, but it’s a little depressing.

  “Listen, Ol, people don’t want shiny happy songs. The world is in chaos. Recession, unemployment, wars, natural disasters. I want to write songs that speak to that, you know? Sweet but spicy, like your soup. It’s like, this deal I was offered, some slick guy with big offices on Melrose wants me to record a demo, but not of my songs. I met the songwriter, she seemed cool enough, but the songs? Ol, they’re like watered-down carbon copies of the lame-ass crap on the charts. I turned it down. I just gotta get someone to believe in what I have to say, you know what I mean, dude? As an artist.”

  “Well, sometimes you have to sell out a little to be able to make your voice heard.” I have no idea what I’m talking about, but it sounds kind of right.

  “Yeah, well, she’s definitely hot.”

  I see Jeremy has her website up on his laptop. She’s sitting by a piano wearing a tank top.

  “Jeremy! What is she, like, thirty?”

  “Probably. I just can’t deal with these emotionally adolescent chicks. I need a forward thinker.” He finishes the gazpacho and licks his lips, my reminder of a job well done.

  “Anyway, do you know what’s going on with the restaurant?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “It’s not good,” Jeremy says. “I went home to get some stuff and the Dads were freaking.”

  For as long as I can remember, Jeremy has called Bell and Enrique “the Dads” whenever he’s referring to both of them. Like me, he calls Bell “Dad” and Enrique “Papá,” which is what Enrique used to call his own dad in Mexico.

  “I guess they have to come up with four large by the end of the month. And that’ll only buy them another month.”

  “I knew it was bad, but not that bad,” I tell him.

  “Dad was cleaning out the air vents and the closets.”

  Whenever Bell has something going on, he cleans like a maniac. It’s kind of like me with cooking. I guess it balances out whatever mess is in our lives. When Bell told his parents he was gay, they basically disowned him, which is so lame. I was ten, and I came home to find him cleaning the refrigerator. Even at that age, I could tell something was wrong. He had just been to Washington to try to see his parents, and his mother had slammed the door in his face. Can you imagine? When he finished, I helped him put all the food back in. Then we made date bars, because it seemed like cooking was the logical thing to do. While we waited for them to bake, he told me about his parents. How his father used to drag him to baseball games, and how his mother used to sing him to sleep. The way he talked about them, with such love in his eyes, made me super sad. I told him that they were his parents, and that they would come around. But they never did. Here we are almost seven years later, and I’ve still never met them.

  Jeremy gets up and starts to pace, and I can sense a rant inside him that’s about to be released.

  “They don’t know I heard, but listen, sis, we gotta help them. I’m gonna take the money I got for my electric and try to buy an ice cream truck. You know some of those guys pull in like five hundred bucks a day? Crazy. Hardly any overhead except the van. Phil’s friend has one for sale. It needs fixing, but I got this mechanic guy who’ll do it if I give his son guitar lessons. I’m trying to get it running by Friday. Won’t have a license, but half the trucks don’t anyway.”

  Suddenly my little job feels inadequate. I know his plan is a tad haphazard, but I’m surprised he’s so on top of it. Of course he loves Bell, but he’s usually too wrapped up in his own world to see anything else.

  “Well, I got a job today,” I announce.

  “No way! ¿Dónde?”

  “A casting agency.”

  Jeremy kind of half smiles and half frowns and says, “Whatever works.” He’s not a fan of agents in general.

  “So between the two of us we should be able to really help.”

  “Perfect.” Jeremy gets quiet and looks around his dilapidated living room. There’s a dorm fridge with what looks like old yogurt spilled down the side of it, and a dusty TV with a makeshift aluminum foil antenna. “I’m young, you know? I can deal with living like this. But the Dads, I don’t think they can handle this setback. Not now.”

  “I know.”

  I decide to leave Jer
emy to record the rest of his song. On my way out, he grabs my shoulder and turns me around. “Listen, don’t tell them about my plan.”

  “I won’t. Bell doesn’t know about my job yet, either.”

  Jeremy tousles my hair like he always does and goes for his guitar. As I leave, I feel uplifted by his concern. I know that if we’re actually going to get through this, it will have to be as a team.

  When I get back home I see Enrique going through bills, and his face looks sullen.

  “Papá, you want some avocado toast?”

  He nods and smiles at me briefly. He’s always been obsessed with avocados. His best friend from ballet, a short woman named Luisa, got him on the kick. Apparently avocados are all she ate. He usually eats them right out of the skin with a spoon, but I’ve tried to find different ways to serve them. In omelets, with tuna, and most recently on seven-grain toast with lemon juice and chili flakes. Making it this way is more daring, the spice giving it an edge. Avocado has a soothing texture, but the chili flakes counteract it. As the bread is toasting I peek through the kitchen door. Enrique has sharp cheekbones, smooth skin, and soft brown eyes. Most of the time, he has a sort of pleasant, satisfied look on his face, but sometimes his features distort to look totally different—not ugly, but almost. He has that look now.

  When I bring Enrique the avocado toast he looks up at me and smiles again, his eyes a little moist at the corners. He takes a bite and moans, a good sign. There’s a reason people bring food to houses when someone has died. Food brings people together and gives you a comfort that nothing else can. It’s more than nourishment, although that’s a big part. When our taste buds come alive, other things seem possible. Hope, change, a new outlook on things. Especially when it’s the right dish.