But Jaime finally stood on his own. After he quit managing the social media accounts for Taco King, he had surprised himself with how well he had built up his own social media following. And he made a fortune on influencer deals. He had proved that he didn’t need his family financially.
Being back up north in the only place where Jaime ever felt he was seen as more than just the youngest Montez brother would be good for him. He was happy to spend some quality time with Santi and go to that charity event with him and his sister.
But most importantly, he couldn’t wait to breathe the same air as Alma.
Chapter Four
Alma shuddered. The critic from the other week had been a no-show. But she heard a rumor from another restaurant owner who knew him that he had said he would stop by tonight.
She clasped her hands and said a prayer.
As badly as she wanted him to come in, one negative review could be all it took for her success to disappear.
That was why she needed tonight to go well—so the reviewer from theChronicledidn’t blow her up on socials, and not in a good way.
A sharp pain in her arm brought her back to the moment. She shot her brother a dirty look. “Carlos, what was that for?” He had bailed her out tonight when one of her bartenders called out sick.
“You were gazing out at the bay, like some newbie tourist. You okay?”
A smile spread across her lips. “Never better.”
Alma focused. She went behind the tall wood-carved bar and straightened the tequila bottles. She loved the colors and designs of the containers—brightly colored, some were even hand-painted. Her favorite bottle was a white ceramic one painted with intricateblue leaves. The shape of the bottle resembled the curves of a woman, and the liquor itself was just as robust, just as refined—truly the intersection of quality and art.
She signaled her bar manager, Lupe, to turn the music on, to which Lupe quickly obliged. The melodic sounds of one of her favorite Spanish ballads filled the air; the singer’s deep baritone voice almost as intoxicating as the liquor in the place.
Almost.
A waft from the kitchen danced through her nostrils. Though this was a tequila bar, Mezcalifornia was known for its happy hour. They served mostly the usual fare that you would expect—small carnitas street tacos, fresh-charred corn dressed with a tangy garlic sauce and garnished with cotija cheese, mini ahi tostadas, and of course, guacamole. She hadn’t wanted a typical sit-down restaurant with gourmet food and a wine list. Been there, done that.
No. She wanted a vibe. A destination. An experience.
She checked on the rest of the workers and made sure the bartenders were ready to rumble. Carlos happily milled around the bar, helping out where he could. He sliced limes like a ninja, ground various salt and sugar mixtures, which he would use to rim the margarita glasses, and pulled sage leaves off the vine for garnishes.
Her phone buzzed: It was five o’clock. Time to let in the crowds. And hope the critic showed up and loved the place.
Alma straightened her black bustier, tossed her hair so it framed her bare shoulders, and went to the door. The line wrapped around the ferry dock.
The first couple she let in was at least in their seventies, though the woman looked fantastic. Was she Mexican? With her light skin and jet-black hair, Alma couldn’t be certain. The couple held hands.
“Table for two.”
“Of course. Right this way.”
The gentleman pulled out the seat for his companion. Alma’s chest filled with warmth. It was so wonderful to see people who were still in love, like her parents were. It was possible.
A bunch of tech bros followed in after them as well as a bachelorette party. The men circled the women like sharks hunting surfers. Wow, what a perfect match between those two groups. Alma escorted both parties to the upper deck.
“Would you like to do a tequila tasting?” she asked the group of women. “We have a tequila flight where you can try blanco, reposado, joven, añejo, and extra añejo. I can teach you the different ways to imbibe them.”
The lady with the bridal veil shook her head. “Nah. I’ll just order a round of your watermelon margaritas.”
Alma smiled. “Good choice. Coming right up.”
She didn’t blame the girls for picking something fruity and fun, a drink that hid the pureness of the tequila she had handpicked for the bar.
Sometimes, she resigned herself to the fact that she was fighting a losing battle. Not everyone actually cared about the differences in the tequilas like she did. Half the people came to her bar to get drunk and have a good time, and the other half usually used it as a pre- or endgame. She knew her place in this town and was just grateful for the opportunity.
But she had learned so much about her beloved liquor that shewanted to share her knowledge with anyone who would listen. The history of tequila was downright fascinating. She’d spent months working alongside agave farmers, learning everything about how they harvest the plants. Fell in love with the stories of the women artisans who defied cultural norms to start their own brands.Studied glassmaking with the bottlers and learned how important the containers were to preserve the taste of the liquor.
