Sara eyeballed mother and daughter and decided not to get involved. “This is your court? Like ushers and bridesmaids at a wedding?” she said
Dolores nodded and handed Sara the photo of the group of youngsters. “Very similar. The whole ritual is intended to show that a girl is now a young woman and available for marriage.”
“OMG, mom, that is so Victorian,” Samantha said with a chuckle.
Dolores nodded, joined her daughter in laughter and continued with her explanation. “Each step of the tradition is to reinforce the idea of womanhood. Samantha will change from flat shoes to heels and give away her ‘last doll’ to one of her cousins to show she’s setting aside childish things and becoming an adult.”
“Can I get like six-inch heels? Louboutins?” Samantha said and mimicked the heel height with her thumb and forefinger.
“Two,” Dolores said with her fingers close together.
“Four,” Samantha shot back. Instead of arguing, Dolores neutrally replied, “I’ll think about that.”
Samantha pumped her fist in triumph and Dolores continued.
“Samantha and her father will dance.” At that Samantha popped out of her chair.
“Like this?” she said, imitating her father’s awkward “Dad Dance”, prompting laughter from all of them, especially since Sara could well imagine her brother clumsily moving to the music. He hated to dance, and it was only on rare occasions that he would partner with his wife or daughter.
And who will you dance with? the little voice in her head challenged, but she ignored it, her mind solely focused on the quinceañera traditions and the meal she’d prepare.
“Hopefully not that bad, mija,” Dolores said with a chuckle.
Dolores described how each of the important women in Samantha’s life would present her with jewelry to mark her passage into womanhood.
“That sounds so lovely,” Sara said and pictured herself gifting Samantha during the ritual.
“That’s kinda nice,” Samantha agreed and picked up one of the photos and examined it. “What are you going to cook, Aunt Sara?”
“Samantha, por favor. Your tia only just said she’d do this. She needs time to think about it, decide what to do.”
Sara flipped through the photos again, trying to process all the steps and meanings in the tradition, grappling with what she could do to honor an event that was so important to Dolores and Samantha. “This is all so new to me.” And so foreign, she thought. She recalled her own very simple backyard party when she turned sixteen. Burgers, hot dogs, chips, soda, and an ice cream cake had been the Kelly family celebration staple for almost every occasion.
“Is there a theme? I didn’t have a theme for my Sweet Sixteen, but some girls did,” she explained.
Mother and daughter shared a look again, one of seeming agreement. It was Samantha who spoke up first.
“Since mami is all about tradition, we thought why not Old Havana as a theme? We were going to work on centerpieces and decorations that would bring back the feel of the Fifties before the abuelos had to leave Cuba.”
Sara liked the idea while worrying about it at the same time. “Do you want traditional Cuban foods?”
“You can do that, right? I mean we know that’s not normally your thing, but I’d be delighted to share some of my family recipes with you,” Dolores said and worried her lower lip with her teeth, obviously sensing some unease on Sara’s part.
“I do Latin food in the restaurant, just not big traditional plates. I’d love to learn from you, and I think Samantha would as well,” she said and glanced at her niece. “She can cook with us so she can someday pass down the recipes to her kids.”
Samantha held up her hands in a “stop” gesture. “Don’t rush the kids, Tia. I’m only fourteen. But I think I’d like to learn my family’s recipes,” she admitted and reached out to hold her mother’s hand.
When Dolores slipped her free hand into Sara’s and Samantha copied the gesture, forming an unbroken circle between the three, Sara knew that no matter what, everything was going to turn out well.
Days later, Tony woke in the warmth of his old bedroom where the air conditioner rattled out barely cold air. It had never really been able to keep up with the Miami heat and humidity even when it had been brand new almost twenty years ago.
Sucking in a deep breath, he stared at the network of hairline cracks in the ceiling, wondering if it had been a good idea to agree to his sister’s plea. He had escaped the mounds of busy work in New York only to find himself trapped beneath the even greater piles of colorful paper and girlish lace. No matter how he tried to extricate himself from the quinceañera planning and focus on what he really wanted to do—cook—he found himself getting sucked into all other kinds of things of organizing and coordinating tasks, just like what he’d been hoping to avoid in New York.
He also had to deal with his parents who must have been the model for millennial helicopter fathers and mothers. No matter how many times he tried to tell them he was fine, they were in constant hover mode to the point where if he didn’t feel himself drowning because of all the quince preparations he was being smothered by their well-meaning concern.
Shooting out of the bed, he rushed into the hallway, eager for a shower so that he could get ready for the day quickly and head out—maybe even escape both his sister and parents for just a few hours. Maybe even check out his old haunts to see where he could order the products for the menu. He had been tossing around several different recipes in his head and needed to test them out before he committed to doing them for the quinceañera.
As he entered the hall, his mother poked her head out from the kitchen with what had become a perpetually worried look on her face. “Mijo, are you okay? You look tired.”
“I’m fine, mami,” he said and managed to get to the bathroom door before she could launch another assault of questions—but he didn’t quite manage to make it inside before she spoke again.
“Por favor, Mijo. Let me make you something to eat,” she said as she walked toward him in her house coat and slippers.
“Mami, por favor. I don’t want to be a bother. I’ll run down to Versailles and get a cafecito,” he said and closed the door before she followed him into the bathroom.
Leaning against the door, he murmured, “Patience, Tony. This too shall pass.”
He managed to shower, dress, and run out of the house without a new barrage of questions and maternal worry although his father tossed him a hairy eyeball as he hurried out the front door. A look that said, “Mind your mami,” as his father sat in his recliner, reading the newspaper and sipping what was probably his third cafecito of the morning. How anyone could ingest that much caffeine and sugar without a heart attack had always baffled Tony.
As Tony walked down the block and toward Calle Ocho it occurred to him that like his parents, the neighborhood looked older but still vital. The small cinder block homes were in nice shape, some gaily painted in teal, mango, and coral tropical colors that screamed “Miami.” Postage stamp-sized lawns were thick with the varieties of coarse grasses that could handle the brutal Florida heat. Assorted annuals and colorfully leafed crotons completed the picture he remembered of the Little Havana area in which he’d grown up.
The heat and humidity were already noticeable in the early morning hour and his T-shirt clung to him with sweat. By noon the weather would drive people into their air-conditioned cars, homes, or stores.
At the corner the street became commercial, lined with all kinds of mom and pop shops, the same but different from the ones of his childhood. La Carreta with its kitschy sugar cane cart still tempted passing pedestrians with the aromas of garlic, onion, and roast pork, but he pressed on to the next block and Versailles with its famous take-out window—La Ventanita. One went there not only to get coffee and food, but also news about everything Cubano that could be happening in either Miami
, Havana, or Washington.
He lined up, mouthwatering at the thought of a café con leche and a slab of buttered, toasted Cuban bread. As the patron at the front of the line stepped away and walked toward him, he realized it was his childhood best friend, Rick Kelly. The Kellys had lived just a block or so away from his parents’ home. He and Rick had grown up together in the neighborhood and had also roomed together in college.
“Rick? Mano! It’s been too long,” Tony said, grasping the other man’s hand and bro hugging him. Rick wore the familiar T-shirt for his family’s wholesale meat company and work-worn jeans.
“Too long for sure, man. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you let me know you were coming down?” Rick said and took a sip of his coffee, wincing at the heat of it.
Tony shrugged. “Family stuff. I’m sorry, I should have messaged you. Do you have to run?”
Rick gave his watch a quick look. “I’ve got time. I’ll wait for you by that counter,” Rick said with a jerk of his head at the area behind the take-out window.
Tony resumed waiting in line—but not for long, since the servers worked at almost lightning speed, prepping coffee orders and toasting not only the slabs of Cuban bread, but also the trapezoidal Cuban sandwiches loaded with ham, roast pork, Swiss cheese, pickles, and mustard that some customers took with them for lunch later in the day.
In no time he had his toast and coffee and was standing next to Rick, dunking the bread; eager for that first sip of coffee sweet with sugar, milk, and the buttery remnants from the toast. He took a sip and sighed. “I forget how good the simple things are,” Tony said.
Rick nodded and dunked his own piece of bread. “Fancy chef like you needs to spend more time with us common folk,” Rick said, but there was no bite in his words, only humor. “How are things up in the Big Apple?”
“Crazy busy,” he replied with a shake of his head.
Rick stared at him hard. “Even I can see that’s not busy in a good way.”
Rick had always been able to cut to the chase even when they were kids. “Too much paper-pushing and not enough cooking,” Tony admitted and took another bite of coffee-soaked bread that filled a hole inside him that wasn’t only about physical hunger. Sitting there listening to the rapid patter of Spanish of the patrons and the welcoming comfort of the familiar smells all screamed “home.” Even if “home” came with a quinceañera-crazy sister and niece, and over-protective parents.
Rick shoved the last piece of bread into his mouth and around the mouthful said, “You’re welcome to cook at my house anytime. Or we can go down to Sara’s. She’s a chef too, you know.”
He didn’t know. While he’d kept up with Rick and they messaged relatively often, Rick’s little sister Sara had fallen off his radar. His memories of her consisted of a tomboyish girl who used to tag along with them whenever she could which often annoyed his friend. His mental image of her was dominated by freckles, braces, and long hair that Sara had always thought had too much red. Secretly, Tony had always liked the vivid color streaked through her thick locks. It reminded him of her no-nonsense temperament.
“Where’s her place?” Tony asked and sipped his coffee.
“On Collins not far from Lincoln Road. You should drop by sometime. It’s called Munch and it’s awesome.”
Munch. The name made him wonder just what kind of restaurant he’d find. Certainly not gourmet dining, but hopefully not the kind that catered only to people too drunk to notice they were being fed slop. Not that he expected that of Sara who had always been top of her class in everything she did. It made him smile as he remembered the way she’d tilt her chin up defiantly whenever Rick had said she was too little to do something. Nothing had ever phased her, and he wondered if she was still like that. There was only one way to find out.
“I’d love to see Sara again. Let me know when you’re free. It would be great to spend more time with you while I’m here,” Tony said as he noticed the other man sneak another quick glance at his watch.
“I’ll drop you a line. I’m sorry I have to run. Matt can be a real pain if I’m late to work.” Rick clapped Tony on the back and stuffed the last of his toast into his mouth.
“Some things never change,” Tony said, recalling the many times Rick’s older brother Matt had gotten on Rick’s case about grades, dates, and just about everything else. Which made him wonder how much Sara had changed in the over ten years since he’d last seen her: at his and Rick’s college graduation.
With another bro-hug and repeat of the promise to get together, Rick hurried to a van parked at the curb and Tony settled back against the counter, enjoying the ballet of the servers filling the orders at the window; the symphony of them singing out the tickets; and the ring and slam of the money drawer and tinkle of change dropping in. Comfortingly familiar scenes much like the ebb and flow of the pedestrians beyond the window and the shops lining Calle Ocho.
Tony finished his own breakfast and braced himself for the return home. He’d hoped to avoid the craziness he’d been experiencing in New York with this trip back to Miami, but it was almost as busy with all the preparations for the big event. “Almost” being the key word since it still wasn’t as bad as it had been in New York with the mounds of paper, equipment breaking, line chefs quitting, and everything else that had convinced him to come home to Miami for a short vacation.
Only Miami isn’t home, he reminded himself. Not anymore. And things did change, he realized as he glanced around at the different stores on Calle Ocho and heard the mélange of Spanish accents that clearly marked some of the speakers as non-Cubans. Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Dominicans as well as people from various South American countries were changing a neighborhood that had once been predominantly Cuban making him feel as if Calle Ocho was no longer the place he remembered. But change was good and just like this place had given his family a chance, he was pleased that others were also getting that opportunity.
As he drifted away from the counter and onto the sidewalk, he once again considered whether Sara had changed and speculated about the restaurant she owned. There had been obvious pride in Rick’s voice when he talked about it, but brotherly love might have influenced his perspective. Of course, there was only one way for him to really know what was up: Tonight, he’d run over to Munch and see for himself.
Turning the corner, he spotted Sylvia’s Wrangler sitting in the driveway and stopped dead. He hadn’t been expecting his sister until later and dreaded diving back into that ocean of pink and lace quinceañera planning so soon. Pivoting on his heel, he headed back toward Calle Ocho.
Coward, his inner voice chided, but he quickly shot it down with, He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.
It was about time he started doing what he’d come to Miami to do—cook.
With a few quick taps to pull up the ride-hailing app on his phone he had a car on the way to take him to the local produce market. It was only a couple of miles away, but he felt that was maybe too far to walk in morning air that was already uncomfortable for someone used to the cooler New York weather.
In no time the car arrived to drive him to a local fruit store that had been in Little Havana for as long as he could remember. While not large, the stand had always used to have a good assortment of in-season fruits and some of the best milk shakes in the city.
In less than ten minutes he stepped out of the car and into the business. Much like at Versailles, customers ordered coffees, toast, shakes, and other items at a counter and then moved to a sitting area on one side of the building. He headed to the other part of the store and strolled through the stalls holding various fruits. At least three different kinds of mangoes. Mamey. Papayas. Plantains in stages ranging from a very ripe yellow to unripe green. Bananas, lemons, oranges, and melons mingled with coconuts, pineapples, and other tropical fruits. In one tall stand long stalks of fresh sugar cane waited to be crushed for the sweet gr
assy-flavored guarapo beverage so many Latinos enjoyed.
Tony smiled, recalling many a Saturday shopping excursion when his mother would buy a smaller piece of sugar cane for him to chew on while she picked up fruits and vegetables for the week.
Recognizing a familiar wizened face standing by a door to a back room, Tony walked over and greeted the man. “¿Como estas, Luis?”
“Chico, que bueno verte,” the old man said with a smile that displayed one gold tooth.
“It’s good to see you too, viejo, I’m hoping you can help me out with some supplies.”
“For Angelica’s quinceañera?” Luis pulled the stub of a pencil from behind one ear as well as a small worn notepad from the pocket of baggy khaki pants that were barely held on his thin frame by a cracked leather belt. As usual, he wore an immaculate white T-shirt. Tony had always wondered how he kept it so pristine with all the manual labor he did.
“Sí, for Angelica’s quince.” Tony was reminded again that Little Havana was a lot like a small town tucked inside the big city. News traveled quickly within the community, and it was no wonder that Luis would know about his niece’s party.
Tony launched into an explanation of what he would need for the menu he was contemplating as well as when and where he would need it. The old man bobbed his head up and down and scribbled notes in the pad and then said, “Let me check and see what I can do for you.”
“Gracias, Luis. I appreciate it. Lucy still making batidos?” Tony asked and peered toward the counter where sure enough, an older woman with a helmet of coiffed white hair prepared milk shakes for a line of customers.
“She is and you’ll break her corazón if you don’t go see her,” Luis said and jabbed the stub of the pencil in Tony’s direction.
“I wouldn’t miss her—or her batidos—for the world,” he said and hurried over to the counter.
When Lucy caught sight of him, she handed the metal mixer glass to one of the clerks and waddled over in his direction. He met her halfway and engulfed her in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground. As he did, the older woman tittered and crooned, “Amorcito. You’ve been away from home for too long.”
South Beach Love Page 3
