Undead L.A. 1

by Sagliani, Devan

  My father never once showed me any sign of remorse or anger over having to pay protection money to the local gang, White Fence, or as he called them, Los Pachucos. After all, it was their neighborhood first and he was using their streets to feed his family. It was only right that he show them the kind of respect they wanted. Back in Mexico, it was common to pay bribes to a host of colorful characters from local thugs to the police department. They called it La Mordida or The Bite. When he spoke of the percentages he gave them, he referred to it as rent. I think that made him feel better in some small way about being extorted by his own people.

  “It isn't just for us,” he said once in a rare moment of candor. “It's for all the other struggling immigrants, too. All of us need to stick together to fight off the white man's endless greed.”

  I nodded but didn't reply. I knew better. Nothing was going to change his mind. As I got older I came to understand more of what he meant. Little did I know how important it would become in shaping my future as well.

  My father loved to cook almost as much as he loved his family. He also loved to tell us stories about the relatives we'd never met back home, and about the place he'd left to build a new life for us. We grew up with all these stories, but when I finally visited his town it wasn't the same. The town had changed radically since my father had left. I was glad in a small way that he wasn't well enough to return by that point. I knew it meant he could keep the beautiful images of his childhood with him as he crossed over to see Tio Toño and Tia Lupe. It would break his heart if he knew how different things actually were – that there was almost nothing left of the place he once knew and loved.

  Nothing stays the same, I thought, staring at the new houses being built all along the water. Everything is always in a constant state of flux. Nothing is ever how you remember it when you left.

  When I was eighteen I decided to attend culinary arts school. My father couldn't seem to understand it. For the first time in my life he wasn't supportive at all. He was nearly irrational at my suggestion that I move out and learn how to cook from white people.

  “What on Earth do you need to learn?” He roared, fighting back tears. “I have already taught you everything you need to know to run this truck. It is a family recipe that brings people to this place for hundreds of miles just to taste an authentic Baja fish taco. What else is there to know? They should be paying you to teach them. Mas puto!”

  “It's a really great program,” I countered. “Julia Childs even went to one of these schools.”

  “¿Quién es esta vieja?”

  “She was a famous cook, Papi. She had her own show on television. They made a movie about her.”

  “¿Es eso lo que quieres? A reality show? Like those pinche Kardashian sisters, running around town spreading their legs, flashing their chonies and embarrassing their family on television? Making ¿cómo se dice? Los videos sexo? Showing everyone their pepita?!”

  “No! I want to be a world class chef one day.”

  “Why would you want to leave your family? Are you better than us now? Is that it, mija?”

  Lowering my head, I flushed with shame at the suggestion but the burning desire in my heart did not subside. Most of the other girls my age were either busy getting pregnant and married, in that order, or making plans to do just that. None of the girls I graduated with had plans to go off to a major university. There was one girl I knew who was planning on taking community college classes, but when I pressed her about it she confessed it was just in the hopes of meeting an educated man. My best friend from school, Maria Lopez, was planning on attending cosmetology school in Hollywood. I was hoping to go with her when she left. I didn't want to be tied down by a relationship – not to a man, and definitely not to a truck. We'd grown up with the other children calling our beloved business a 'roach coach.' My entire childhood I'd heard them singing it behind our backs, making fun of us by switching up the lyrics to the traditional Spanish folk corrido made popular during the Mexican Revolution and carried with us to our new home in the barrio.

  “La Cucaracha! La Cucaracha! Come and get it while it's hot! La Cucaracha! La Cucaracha! You don't want it if it's not!”

  One of the more obnoxious children, a fat kid named Tomas, whose mother sold sweet breads to the local carneceria and was missing half her teeth, even took to nicknaming my little sister The Cockroach because of the song. It lasted less than a week. She came home in tears and, after I badgered her for nearly an hour straight, she finally told me what had happened.

  “It's because of my greasy hair,” Rosario cried, burying her tear-streaked face in her pillow. “Now I'm going to be known forever as the Cockroach Girl and there is nothing I can do about it.”

  “No,” I insisted, “you won't be. I promise you that.”

  If people started calling her that they were almost certain to call me it as well, and probably something far worse and more sexually derogatory. Once you let them start in on you it would never end. Our future children would inherit our horrible nicknames. It was more than I could bear. I could feel the anger building up in me at the suggestion that we, The Garcias, were disgusting insects. We expected this kind of treatment from outsiders, not from our own people. I was nearly seeing red.

  “What are you going to do?”

  She looked scared. I said nothing, standing up and calmly walking out of the room. I was half way down the street when I realized what I actually planned on doing. I found Tomas playing soccer in a nearby park. Without a word I marched up and began punching him in the face. The other children with him stood back and watched in terror. I knocked little Tomas over and climbed on top of his fat belly, slamming my fists down into his face as he squirmed. He cried like a little girl the whole time, but made no attempt to defend himself. When it was over I stood up and spit on him.

  “Don't call me or my sister a cockroach again, or it will be worse next time.”

  We didn't have any trouble after that, but I never forgot it. A tiny part of me still suspected it went on when we weren't around, but no one ever said it again to our faces. Around that same time I read the story by Kafka about the man who turns into a bug. It gave me nightmares for weeks. In the end I wonder which of those two events from my formative years pushed me to dream of escaping the truck more – the kids’ taunts or that creepy story.

  I wanted to work in one of the city’s better restaurants downtown, maybe someplace like the Water Grill or Patina. Later, when I knew more about the art of food, I imagined working at Baco Mercat or Bestia or even Mo-Chica. While other girls I knew only dreamed of giving birth to a bundle of joy, I dreamed of giving birth to a five-star restaurant one day.

  It took months but eventually my father ran out of steam and gave in. He could never really stop himself from giving me what I wanted, and we both knew it. I attended Le Cordon Bleu in Hollywood. It took twenty-one months and a mountain of debt, but I loved every minute of it. At first I even lived in the city. Maria and I moved over into West Hollywood, renting a place off Fountain on Sierra Bonita. It had hardwood floors and big windows that let in the sun. I wasn't used to freedom, but I loved it. Nights we would hit the bars and then cab our way home. I even had my first one-night-stand there. Those days didn't last long enough. A few months into our lease there was a young autistic girl murdered not far from where we lived. According to the Los Angeles Times, the innocent young girl was sexually molested and strangled to death, then posed out in a kids’ playground in Larchmont. They never caught the perpetrator.

  My father forced me to move back home after that under threat of no longer paying my expensive tuition. I was so freaked out at that point; he didn't have to ask twice. Things like that didn't happen in my neighborhood. Usually if there was a murder it was gang related. Women and children were never targeted. One time a black guy tried to move into our neighborhood and started selling drugs to some of the neighborhood kids. He didn't last a week. They killed him in broad daylight in front of the elementary school to send
a message to his associates in the Hoover Crips. Later, witnesses refused to speak. Not even a $50,000 dollar reward offered from the detectives on the case could convince anyone to say what they'd seen. It wasn't fear that sealed our lips. We just knew it was business as usual. My sister and I went to see the puddle of dried blood behind the yellow tape the police put up. Later, when my father found out, he yelled at us.

  “You want to be next? Is that it? Chingon! Keep your heads down and don't draw unwanted attention to yourself from now on. Entiendes?”

  But we weren't afraid. We knew exactly what had happened, and why. It was all part of keeping what was ours and protecting our own. The same people my father had been paying his whole life were making sure our community was kept safe from outsiders whose only intention was to bring us harm.

  Even though I spent a lot more time in traffic, I was glad to be back home where I could keep an eye on my father. He began to lose a lot of weight and often went all day without eating more than a few bites. I chastised Rosario for not paying closer attention to him and force-fed him tamales and carne asada. I also redoubled my efforts in school, throwing myself into my studies with a passion that bordered on obsession. I was good and it was starting to show. I had a knack for it. I picked things up easily. With only the slightest instructions from my teachers I began to thrive, standing out among my peers.

  A lot of students I went to school with didn't do as well as they'd hoped, and they grew bitter. They complained about the costs and quoted the promise of job placement like it was their right for having paid to attend school, but they didn't have any love in their hearts for it. Cooking is something that has always been in my blood. I am good at it because my family is good at it. It's what we are meant to do on this Earth – to help others by serving them and feeding them and taking away their hunger.

  Unlike my whiny classmates, I had several job offers before I'd even finished my degree. When I told my father the news he could no longer hold back his pride in my accomplishments. Tears streamed down his face as he held me tight in his embrace. I could feel the bones starting to poke through his loose clothing from all the weight he'd lost. That night I treated him to a taste of Latin Fusion - fried plantains in coconut oil served up with garlic rice, grilled green onions, jalapeño black beans, and ground yucca. I made sure Papi cleaned his plate and then plied him with fried ice cream smothered in simple chocolate sauce.

  I took a job working with Wolfgang Puck at first, but then switched to a smaller restaurant on La Cienega that catered to wealthy epicureans looking for a total culinary experience. The quality of the food was like nothing I'd ever experienced in my life. I swear I put on ten pounds the first month I started working there. The average bill for a party of four was over six hundred dollars, excluding alcohol. We served them in four courses. I was in charge of pastries since I'd excelled in that in school, but yearned to learn more about California cuisine and fusion cooking. My father, usually a man of few words, began to openly express his pride in my accomplishments. He'd grown emotional as his health continued to decline, and began talking about our missing mother with increasing frequency – how much he'd loved her, how hard they'd fought to make a better life for our sake. I paid him back the money he spent on my education the first year on the job. It was easy because I still lived at home and had no real bills other than my cellphone. I didn't have a life outside of work and my family, but I was happy. I was out of the truck and doing what I loved.

  Over the next few years I had my real education. Nothing I learned in school could prepare me for the experience of working in the real world. I saw personality clashes and found out that most chefs that are any good at their jobs are total assholes. I switched jobs several times. One boss would ride my ass over every little thing. Another would degrade me in front of my coworkers during business hours and then sexually harass me at quitting time, resorting to crass insults and racial slurs when I rejected him. It seemed that no matter what job I took, it was only a matter of time before my boss was trying to figure out how to get in my panties. I was heading nowhere and getting burned out fast. I even considered moving out of the city and making a fresh start someplace like Portland.

  Around this time, my father gave the truck to my sister Rosario. It seemed that over night he'd grown old. He moved slower and complained about his arthritis all the time. He fell asleep in the middle of stories he'd been telling and woke up not knowing where he was. The doctors told us he wasn't suffering from anything specific, but that we could expect to see more medical issues occurring now that he was a senior citizen.

  “He's in incredible shape, but he's at that age,” Doctor Taganaki told my sister and me. “His eyesight is starting to go and he'll need to watch his cholesterol. I'd like to keep an eye on his blood sugar as well. I'm concerned he might be borderline diabetic.”

  “What does that Chino know?” my father later said, still not understanding after all these years the difference between a Chinese and a Japanese person.

  “He's a doctor, Papi, so he must know something,” I countered.

  “In my village no one goes to the doctor and they live to be a hundred years old.”

  “Tio Toño died at age sixty of a heart attack,” I gently reminded him.

  “What?! He didn't die of a heart attack. Who told you that?”

  “You did, Papi.”

  “No! I told you he died of a broken heart when his wife drowned. There's a difference.”

  “She passed almost five years before he did.”

  It was no use. He'd already fallen asleep. I tucked him in and watched television until I fell asleep, catching the tail end of the George Lopez special and trying not to laugh too hard for fear I might wake him.

  The truck did even better with Rosario in charge and soon the money was rolling in. Part of her success was adding breakfast items like huevos rancheros and egg and spicy chipotle breakfast burritos. She also stayed open later and sent her assistant, Juan, to get extra supplies from the carniceria when they ran low. For the first time ever the truck carried chili lime carne asada and red molé chicken. Rosario kept up the family practice of paying the bribe. Paco had been taken down by a police sting the year before. It was part of the gang culture to be sent away and do time. No one ever ratted anyone out or ever cooperated to reduce sentences. They did their time standing up like a man. Inside prison, as well as out, they were glorified for their sacrifices. Paco was well known and liked in the straight community and the underworld. From the stories we heard, he was treated like a celebrity in prison and was even brought women and alcohol on request.

  Eventually Paco sent his son, Manny, to collect the money and the meal in his place. It was obvious from the way she spoke about his dark piercing eyes that Rosario had developed feelings for him. It made sense to me in a strange way. He was one of us, from our world, but stronger and more powerful than our family. He was dangerous, but also reliable. He understood the value and importance of family, of tradition, of preserving and maintaining our culture. They were married less than a year later. My father treated him like the son he'd never had. He adored Manny. We all did. Despite his jailhouse tattoos and gangland affiliation, he treated my sister with such adoration and kindness it was impossible not to like him. We were all won over by him, even me.

  “Pilar,” he said to me one night. “Why don't you come back to the truck? I know you're not happy to be working for all these pinche güeros, and your sister could use the help.”

  I'd skipped going in to work after my boss tried to molest me in a walk-in freezer the night before. I blamed my father's condition for my absence, saying I needed to take him to the hospital, but it was a lie and we both knew it. I didn't plan on ever going back in again. I'd awoken with bruises on my arms from where he'd ripped off my bra. I couldn't help but think of the smell of red wine coming out of his pores as he violently accosted me – or how close I'd come to being raped. Later as I prepared my fathers lunch of refried beans and chic
ken enchiladas with roasted tomatillo chile salsa, I fantasized about going back into the restaurant with my paring knife and removing his penis, then dicing it into a million pieces. When my father fell asleep I slipped out and headed off to the truck to find Manny working alongside Rosario. They looked so happy together, like a little family just starting out. More than anything I wanted to tell my sister about what had happened the night before, but I knew I couldn't. If Manny found out any of it, even the racial slurs, he'd personally pay my chef a visit and by the time it was over the man would either be dead or wish he was.

  “No, Manny,” I argued. “I can't do it. I need to be on my own and I don't want to be tied down to one place.”

  “Things are good here. You will see. Give it a chance.”

  “You don't understand. I worked hard to get away from here. If I come back now it will be like I failed. I'll forever be known as the Cockroach Girl. That's the last thing I want.”

  “So what? You're just going to keep switching jobs? You're going to run out of places to go.”

  “All I've dreamed about ever since I was a little girl was opening my own restaurant. I've been making menus for it since I was a schoolgirl.”

  “Now is the time to turn that dream into a reality. If you come back, we can add some of your new dishes to the truck and see how they sell. Who knows? Maybe you won't even need to open up your own place. Most restaurants fail and people lose a lot of money. This way you won't have to risk anything.”

  “Thank you, Manny,” I said. “You are a good man. I will think about it.”

  “You do that.”

  That night as I sat all alone staring at the ceiling in my childhood bedroom I had an epiphany. I started thinking about Roy Choi. Born in Seoul, Korea, and raised all over Los Angeles, Roy didn't even start to cook until he was twenty-five. One day while lying on the couch watching Emeril he had what he referred to as an out-of-body experience, like something out of Ratatouille, with ‘The Bam Bam Man' admonishing him to do something with his life. That set off a chain reaction that lead to cooking classes, working with world famous chef's, and eventually setting out on his own with a food truck. Backed by Mark Manguera, whose marriage inspired the idea to fuse Mexican and Asian foods, and a vision of what might be, Choi set up shop and used social media to foment a foodie revolution on wheels.