AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Why you decide to study that?”
“I grew up speaking Spanish with my mother. When I started kindergarten, I had to learn English and was the only kid who spoke Spanish. Then in junior high we had to take a language and I chose to study Italian because I already knew Spanish. Besides, that’s where my grandfather is from, and it was either Italian or French. I learned quickly and studied all through high school. Also, I used to translate for my mother all the time. She speaks English but needed help to understand letters or if she was having a conversation with a doctor or lawyer. By the time I got to college, I loved languages and it was just part of my life, so I decided to major in linguistics and Italian, with a minor in Spanish.” She shrugs as if studying languages is something easy.
“Increíble!Many people need translators to help. You will do good here in Miami with that job.”
“I hope so because so far I really like living in Miami.”
“So, which do you like more, speaking in English orhablando en español?”
“They both come naturally to me. I guess it depends on who I’m with. I mean, English is what I’m most used to but sometimes I think in Spanish too,” she says, lifting her shoulder in uncertainty. “What about you, which do you prefer?”
“Bueno, it’s easier to speak Spanish but English is better so I can practice. When I’m with someone who speaks both, I try to speak English. If I no speak it, I forget it and here in Miami it’s easy to only speak Spanish.”
“Makes sense. So, English it is, or at least for the most part because let’s be honest, Spanglish is gonna happen.” She chuckles.
The waiter arrives to take our order. “I’ll take thechurrasco, well done,” I tell him when Sol finishes ordering.
“Well done?” Sol interrupts me, scrunches her face, and drops the menu on the table.
“Sí. Why?”
“My uncle would give you a lecture if he was here right now about eating meat, how to eat it, the proper way, blah blah. Then he would insist you order it medium, because that’s the right way to eat steak—according to him, anyway.”
“Really? ¿Y eso porqué?” I ask, my eyebrow raising.
“He says it’s the best temperature to get the true taste of the meat, to truly savor its flavors, especially since the Argentine’s only use salt to season it. My uncle is THE Grillmaster, grilling for us all year round—” her hands are animated as she’s telling me about her uncle “—regardless of the freezing temperatures outside.”
“Okay. I trust you.Voy a probarthe steak like you suggest,” I tell her, then turn to the waiter who is waiting for us to decide. I hope I don’t regret trying it as she’s suggested. “Medium,como dijo la señorita,” I tell him.
“I agree with the lady. Medium is the best temperature to have your steak,” the waiter chimes in.
“Con papa fritas,” she adds, raising her eyes to the server. “Gotta have fries with your steak. It’s the only way to have it,” she says with a lopsided grin.
“Me encantan las papitas, good choice.” She’s right, fries are my go-to side dish when I have steak. Who knew talking about food would get Sol to open up, speak comfortably, and ease her nerves when speaking to me. We’ll have to have more meals together so I can get her talking more freely.
When we finish ordering, I extend my hand across the table and place it near her to see if she’ll extend hers to mine. She doesn’t and instead tucks her hands under the table and away from me.
“So, steak is serious business?” I say, wanting to change the awkwardness I just caused by reaching across the table, and pull my hand back.
“Oh, not just steak. Eating in general is serious business. I’d say that eating, and cooking, are at the top of my list of favorite things to do.”
“Entonces, estamos hecho un pal’otro,” I respond, chuckling. “I love cooking and eating too. See, destiny! There’s nothing like good food.”
“What’s your favorite thing to make?” she inquires, her eyes widening with enthusiasm.
“Potajes. Black beans,chicharos, frijoles colorados. Any type of beans.”
“Chicharos. I don’t think I’m familiar with those or ever had them. As for the other beans, I’ve probably only tried them once or twice and wasn’t a fan. Beans aren’t something my mother made because they’re not a big part of the Argentinian diet.”
“But your father, he’s Puerto Rican, no?” I ask, curious as to how she’s barely tried beans when they’re a staple of the Puerto Rican diet.
She’s twirling her curls with her right hand and staring out the window. “I remember very little about my father.”
I don’t want to pry too much because she is shifting in her seat as she stares out the window at the mention of her father. She’s already tight-lipped, no need to help her with keeping quiet. “Hopefully you learn to like beans more. You no had thembien hecho, yet. How you make them makes a huge difference and many restaurants make theirs with canned beans.”
“Well, you’ll have to cook for me someday,” she says with a lopsided grin, and meeting my eyes.
“Cuando tú quierasI cook for you.” Maybe she’ll take me up on my offer and allow me to cook for her soon. I take the opportunity and extend my hand across the table again, palm facing up, hoping she will meet me halfway—and she does, bringing her hand up from beneath the table and placing it in mine. I drag my fingers up and down the inside of her palm, letting her soft, warm skin graze my rough fingertips.
