“You’re not.”
“Didn’t you notice how Mami’s eyes glazed over when she talked about it?”
“That’s Mami.” Frank stepped back and waved. “Her eyes glaze over every time she talks about Cuba.”
“Yeah, but Justo’s brother said something along the same lines in his letter.”
“Coño, you’re right.” Justo pointed at Pepe with his bandage. “It’s like they’re both in love.”
“And who knows, maybe the Quesadas still work there. A relative or someone,” Pepe added.
“If they’re still there, they’re in business with Castro.” Frank turned away and ran his hands over his hair. “It’s a terrible idea. I could go to prison.”
“No, Frank, Think of this: every Cuban who left in 1959 is probably dreaming of El Ajillo and—”
“The taste of Cuba,” Justo said.
“Then maybe we should just find out about the Quesadas before we do anything rash,” Frank said. “And what about the curse?”
“It’s just a superstition,” Pepe said.
“And the secret police? Mami says—”
“No, no,” Justo interrupted. “Your mother, she likes to exaggerate.”
“Then why did you leave?” Frank asked.
Justo waved his cigarette from side to side. “It’s different for the tourists.”
“And besides.” Frank turned and flaked the frost off a shelf with his fingernail. “Mami would freak if she knew I went to Cuba.”
“We’ll tell her you went to Ft. Lauderdale or something.”
“Why can’t you go?”
“Because I was born there,” Pepe said. “Justo and I would have to get Cuban passports.”
“And that would take forever,” Justo added. “You can go just like that. We’ll buy one of those tour packages. You can fly in through Mexico or Canada. One week. Así como si nada.”
“But what if your brother doesn’t want to help us?”
“No,óyeme, my brother will help us. I’m sure he’ll find a way to get it for us. Coño, I think this is a great idea.” Justo patted Frank on the back and took a long drag from his cigarette.
“Besides, we can get some press coverage,” Pepe said. “We’ll tell them the story about how the government stole our recipe and how we went to Cuba and took it back. The press’ll love it. It’s like that whole Bacardí, Havana Club thing. We can really play this up for publicity.”
“Listen to your brother,” Justo said. “It might not be the best idea, but it’s the only one we have.”
“No.” Frank turned away to face the back of the freezer. “This is ridiculous.”
“Frank,” Pepe circled around him. “Ever since Julie left you’ve been moping around like a stray dog—”
“No I haven’t.”
“Well, that’s the point, no?” Pepe said. “You never seem to care about anything.”
“I care about the restaurant.”
“Well?”
“We have this chance,” Justo said.
“Besides,” Pepe went on. “You know how you always talk about doing something important and making a difference?”
“No.” Frank turned away and avoided his eyes. “I’m not doing it.”
“Think of the restaurant. Think of Papi.” Pepe pleaded, his hands gesturing, clutching desperately at the frozen air between them. “You have to do it.”
“No,” Frank said flatly. “I could go to jail, or worse. Besides, for all we know this business of the chicken is just a bunch of mierda.”
Frank left the restaurant early that night and went home to an empty apartment. When Julie moved out, she’d left him the small dining room table, the futon and an abstract painting they’d bought at a flea market in SoHo. In the darkness, her absence was palpable. But it wasn’t because he missed her. Her company had only been a welcome distraction from the problems of the restaurant. Being alone meant he had to face himself—his regrets. There had been a time when he believed in himself, that one day his life would come together and he would earn the admiration of his family. It wasn’t about achieving his father’s American Dream: a small suburban house with a fenced yard. He had expected more: adventure, love, maybe even wealth.
He moved slowly around the apartment, his shoulders slouched forward, his fingers tracing the places where no memories existed: the wall, the radiator, the window that was screwed shut, the side lamp without a shade. Lately, the smallest tasks had become too much for him. There was a pile of dirty laundry on the floor and a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter. The whole place had the sour smell of an old wooden trunk.
He pulled off his shoes, took two Advils and lay on the futon with his arms extended. He stared at the ceiling wanting for the whole thing to go away—Maduros’ imminent bankruptcy, the constant restlessness in his heart, and his father’s ghost chipping away at what little confidence he had. He blamed Filomeno for the way his life had turned out—stuck at the restaurant, unable to find love, unable to commit. He closed his eyes, squeezed them tight, clenched his jaw. He thought of something his father had told him during one of those rare moments when rum had softened the old man’s heart.
“Things happen for a reason.” Filomeno had waved a finger in Frank’s face in his usual dramatic fashion, his breath bitter with alcohol and nostalgia. “But do not be fooled by fate, Frank. It is your responsibility to take advantage of opportunity whenever it presents itself.”
Maybe it was true about the recipe. Maybe it could save Maduros. He understood one thing: if they didn’t have the restaurant, he had nothing. All this about dreams and ambitions was a lie. He was more like his father than he cared to admit. But his father had taken one risk in his life. He had fled Cuba. He’d sought freedom—for Rosa and Pepe. He had given up everything in Cuba, even his own family, to give them all a better future. And he had given Pepe, Justo and him his savings to start the restaurant.
Now Frank had an opportunity to save it.
2
“I don’t know about measurements. I don’t even know how to read. I just look at whatever I’m going to prepare and add what I need. It is something I just know, something I feel inside. And when I’m finished it always tastes the way I want it.”
—Justina Dominguez
cook for the payroll manager at the Chaparra Sugar Mill, Oriente Province, 1909
W hen Frank stepped out of Havana’s José Martí International Airport, he was engulfed by a wave of human longing, of desperate Cubans trying to
