Love By Chance (Chance Series Book 1)

by Blake Allwood

  I walked across the road and over to the restaurant/bar, where Elian had asked me to meet him. I found him exactly where he said he’d be, sipping what appeared to be a martini, and after greeting me warmly, asked what I was drinking.

  I’d nervously searched for what drinks to order on a first date as I prepared for the night.

  “Gin and tonic,” I replied. Although I seriously hated gin and tonic!

  Elian

  Martin was dressed in jeans that accented his slim, muscular legs and a nice button-down that showed off his slight upper body. The contrast was maybe a bit odd but very sexy.

  He asked me how the Dallas trip went, and I shook my head, exasperated. “It’s going to be fine as a business, but I’m afraid in regards to my aspirations, it’s another dead end.”

  Martin smiled as the server dropped off the gin and tonic.

  “I’m looking for a diamond in the rough,” I told him.

  “What do you mean?” Martin asked.

  “You know there are hundreds of budding restaurants all across the country, but only one in a million has a strong enough business model to become a successful national franchise. That is what I want… that something special.”

  Martin shook his head. “I guess I don’t know much about the business side of restaurants. I just know the food and service side. So, what makes a restaurant a potential for franchise?” Martin asked.

  I shook my head. “It isn’t what makes them able to be a franchise; any business can technically do that. It’s what makes a business successful as a franchise.”

  Martin shrugged. “Business was never my forte. In college, I was required to take a business class along with my journalism degree because, as my advisor informed me, if I was going to be a journalist, I had to understand the background of a business. Unfortunately for me, the business class was the one C grade I got, bringing an otherwise stellar GPA down a notch.” Martin laughed at the memory. “My ridiculous advisor even recommended I retake the class, but I told him I’d rather take the C than go through that torture again.”

  I smiled, taking this revelation as my cue to change the subject. But before I could, Martin asked me, “So, you’re buying restaurants, trying to find one you can franchise?” Then, he shuddered as he asked, “Like McDonalds?”

  I chuckled. “No, not exactly. I buy restaurants that have potential. I improve them, but if they don’t pan out as having long term potential for expansion, I sell them. That is how I came to be sitting across from you. The restaurant with the attached brewery seemed to have potential, but the structure was lacking the luster I thought it might have.”

  “So,” Martin stated unenthusiastically. “You sold it and made a profit.”

  I turned to him curiously. “Do you not approve then?”

  Martin shook his head. “It isn’t that I approve or disapprove, but a restaurant that can pump out the same old same old, day in and day out is boring and to use your own terms, lacks any luster a diamond may have. If you’re asking me if I approve of franchises, the answer is it isn’t something I care for. Still, if you’re asking if I approve of taking a quality restaurant and turning it into something fantastic that you can then sell like you did the brewery, I can’t really begrudge you that.”

  I took a drink, leaned back, before turning to Martin again, this time in an inquisitive way that seemed to make him uncomfortable.

  “You really do care about the industry, don’t you?” I asked, feeling surprised by my revelation.

  “Yes, why would I be in this job if I didn’t? Good quality food with exceptional service can be the backdrop of family memories. Relationships can start, become stronger, and even end based on how well a restaurant functioned. It isn’t really a business to me as much as it is a lifestyle,” Martin explained.

  “Everything you say is true, but more restaurants go under than any other business venture started in America. Without a strong business plan, a restaurant can’t survive.”

  Just as I made my last statement, I could see the shutters coming down over Martin’s eyes. If I didn’t change tactics fast, I was going to lose my chances with this guy, and I’d already worked harder to talk him into this date than I had anyone, well, ever!

  “OK,” I said with as much gusto as I could muster. “Enough business talk, let’s go see the sights. I have some things planned that I think, well, I hope, that you’ll like.”

  Martin smiles broadly, clearly relieved the business talk had ended.

  Martin

  Elian paid for both drinks, took my hand, and led me out the door. I admit, I thought this was very odd. I was from Texas, and even though my ex had been affectionate, holding a man’s hand in public wasn’t something I did without thinking about it first, but apparently, this wasn’t the case for Elian. Considering we were on Las Olas Beach in Fort Lauderdale, I couldn’t think of a reason to pull my hand back, so I decided to just let it rest in Elian’s.

  He led me down to the beach, walking along the surf, allowing the water to lap up onto his sandals.

  I’d worn shoes, so I didn’t really want to walk in the waves, but Elian seemed to know where the surf was going to land and managed to keep me dry, at least for the most part.

  After walking quietly for several minutes, we came to a set of little shacks that backed up to some of Fort Lauderdale’s older condos off the beach.

  I looked up at them and said aloud, “It is a miracle these haven’t been bought and torn down and replaced with the larger, bigger varieties.

  “Not much chance of that, at least not anytime soon,” Elian replied. “These belong to Raul Alverez who built them himself in the early 1990s. He considers them his masterpieces and treasures them like they were his children. He’ll have to be dead and in his grave before they get sold to a developer who’d tear them down.

  “Do you know this Alverez?” I asked.

  Elian face lit up, “He’s my uncle. Now, come with me, I have a treat for you.”

  I was momentarily surprised by the revelation and returned my vision back to the three condominiums lining the exclusive area on the beach. They were a reinterpretation of the art deco period.

  I guessed there were ten to twelve floors which in the early ninties would’ve been really tall for the area. Since then, lumbering giants had replaced all but these three buildings.

  Part of me immediately liked that this Alverez had held out. The architecture was significantly more pleasing than what I saw on either side of them.

  “What made your uncle choose this design?” I asked.

  “Ah, good question,” Elian replied. “My family moved here from Key West. They lived down there during the time of Ernest Hemingway. They owned several businesses up until the end of the 1980s. My uncle went to the university to study architecture, but just before he finished, my grandfather passed away. Mi Abuela, my grandma,” he quickly interpreted, “couldn’t handle the businesses by herself, and my mother was already married to my father and had moved to Seattle with him. My uncle was faced with the difficult decision between returning to Key West to help mi Abuela or finishing school. Being raised to take care of family first, he decided to go home, but when he arrived, she’d already sold the businesses and the buildings. She told him she wanted him to have his dream, not his papa’s dream, and selling the business allowed him to finish school without feeling like he was letting her down.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty selfless of her,” I replied, genuinely impressed with his grandmother.

  Elian sighed, “Yeah, but she loved Key West. When I was little, she’d tell the story of Hemingway stopping by the bakery where her mama worked. While he ate a pastelito de guayaba and sipped on a caffe misto, she would sit across from him, asking hundreds of kid questions, which she said he would answer as if they were important questions asked by one of the magazines that reported about him. Her mother would eventually see her sitting with Mr. Hemingway and come to shoo her away, but he would always wink at her when her mama
turned her back.

  “She married my grandfather, my Abuelo, when she was seventeen. They had gone to school together, but he was a couple of years older than her. Abuela was poor, and he was wealthy, but that didn’t stop them. With her help, they turned their corner store into a business anyone would be proud of. So, when Abuelo died, she made a good amount of money on the sale.”

  Elian stared wistfully out toward the sea. Even though I’d just met him, I could tell how much he’d loved his grandmother.

  After a moment he continued speaking. “My uncle finished school and married my aunt who was from here. She convinced him to move his mother to Fort Lauderdale and build his buildings on land she had inherited from her family.” As he explained, he pointed to the lots where the three buildings stood.

  “Mi Abuela wasn’t very keen on leaving Key West. She was getting older and didn’t want to leave her friends and family, so to convince her, Tio, sorry that means my uncle drew up designs that mimicked old Key West. Abuela, of course, loved the drawings and told him, if he built these, she would move to Fort Lauderdale to live.

  “The 1990s were bustling times for Fort Lauderdale. Buildings were popping up around his property, so when he went to the bank with his drawings and plans, they didn’t even blink an eye. He got the money, hired his brother-in-law, who was a well-respected contractor in the area and built the buildings in record time.”

  I continued to stare at the buildings, more intrigued by them now than I’d been before. “I admit, I’m a sucker for these kinds of stories. Did your grandmother move here as she promised?” I asked.

  “Si, she did and loved being here. Before long, my mama and papa returned to Fort Lauderdale too and bought one of my uncle’s condos. In fact, when I’m in town this is where I stay.”

  “Nice,” I said more to myself than to anyone else.

  “Here is the best part,” Elian said, pointing to the cluster of buildings at the base of the condos I’d noticed when we first walked up. “These were my father’s idea. Before there were food trucks, my father liked and promoted the idea of tiny restaurants that could shift with the interest of the public.

  “He convinced my uncle and aunt to allow him to build the buildings that you see, and then marketed them to various restaurants in the area to sell food to the beachgoers. As with anything, there was resistance to the newness of the idea. Even though he ended up not renting them out, he opened his own restaurants here. He had a pizza parlor here.” Elian pointed to the red and white building to his left. “This was my restaurant because, as a teenage boy, I was obsessed with pizza.

  “The little white building was a burger place, which did well enough that my dad opened several around town. Have you heard of Whitman Burgers?”

  “Wow, really?” I exclaimed. I had eaten there a few times because sometimes you just want a greasy burger.

  Elian smiled and pointed toward another building. “The little green building, as you can see, is an ice cream shop, and my mama still runs this herself, but of course, with a lot of outside help.

  “Now, this black and grey building just over to the end of the property; that is something special. This is the place I have brought you to eat, and I am excited to get your opinion.”

  We walked into the small building. There was standing room only, and you could hear the laughter and talk before you got inside. The smell that hit me immediately caused my mouth to water. I recognized the traditional Cuban smells, and it being one of my favorite foods, I was excited to try.

  When Elian came in behind me, the lady at the front gave him a nasty look. “You should be helping your sister, not running around town like a tomcat.” When she noticed me standing next to him, she blushed.

  “Do not mind me,” she yelled my way. “I’m just angry because my brother is supposed to be half owner, which he thinks means he only has to do half the work.”

  “And this is my sister, Lucia. Lucia, stop grumbling for half a second, and come meet Martin. He is a food critic.”

  Lucia stopped short, turned her full attention on her brother, then to me. “I hope you didn’t bring him here to get special attention,” she said. By then, most of the people in the restaurant had turned to look at us.

  I turned to Elian as well, waiting for him to explain why he had brought me to this place where the food smelled like heaven, then set me up to either be treated with hostility or more likely driven out of the place entirely.

  Elian grinned naughtily and whispered, “Trust me, this will be fun. Lucia, this poor man has been eating food at the restaurants in the entertainment district. He has never eaten real Cuban, only the food they try to pass as Cuban down there. Can’t you be a dear and show him what real food tastes like?”

  Both Lucia and I glowered at Elian. She quickly glanced at a man who was serving a couple at the end of a long bar and said, “Mi Corazon, please find a seat outside for mi hermono y el critico.”

  The man turned toward Elian and shook his head before saying, “Right away, mi amor.”

  He quickly finished with the customer he was helping, then dragged Elian and me outside onto an outdoor paved patio. “Why do you have to come in and antagonize your sister like that?” he asked.

  “Because she is too full of herself, Manuel, and it is my brotherly duty to keep her down to earth.”

  “If you keep antagonizing her, especially when she is four months pregnant, you may find yourself under the earth. Be warned, cunado.”

  Elian laughed heartily. “Por favor, cunado, I want you to bring my guest the number forteen, and me the number twelve. Martin, what would you like to drink?” he asked.

  “I have no idea what you just ordered for me, so I don’t know. You can order that for me as well.”

  Elian thought for a moment while Manuel went back inside to tell his wife what Elian and my order was. “Do you prefer wine or beer?” he asked.

  “Depends on the menu. If I’m eating at an upscale restaurant where the food is delicate and light, I tend to go with a glass of white wine, but when I’m eating more hearty foods, such as dishes with beef, I tend to prefer a red. When I’m eating more down-home, I usually go for a beer, but the flavor also depends on what is being served.”

  “What do you usually drink when you are eating Cuban?” he asked.

  “Chicken or beef?” I returned.

  “Chicken and beef” he replied.

  I thought for a moment. “Do you have Cristal?” I asked.

  Elian turned toward me with a shocked expression. “Si, but most American’s don’t usually know what that is. How do you know Cristal?”

  I was pleased to have shocked my arrogant date and responded, “My mother and I took a vacation to Havana with the first tour group that went. Cristal was what they served at every restaurant we went to. I later learned it was because it was the most expensive beer they sell, and they could get us unwary tourists to buy it.”

  Elian laughed, “I think a Cristal will pair well with what I ordered you. Now, forgive me a moment, but I’m going to go get your beer and let Manuel wait on paying customers.”

  When he returned, he had a white wine in one hand and my beer in the other. “My sister will literally yell at me when our food is done. I told Manuel he didn’t need to babysit us, so if you need something, just let me know.”

  As promised, Lucia yelled out the door that Elian needed to come get his order before she threw it at him. I could hear several people laugh at her threat. From what I could tell, the angry sprite would likely make good on her threat if he pushed her too far. Elian smiled at me and dashed in to get our food.

  When he returned, Manuel walked out the door behind Elian, and both had their hands full of food. “What on earth did you order?” I asked.

  “Pretty much everything on the menu,” Elian replied. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  I was hungry, but I doubted I’d ever been this hungry. There was enough food here to feel the entire city. When Elian settled, he placed a
n empty plate in front of me and another in front of himself.

  “This is family-style. Just promise me you will try each item, and give me your honest opinion.”

  I was beginning to have second thoughts about this. I was never one to mix business and pleasure, and I didn’t want to critique a meal that had been cooked by my date’s sister, especially on a first date.

  I was preparing my escape when Elian said, “You can be brutally honest. I promise not to get angry with you. Your honest opinion is all I’m asking.”

  I began to wonder if this was to promote his sister’s business. Damn, I thought, Well, better to make the best of it and get done as soon as possible.

  I cut a piece of chicken from the plate directly in front of me, and when I put it in my mouth, my eyes literally watered from the beautifully seasoned meat. Before I could help myself, I moaned with pleasure.

  Elian watched me, clearly enjoying my response. Without speaking, he dipped a fork into the black beans to my right and dapped a helping onto my plate. When I scooped some into my mouth, the same sensation of perfectly seasoned flavor exploded on my tongue.

  I loved black beans and ate them often, but these were different. The herbs she’d used perfectly complemented the earthy flavor of the beans. I mostly ignored Elian through the meal, tasting each dish and moaning with pleasure as I sampled them. The food was certainly the best Cuban food I’d had in Fort Lauderdale, and likely, the best ever.

  When I’d eaten all I could handle, I leaned back, took a draw of my Cristal beer, then smiled at my date.

  “So?” Elian asked. “What were your thoughts?”

  “I think we both know I enjoyed it,” I responded.

  Elian grinned. “You are a food critic, surely you can come up with more descriptive language than that.”

  I gave Elian a nasty look, then said, “The chicken was moist, perfectly charred, and the seasoning on it, and every other dish, was beautifully done. In some way—I’m not exactly sure how—the beef in the Ropa Vieja melted in your mouth, and the pastelitos de carne were perfect. I usually avoid those because they tend not to have enough flavor for me or they are over-seasoned, but your sister’s was spot on—a perfect mix of the seasoned meat and flaky crust. What I’m most impressed with is consistency. You basically ordered twenty-five dishes here, and everything was equally delicious. I could eat at any of the star-rated restaurants in Fort Lauderdale, and I doubt they’d provide the same level of consistency across the entire menu or provide speedy service at the same time. If you brought me here to get a good review, although I think it is bad form to pretend like you wanted a date, I will gladly write up my review and pass it to my colleague that covers this part of town.”