Sofrito. Phillippe Diederich
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“And when they saw it succeed, no?” Justo asked.
“Imagínate,” Rosa said. “People thought all kinds of things. Some believed the recipe was cursed.”
“Why, what happened?”
“Ay, the misfortunes that befell that poor man. His four year-old son passed away from a terrible bout of pneumonia. His wife was so grief-stricken, she committed suicide three weeks later. She tied a rock to her waist and jumped into the Almendares River. Can you imagine? Nestor became a recluse. He was quite wealthy, but he rarely left the restaurant. They said he slept in the kitchen because he was afraid someone would steal his recipe.”
“So it was cursed?” Justo asked.
“I don’t know about that. But just before Filomeno and I left Cuba, we heard they found the body of the head cook floating in the Bahía de La Habana.”
“The curse,” Justo said.
“No chico, those are just superstitions.” Rosa looked away. “Sometimes I think that chicken is what I miss the most from Cuba. I would give anything in the world to try it again.”
“What was it like?” Justo asked. “Maybe I can come up with something like it.”
“Ay, no.” Rosa laughed. She waved her index finger and her expression turned serious. “Only Nestor knew the recipe. God only knows what Fidel had to do to get the recipe from him.”
“Maybe he paid him a nice—”
“Qué va.” Rosa dismissed the idea. “Fidel only knows how to steal. If the State reopened the restaurant…Ay no, poor Nestor.”
“But what did it taste like?” Frank asked.
“It was very different. Let me see. It—” she touched her eye with the tip of her napkin. “Dios mío, it is difficult to describe. It was delicious, of course, but it was more than that. It tasted earthy…a little bitter. And sweet…like when there is a storm and the sea is raging against the Malecón. Óyeme,” she said suddenly and waved her finger. “That chicken tasted just like Cuba.”
Justo laughed. “Who could cook something like that? I mean, what does Cuba really taste like?”
“Ay, don’t worry.” Rosa took his arm. “How about a little plate of moros and some of your maduros endulzados, eh?” She smiled and focused past him at the empty restaurant.
After lunch, Rosa went home. Frank, Pepe and Justo gathered in the kitchen to review the new recipes. Justo spread out the papers and began making notes. Frank sat on the prep counter and glanced at the bizarre artifacts on the shelf behind Justo. When they first opened the restaurant, Justo had brought a Santero to bless the business. Justo insisted they place an Elegguá effigy of sandstone and seashells by the front door. He promised them Ayé-Shaluga would watch over them and bring them good fortune. The three of them argued. In the end they settled for a small altar in the back of the kitchen. It was only supposed to be a pink conch seashell and a red, black and white bead collar, but with time the altar grew as Justo added picture cards of catholic saints, candles, a small wooden ax for Changó, a decorative plate with otán stones, and an arcane collection of aluminum and ceramic urns holding various offerings to the Orishas.
Frank looked at the collection around the altar. Maybe they should have placed it at the front of the restaurant. He really didn’t know about these things. Justo could have been right all along. He glanced at him, leaning over the counter, sorting through the recipes, and recalled that September evening eighteen years ago when Justo entered their lives. Frank came home from school and there was Justo, sitting on the couch between his parents. The first thing Frank noticed was Justo’s dark skin. Then he noticed his father’s excitement.
“He came in a raft,” Filomeno said proudly. “It took him a year to build it and three days to cross. Increíble, no?”
Justo was introduced as his ahijado, Filomeno’s godson. And therefore, it was Filomeno’s duty to offer him a place to live. Later that night, Frank lay awake in bed listening to his father and Justo whisper about Cuba until three in the morning.
Now, so many years later, he still harbored a certain jealousy for the passion Justo had stirred up in his father.
“How about this duck with truffle trumpet?” Pepe said. “Sounds powerful, no?”
“Duck?” Frank couldn’t believe it. “Are you serious? Mancini and that other meat distributor from Brooklyn refuse to extend our credit. We can’t afford to change the menu.”
“Well, what about this mango grouper?” Pepe said and handed Justo another recipe. Then he looked at Frank. “If we can still afford fish.”
Frank hopped off the counter and began to pace, his eyes combing the ground, searching for an exit. As much as he wanted to keep the restaurant, he couldn’t see how to turn things around. They were in too deep.
“Here’s one for a stuffed chicken breast,” Pepe said.
Justo took the recipe and looked it over. “Can you imagine if it’s anything like that chicken in Cuba?”
“Mami really liked it, no?”
Justo leaned against the counter. “You think it could be that good?”
“Sounds like it was a big deal back then,” Pepe said.
“Sounds like it’s a big deal right now,” Frank added. “Maybe if we knew what it tastes like—”
“Sí claro.” Justo laughed. “Let’s call them. Maybe they deliver.”
“Chicken that tastes like Cuba,” Pepe whispered. And for a moment they were all silent, reading the recipes. Then Pepe slammed his hand against the counter. “I got it!”
He looked around the kitchen. The linecook was slicing Chilean sea bass filets for ceviche, and the dishwasher was stacking plates. He motioned for Frank and Justo to follow him into the walk-in freezer.
Pepe rubbed the palms of his hands together. Then he pulled Frank and Justo into a huddle. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll get in touch with your brother and offer him some money to get the recipe for us.”
Justo shook his head. “Too dangerous. He could go to prison for stealing. The government checks everything—mail, phone calls.”
“Fine,” Pepe said. “Then Frank can go.”
For a long while all they could hear was the low hum of the freezer’s fan as little white clouds of condensation floated from their lips, their eyes skipping back and forth from one to the other.
“Very funny.” Frank backed away. This is what they always did—Justo and Pepe ganging up on him. He was the youngest. He always got the short end of the deal. He waved a finger at his brother. “Very funny.”
“No, no, it’s a great idea,” Justo said and lit a cigarette.
“And if that chicken’s as good as Mami says, it can turn Maduros around just like that.” Pepe snapped his