“I read that word isn’t what they liked to be called,” Malachi says to me, but he says it loud enough for everyone, including Pretty Leslie, to hear him.
The van pulls up into the parking lot of a bakery where a group of people are waiting for us. They’re older, with thick waists, mostly women.
Chef shifts in the front seat so he can look at us. All ten of his sleepy teen chefs. “Okay, group. These people will be the host families you will stay with this week. In the morning we’ll meet back here for different tours, you will return to your host family for lunch and siesta, and in the afternoon you will each serve as a chef’s apprentice for one of the eateries in the area. Any questions?”
I look around then raise my hand. “Are we staying alone?”
“Why, you want Malachi to go with you?” Pretty Leslie says, and some of the other girls laugh. I’m glad it’s dark so no one can see my blushing face.
“Emoni, that’s a great question. You will be staying in pairs. And actually, Leslie, you’re roommates with Emoni.”
The First Night
Señorita Mariana is younger than ’Buela, but I don’t think it’s by much, and unlike the other housemothers, she is slim and trim. She immediately grabs my book bag and is reaching for one of Pretty Leslie’s rollies, but Pretty Leslie swerves away.
“No, it’s okay. I got it.” She pulls all her bags protectively to her.
I smile at Señorita Mariana. “You don’t have to carry my bag,” I say in English. I hope she understands because I am not looking forward to breaking out my Spanish! I only speak that with ’Buela.
Señorita Mariana cocks her head to the side. “Está bien. I can help. You just got off a bus.” She holds my bag and begins walking. I look over at Pretty Leslie, who shrugs. We both follow. It’s a winding hill downward, and I struggle to keep my bag from rolling away from me. When Mariana turns into a storefront and opens the door I see that it’s an old-school music store.
She turns on the light and motions for us to follow her. “The apartment is upstairs. My kids marry and leave. Follow me.” She hustles up the stairs in her long purple skirt, still carrying my suitcase. Pretty Leslie follows behind us, all red and out of breath, hauling up her bags as best she can.
“Girl, stop trying to prove something,” I say, and grab a bag from her. She must be really winded because she doesn’t even protest.
The upstairs is nice and airy with a small kitchen and living room. Mariana points to the back.
“Bathroom that way. Bedroom this way.” She walks through a small hallway and turns on the light to a room on the left. Inside are two twin beds, a dresser, and a large wooden crucifix over the mirror. “I will let you get settled. If you need something, I will be in the kitchen warming up dinner. You come ask.” She smiles and pushes her hair away from her face, looking expectant as if we might already have questions for her. I smile back and shrug. Pretty Leslie shakes her head. When Mariana leaves she pounces on the bed farthest from the doorway.
“If that lady is crazy and tries to kill us in the middle of the night I’m not going to be the one to die first.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re in another country and you’re acting like a brat,” I say, and take out my clothes, folding them into smaller squares to fit into the dresser’s drawers.
“Whatever. I’m not acting like anything. You just love being liked so much with your smiley-smiley self.”
She pulls out a pair of sweats from her smaller suitcase, pushes the two suitcases into a corner and her third bag under her bed, and leaves the room.
Ms. Mariana, Pretty Leslie, and I eat a dinner of oily rice and steak in absolute silence, the dwindling daylight finally giving all of us an excuse to go to bed early.
In our room, I notice that the air here smells different. Like oranges. I turn on the small night lamp, quickly throw on sweats and a T-shirt, and pull off my bra through my sleeve. I crawl into bed.
Although I would never let Babygirl skip brushing her teeth, I want to be asleep too badly to worry about my oral hygiene tonight. I can brush my teeth in the morning. When Pretty Leslie comes into the room, I turn the light off and stare at the ceiling. I wonder what ’Buela and Emma are up to. It’s still afternoon there. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I look at Pretty Leslie’s dark form huddled in her bed.
“Do you think you’ll get homesick?” I ask.
“Girl, don’t try to talk to me like we’re cool,” she says through her teeth, and rolls over on the bed so her back is to me.
“I know it’s only a week but I haven’t ever been away from home this long. It all looks so different than Philly.”
I can imagine her rolling her eyes at me. “Like you told me earlier, it’s only seven days. You’ll be okay. Plus, isn’t one of your parents some kind of Spanish? Haven’t you ever been to the Dominican or whatever?”
“I’m half Puerto Rican. And no, I’ve never been anywhere outside of Philly.”
Pretty Leslie’s only response is a loud snore.
Chef Amadí
“Buenos días, clase, mi nombre es Elena Amadí, and I make modern Spanish cuisine with a North African twist.” The woman at the front of the room is youngish, maybe only ten years older than us. She has long dark hair and even in her chef’s outfit you can tell she works out. Angelica would call her a hottie and I’d have to agree. We are all in a large kitchen, and Chef Amadí is the last of seven chefs to introduce herself. The whirring fan hanging from the ceiling has done little to stop us from getting sweaty, and although we were excited this morning when we took a tour of the ancient military watchtower, most of us are looking like we’re about to fall dead asleep on our feet.
“I’m not going to make it, Santi,” Malachi whispers. “Catch me if I faint.”
I roll my eyes at him. “You just gon’ fall then, with your big self.”
Chef Ayden clears his throat with that rumble of his. “Okay. Now that everyone has met the chefs, I will tell you who you will be apprenticing with this week. I took into account your strengths and inclinations and paired you with someone you can not only be a help to, but also learn from.
“Amanda, you’ll be at the bakery down the block with Chef Juan. Richard, you’ll be making tapas across the street with Chef Joselina. Malachi, butchery for you with Enrique, learning to make cured meat.” He’s at the very bottom of the list when he looks up. “Emoni, you’ll be working with Chef Amadí. Modern cuisine with a twist—sounds just like you.”
Cluck, Cluck
“Emoni, I’m looking forward to working with you this week. First, let me learn what you already know. Can you name me these ingredients?” Chef Amadí points to the different herbs and spices. “I can see that you know,” she says. And I do know.
I pick up the large leaf and sniff it. It’s smaller than the type we use back home but I’d know that scent anywhere. “That one’s bay leaf,” I say. “And that seed is cardamom.”
She nods and shoots me a wink.
She moves us to a different station and opens a container where several large octopi chill on beds of ice. I’ve never worked with octopus and I’m fascinated by the vibrant red color of the skin and the slippery feeling of it in my hands. She demonstrates with a knife how to slice through the octopus tentacles that she will marinate for grilling. I pull my hands back when they begin reaching for the spices. I feel like scolding them as if they were Babygirl, always trying to touch something they have no business touching. Babygirl. I was able to FaceTime ’Buela and Babygirl right before I got here and it felt so good to see their faces.
“Chef Amadí,” I say, comfortable enough to ask something I’ve been wondering about. “One of the kids from school has your same last name, but with an ‘h.’ Ahmadi. I didn’t realize it was Spanish.”
“My family hails from Morocco,” Chef Amadí says. Her voice always sounds like it’s in song. I look at her. Her skin has a tinge of tan in it, but I wouldn’t have thought her anything other than a Spaniard
. I slow my knife down and glance at her under my lashes.
“Oh, no. You probably can’t see it. I take after my father’s side, mostly Spanish. But Spain and all of the Iberian Peninsula has a huge influence of the Moors.”
I didn’t know a lot of this. I don’t know how to respond so I grab another tentacle and sprinkle it with oil.
“Chef Ayden says you have something special. An ‘affinity with the things that come from the dirt,’ he says. A master of spices. And coming from Ayden that means a lot. He doesn’t usually believe in natural inclinations. Only in working hard enough to make the hard work seem effortless. Is it true about you?”
I know my eyebrows look about ready to parachute off my face. “You mean the bay-leaf thing?”
“No more oil, that’s good.” She takes the bowl of marinated octopus from my hand, covers it with a red cloth, and puts it in the fridge. “The ‘bay-leaf thing’ is exactly what I mean. You’re new to Spain. From what your teacher tells me, not many of you have had exposure to world cuisines. Yet, you know a variety of herb that looks and smells slightly different when found outside of this region. I’m sure you’ve probably seen it in other ways. You’ve probably mixed spices together no one told you would go together. Cut a vegetable in a certain way that you believe will render it more flavorful. You know things that no one has taught you, sí?”
I shake my head no at her. ’Buela always said I had magic hands but I’ve never said it out loud about myself. And I don’t know if I believed it was magic as much as I believed I’m a really good cook. But she is right; most of my experimenting is with spices. “My aunt Sarah sends me recipes that I practice with. And I watch a lot on Food Network. Do you have that channel here? It’s really good. They have this show called Chopped—”
Chef Amadí puts down the rag she was wiping down the counter with and takes my hands in hers. Studies my palms. “Chef Ayden tells me you have a gift. If you don’t want to call it magic, fine. You have a gift and it’s probably changed the lives of people around you. When you cook, you are giving people a gift. Remember that.”
I pull my hands from hers. “What’s next?” I ask.
Chef Amadí purses her lips, then takes a breath and smiles. “You’re going to make hen for my guests. The restaurant opens for lunch in an hour and a half. We will call it the Monday special.”
Her words scurry over my heart like a barrio rat and I want to squeal out a horrified “Me?” But I keep my face calm and nod like I cook for dozens and dozens of people every day with a recipe I haven’t tried before.
She nods. “Take whatever spices you want, break down the bird in any form. We will serve it your way. Gallina à la Americana.”
She raises an eyebrow and I know it’s a challenge. She’s trying to see if I can hang. I adjust my chef’s hat and walk to the pantry. I don’t have to turn around to know that Chef Amadí is smiling.
“Gallina à la Afro-Boricua has a better ring to it.”
Game Time
Chef Amadí’s restaurant isn’t big. Only five or six tables, and she says usually only twenty to thirty patrons show up on a regular afternoon. She’s hired two local college students as her serving staff and cleanup crew. Both girls smile and wave at me but seem as shy to whip out their English as I am to try my Spanish.
I don’t think about talking to them for too long because I’ve got hen to prepare. I think about what Chef Ayden taught us in regard to the ratios needed, and although it takes me a bit, I calculate that we’ll need eight to ten pounds of hen. I’ve never had to prep that much meat at one time. I come up with a quick spice mix and make sure to keep as close to my recipe as possible so that the results are similar across the board.
When the bell rings over the entryway I wipe the back of my wrist across my sweat-speckled forehead. An hour and some change has passed in the blink of an eye. Chef Amadí winks at me and goes to greet the customers. It’s game time. The next four hours move at light speed, and when I look up to check the time, I’m covered in sweat and we are completely out of the special. We moved from lunch to early dinner about an hour ago but my shift with Chef Amadí spans noon to five p.m. She told me she’ll close for an hour and regroup, then open back up for dinner. I unbutton my jacket and take off my hat before stepping out into the dining room.
“Chef Amadí, the hen was just so good! There was something spicy, peppercorn or chili?” a patron asks. He is a big man with a protruding belly and multiple chins; his eyes sparkle and his cheeks are red, probably from the table wine. I like him as soon as he begins to compliment the special.
“Thank you, Don Alberto. It’s my sous chef’s recipe,” she says, and gestures toward me.
“Señorita, delicioso. ¿Qué te puedo decir? ¡Me lambí los dedos!” he says, and I smile but other than a mumbled “Gracias, señor,” I don’t say anything else. I also hope he didn’t really lick his fingers since he’s shaking my hand pretty hard and I’d rather not have his saliva all over me despite how much I like him.
Don Alberto furrows his eyebrows, still holding my hand in his. He begins murmuring, still in Spanish. “Can I tell you the oddest thing about your hen? I’ve been having a bad day. Everything was going wrong, including my stove not wanting to turn on, which is why I came out for dinner, on a Monday of all days! But from the first bite of your food . . . it reminded me of my favorite aunt. Sitting at her knee when she told me stories and shucked peas.” His voice gets rough at the end and I give his hand a small squeeze.
Chef Amadí smiles at him. “I’ll bring your table another bottle of wine. I’m glad you enjoyed the special.”
I look around. Several tables have at least one person who ordered the hen. I see the bones and smile. The plates look licked clean.
“You did well, Emoni.” Chef Amadí looks at her watch. “Oh! But you need to go. You will miss your own supper with your group. We’ll clean up here, don’t worry.”
Winning
When I get to the rooftop paella restaurant where our group has a table, I see that everyone looks how I feel. Like a bulb has been turned on beneath our skin.
Everyone at the table is too excited to shut up. We play with our dinner forks and recount our days. What our chefs or sponsors asked us to do, what we cut and measured. Pretty Leslie is shadowing a line cook. Richard is working at a seafood market and Amanda is at a bakery. When Malachi asks what station I was working at, I shrug.
“You saw how small a place it was. No stations, really. Chef Amadí had me prepare the daily special.”
Even though Pretty Leslie is three seats away from me she must be ear-hustling hard because she leans in halfway across the table to ask, “The whole meal? On your first day?”
I shrug again and don’t answer. In the moment I didn’t even consider how much I was being challenged. I just put my head down and got to work. But I guess not all of us were being challenged in that same way.
Chef Ayden looks calmer and happier than he did in our classroom. “I’m glad you all are learning so many different things.”
I look down at my cold soup, a gazpacho, and try not to smile. Then I sneak off to the bathroom so I can use the restaurant Wi-Fi to FaceTime with ’Buela. Babygirl is at her daycare, but at least I can hear ’Buela’s voice and get an update on things back home.
The Roots
“Good girl,” Chef Amadí says as she peers over my shoulder. I clip the parsley leaves. “Now smell them, what next?”
I look at the other dirt beds in the backyard garden. Chef Amadí doesn’t have any of them labeled—she says their names don’t matter, only where they tell her they want to be.
“Are you listening to them?” I nod even though I’m not listening. I don’t even know what that means. I’m pretty sure the basil and parsley aren’t talking to me. It’s that something tugs at my hands telling me what needs to go where next. I walk a loop around the garden and snip a bit here, a bit there. When I finish my circle, Chef looks at the bundle I hold out to her.
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br /> “Muy bien. Today we have rabbit and mushrooms on the menu. What should we pair it with?” she asks, but she’s already stepping into the restaurant, opening the big refrigerator door. She looks at me.
“Rabbit with harissa,” I say, closing my eyes. “Rice with mushrooms, rich with saffron.”
Later, in our bedroom I tell Pretty Leslie about my day. Less because I think she cares and more because my FaceTime with ’Buela was really me cooing at Babygirl. Seeing her eclipsed any excitement I might feel about my day. Although it’s only been three days, I already miss hearing her small feet pattering all over the house, her high-pitched voice singing along to Moana.
But I still need to tell someone about my strange afternoon. There was no time at dinner to talk to Malachi.
“She has you doing what?” Leslie says as she parts her hair so she can Bantu knot it. I look at the lines between her knots and notice some of them aren’t straight. I wouldn’t let Babygirl walk out the house with such uneven parts.
“She sounds like a crackhead. I always knew that lady was crazy, got you sniffing herbs and shit.” The offer I was going to make to part her hair dies in my mouth.
“Don’t you think ‘crackhead’ is a strong word? You don’t even know her.”
Pretty Leslie still rolls her eyes and sucks her teeth every time she speaks to me, but I’m starting to think it has less to do with my friendship with Malachi and more that it’s just the way she speaks to people.
“Fine. She sounds crazy. Shouldn’t she be teaching you the basics? Chop and dice and mince. Devein shrimp. That’s what the rest of us are doing, not sniffing herbs.” She shrugs. “Definitely not talking to food.”
With the Fire on High Page 17