Julieta changed the music from Spanish rock to mariachi songs. He resisted the urge to sing along and instead focused on his prep work. He hadn’t cooked in years. Even at home, his brother normally took care of the cooking, or they would get takeout from one of their restaurants or better ones in La Jolla.
There was something enjoyable about getting into the rhythm of chopping. But he couldn’t help being distracted by Julieta. She managed her kitchen brilliantly, and the other few cooks in the kitchen seemed to respect her.
A while later, the kitchen door opened, and Julieta’s mother walked in.
Great.
She took one look at Ramón and rolled her eyes. “What is El Banco doing here?” she asked, as if he were not in the room.
El Banco? Ramón laughed. That nickname was hilarious and not entirely untrue.
Julieta gave her mom a pointed stare. “Heowns this place, Amá, remember? And his name is Ramón.”
Linda looked from Ramón to her daughter, then back to Ramón again.
Would Linda say something rude to him?
After a few minutes of awkward silence, she opened her arms toward him.
Did she want Ramón tohugher?
He was confused, so he stood there and continued dicing.
Linda stepped closer to him. “Mijo, come here. Give me a hug.”
Ramón put down his knife and awkwardly hugged Julieta’s mother. She grabbed him tightly and then pushed him away to stare at him.
“Ramón, I can’t help but look at you and see your papá. When he was your age, he was so handsome and full of dreams and hope. He wanted to change the world.” Her tone was a bit tragic.
Ramón didn’t know how to respond, especially because he had just learned about Linda’s accusations. He needed to talk to Papá as soon as possible.
“Well, he has fond memories of you, as well.” Ramón kept to himself the part of Papá’s story when he had wanted to marry her but had seen her with another man. Did she even know that he’d gone back for her? It wasn’t Ramón’s story to tell.
“Well, Ramón, I must tell you the irony of this entire situation.” A smug smile graced Linda’s face. “When your father first tried my tacos, do you know what he liked about them?”
“He just told me he tried fish tacos during spring break, and that he met a beautiful señorita on the beach. He never said that they were your tacos.”
She shook her head. “Well, ask him again. And if he still lies, bring him to me—let him lie to my face. Yes, they weremytacos. I had a stand on the beach, and he ordered two tacos and a beer.”
He’d told Ramón this part of the story many times; he’d just never said that she had been the one to make the tacos. Then again, he had also left out the part about how he had stolen her recipe, if that was true.
“He loved the fresh fish.”
Linda laughed. “No, that was not it at all. Yes, he did love the fish, and he had never had a fish taco. But he loved the fresh salsa. He loved the spicy batter. He loved the handmade tortillas. It’s funny to me, because you have absolutely none of those elements left today in your tacos.”
Linda’s words struck Ramón deep in his chest. She was right. Ramón had heard the story so many times. And Papáhadalwaystalked about how fresh and delicious all the ingredients were, including the handmade tortillas.
Ramón looked at her. “I know. He told me the same thing.”
Linda placed her hand on Ramón’s arm. “Ironic, isn’t it? He used to tell me a story about a girlfriend he had in college who had made him an awful taco with canned tomatoes, American cheese, and iceberg lettuce. That her taco was so awful, that he could never marry her. And now, that is exactly the type of taco that you serve in your restaurant.”
Wow. She was absolutely right. The full reason that Papá had started Taco King was to bring authentic Mexican food to the college kids at San Diego. Somewhere along the line—due to business advisers who’d suggested cutting costs and replacing fresh tomatoes with canned, crumbled queso fresco with American cheese, and handmade tortillas with mass-produced hard shells—Papá had abandoned his vision.
“Well, hopefully, in this restaurant, we can bring it back.”
Linda smiled and hugged Ramón again. She seemed to soften toward him once he’d admitted that she was correct. “Mijo, I’m going to make for you the exact tacos I made for your father that day.”
Julieta looked at her mom. “No, Mamá. You don’t need to do that. He already tasted my tacos at the Day of the Dead event.”
