“Oh, I think he cares about his image. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be driving that car. Did you see it?”
“I saw it. Why do I care about his car?”
“It’s a McLaren. Do you know how expensive that car is?”
“No, and I don’t want to. And you are wrong. He drives that car because he wants to draw attention to himself. Flaunt his money. But he doesn’t care if we revolt. He will get richer while we lose everything.” Mamá shook her hands dramatically as if painting a scene before them. “People will still come to eat at his crappy restaurant. He will probably hire a tour bus to bring them here from the airport. Put a donkey out front for pictures. He will attract tourists that don’t know the difference between tacos and tostadas.”
How could someone not know the difference between tacos andtostadas? One was folded; one was flat. It was simple, really. “I don’t know. Maybe you are right.”
But maybe she wasn’t.
Julieta didn’t know what would happen. But she did know one thing.
She hadn’t spent much time with him last night. Hardly any at all, in fact. But he had come alive when he’d played the guitarrón. How he’d worn that instrument proudly strapped to his chest; how he’d sang in beautiful Spanish; how he’d beamed with pride when she’d cheered him on.
She had seen his soul.
And he was kind. He’d led her to the graveyard to honor her father. Hell, he even sang to her dad. That couldn’t have been an act, could it?
If he could connect to those lyrics through music, maybe he could connect to their culture through food. And she wasn’t dumb—he wanted her. Maybe he would at least consider giving her restaurant a chance to survive for his ulterior motives. A man like him always got what he wanted—and he wanted her.
Julieta had to try to save Las Pescas. She refused to give up that easily.
“I’m going to try.”
“Don’t waste your time. It’s not going to work.” Mamá scrubbed a pan.
“Stop with the dishes, Amá. I need some help.”
Mamá turned the water back on, reached over to the radio, and blasted some Maná.
“Real mature, Amá.”
Ay, Julieta would have to go at this alone.
Which was fine.
Mamá was many things—a great cook, a loving wife, a protective mother, and a loyal friend, but she wasn’t a fighter. If she had been a fighter, Julieta wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. Mamáshould’ve confronted Arturo years ago, when she came to the States. She should’ve asked him if he stole the recipe. Sued him. Taken the money and then created a great life for her family.
But Mamá didn’t like conflict. She valued peace and love and family.
Julieta valued those things, too, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight. As her father’s daughter, she always stood up for what she believed in, no matter what it cost her.
And with that, Julieta pulled out all the stops. Lure Ramón in with her food and beg him to keep Las Pescas open.
She quickly surveyed her ingredients. Pumpkin, fresh fish, and almost every spice and chile imaginable. What to do, what to do?
Julieta could go high end with a bougie tasting menu composed of expensive ingredients with minuscule portions, so he could pretend he was in one of those pretentious restaurants where it took months to get reservations. Maybe then he would feel at home.
Or, Julieta could flip the script. Go truly authentic and regional. Huge servings of traditional fare that could rarely be found this side of the border.
Neither of those felt right. Julieta wanted to wow him, make him believe that keeping her was the right thing to do.
And then it hit her.
A Day of the Dead–themed tasting menu.
Pan de Muertos
