How did I manage to exist for seventeen years without knowing how to make the perfect flan?
I’m full, but that’s beside the point. I take the last spoonful of Clara’s flan to my mouth and enjoy every last bit of it, until the plate in front of me is tragically empty.
“I’m not even going to ask you if you liked it.” Diego laughs to himself. He graciously ate the other desserts on the tray and left me the only slice of flan.
“Seriously, you have to get me her recipe. I will do anything. I will wash the dishes. I will be her slave for months. I need to know what kind of magic she puts into this thing.” Because there is nothing short of magic in this dessert. It has a creamy consistency that tastes of caramelized sugar and vanilla without being too eggy. The problem with most flans is that the milk-egg ratio is way off.
The guitar player pauses, speaking into the microphone. He tells the guests Chef Clara wishes to thank them personally. Chef Clara saunters out of the kitchen and is met by applause. We give her a standing ovation.
“Gracias,” she says, blushing. “Please, sit, enjoy a cordial courtesy of the house.”
Our server comes by with a tray of small liqueur glasses and places one in front of each guest.
“Thank you all for being part of the Dinner Club,” Chef Clara says into the mic. “And thank you to Rosa for her impeccable service and Manuel for his beautiful music.”
Everyone breaks out in applause again. I’ve never seen diners applaud a chef like this, with such gusto and authentic enthusiasm.
Chef Clara seems to respond in kind. She raises her hand to her heart and says, “It was my privilege to create this meal for you. I truly hope that you enjoyed yourself, and that you have a wonderful time in Spain and a safe journey back home. Come see us again.”
Chef Clara walks about the table, personally thanking everyone. There is a sheen of sweat on her face, but no real signs of exhaustion. She looks genuinely happy to be interacting with her customers. At a big restaurant, this would be almost impossible. People come and go in a mostly anonymous manner.
After the cordials are enjoyed and Manuel has played his last song, everyone leaves, merrily pouring into the street below us. Chef Clara joins us on the terrace as Rosa clears the table.
“There’s an extra piece of flan in the fridge with your name on it,” Clara tells Diego as she sits down.
“And this is why I’m so happy Pablo married you.” Diego squeezes her shoulder. “I remember, we all told him, ‘Pablo, if you don’t marry this woman, you are the world’s biggest idiot.’”
Clara laughs, tapping the table with her hands.
“If it doesn’t involve the pool, he is in no hurry,” she tells me.
“He was the best coach I had growing up,” Diego adds, his voice full of emotion.
“He was heartbroken when he found out you quit,” she tells him. “You’re lucky he’s not here. He still talks about you coming back.”
“Where’s El Jefe, anyway?” he asks with a smirk. I chuckle at the coach’s nickname, The Boss.
“He took our son to visit his abuelita in Manresa. They will be back late tomorrow. You will be gone then, right?”
“We have to leave after breakfast. Isa needs to prepare for an exam,” he tells her.
Between the tapas and the flan recipe, I’d all but forgotten about my final.
“I’ll be right back. Going to go claim my piece of flan. Isa ate the one you brought to the table. Didn’t even offer me a bite.” He grins and walks away.
My cheeks blush red with embarrassment.
“He told me I could have it,” I explain.
“Swimmers . . . their stomachs are bottomless pits.”
“Oh my god! Yes!”
She shakes her head and laughs. I join her.
After we catch our breath, I lean in to ask the one thing that’s been on my mind the entire night.
“What made you leave the restaurant business? Seems like you were pretty successful.”
She shrugs, undoing the bun at the nape of her neck and letting her long, dark hair fall loose around her bare shoulders.
“I grew up in a small town outside of Barcelona. We didn’t have fancy restaurants, but my mother always prepared these four-course meals for us. We made flan, tres leches, all sorts of cakes. It was wonderful. And then I moved to Paris to attend the Cordon Bleu and stayed there to do my stage—I think Americans call it the internship, right?”
I nod.
“I was introduced to this world of cooking, and at first it was like the star on top of the Christmas tree. But then you work from one in the afternoon to one in the morning, on your feet the whole time. And the only break is to go to the bathroom—if you have time! You rush to get ready, you rush during service, you rush to clean. Rush, rush, rush . . . it never ends.”
“But you got all those awards,” I argue.
“Yes, but the more awards you have, the more people expect from you. I remember about five years ago, Pablo and I were talking about having a child. I was so naive, I thought I could juggle becoming a new mom, being a wife, and having a demanding career. And everything was going to work out perfectly because I was this modern superwoman. After I had Sebastián, things got so crazy that one day, after I returned to work—I was still breastfeeding—I was going through the menu of the day with the staff, you know?”
I know exactly what she means. I watched Hugo do the same thing in Grattard’s kitchen.
“And I noticed everyone was staring at me like I had just dropped from space, like an alien. I thought they were just stressed because we were serving a new dish for dinner, but when I went to the restroom I realized my chest was all wet. I had forgotten those milk pads that go inside the bra. And the worst part was I didn’t have time to run home to change because I had to get the dinner service ready. It was a total disaster. I wanted to crawl inside the walk-in cooler and never come out.” She laughs at herself.
“What did you do?” I ask, horrified. My arms instinctively fold over my own chest. How does that even happen? I don’t even want to know.
“I stuffed my bra with paper towels and changed my chef’s coat. What else was I supposed to do? Dinner must go on.” Clara sips from her wine glass as if this was no big deal. I hope she’s not expecting an answer.
“But you could have kept going, right? You didn’t have to quit.” I press the issue, because I want her to keep going. I need her not to quit.
“I could have, I just didn’t want to,” she admits. “I was miserable. I was trying to be in a million places at once, trying to please everyone. Meanwhile, I was getting out of bed grumpy every single morning. I was a complete mess.”
“So what did you do?”
“I decided it was time for a change. I did some research and built a business model around how I envisioned my life to be. I made all those awards work for me.” She pauses to take off the top of her apron. “I knew I wanted to spend more time at home with my family, be there for my son, I wanted to cook, and I wanted to be creative. So my plan was to organize these private meals for small groups—a manageable number. Then I hired Rosa and Manuel to make it more of an experience, with the music and the professional service. People love that. That was five years ago, and I wish I had done it sooner. You have to find what suits you and makes you happy. This makes me happy.”
She eases back in her chair with a smile on her lips and takes another sip of wine.
I am thankful Clara is sharing her life with me, but at the same time I feel like her journey only proves you need the classical training and the awards to later do your own thing and truly be successful. If there is another way, as Diego says, is this really it?
Regardless of all the unanswered questions that remain, there is one I absolutely need the answer to:
“How do you make your flan?” I ask, almost pleading. “I need to know. I mean, I drove seven hours in a motorcycle to get here. I’ll do anything.”
Clara considers me for a moment.
“I don’t just give away my recipes, you know.”
I nod. “What can I do to earn it?”
Clara gazes at me, her face suddenly somber. “If everything I’ve heard about Grattard is true . . .”
“You have no idea,” I interject. “Whatever you’ve heard, triple it.”
“I think you’ve already paid for this flan with blood, sweat, and tears.”
“So many tears,” I acknowledge.
She pauses as if deliberating. I anxiously wait for the verdict.
“Okay, I’ll tell you how to make my flan. I think you’ve earned it.”
I clap repeatedly, bouncing with joy on my chair.
“It was my grandmother’s recipe. You will need two cans of condensed milk, two cans of whole milk, six eggs, and vanilla. Pour everything into the blender for thirty seconds. Caramelize the baking pan before you pour in the mixture—use lots of sugar. Then bake for eighty minutes in a baño de María. Easy.”
“Ah! Two cans of condensed milk,” I repeat. This is it; this is the magic.
“Everyone else uses one can. It’s not enough,” she says.
I smile, feeling like she has just given me a huge gift. And in some weird way, it’s all thanks to Grattard.
Diego walks back toward the table, holding the plate of flan at chest level as he takes a bite.
“You just ate a three-course dinner,” I remind him.
“Mine had four courses,” he says, digging into the flan. “I’m that special.”
“You better be careful, Dieguito,” Clara tells him, tapping his stomach. “Those abs won’t last long outside the pool.”
“Don’t you worry about my abs,” he responds. “Did you give Isa your recipe? I’ll volunteer for the trials.”
“I’m sure you will,” I snicker.
“Listen, señorita, my people invented flan. The taste is seared into my taste buds.” He places the empty plate on the table. “You need me,” he says, meeting my eyes.
An electric current silently moves between us, across the table. Everything becomes absolutely still, and yet somehow he touches every part of me. Clara’s patio fades as I realize I do need him. I don’t know when or how it happened, but he’s right. I don’t want to let go.
Clara clears her throat. Her hand is playing with one of her earrings and she’s suppressing a smile.
“Yes,” Diego says, startled. “What was that?”
“I asked if you’re seeing your father while you’re in town.” Clara says. “Pablo said you had a bit of a fallout.”
Diego shrugs but doesn’t answer. The smile on his face withers.
“I’m sure he only wants what is best for you,” she says, rubbing his arm.
“We have different ideas of what is best for me,” he says, pushing the empty plate in front of him. “Anyway, can we help you clean up?”
“No, no, you go and explore the city.” She pulls a key from a pocket in her apron and hands it to Diego. “You can sleep on the pullout couch. I made the guest room for Isa. When will you be back in Barcelona?”
“Soon,” he says.
I glance at him, wondering what that means. How soon? And for how long? It never occurred to me as I ventured into needing him that he may be leaving Bessenay. A knot forms in the back of my throat at the thought of walking onto the patio at Villa des Fleurs and not seeing him stretched out on a lounger with Beluga lying at his feet. I never thought I could even miss that dog.
We leave Clara’s apartment and take a taxi to Barceloneta Beach. The weather is clear and a full moon hangs from the sky, perfect for a stroll by the ocean.
The beach is crowded with restaurant-goers and pedestrians, so we walk toward a pier, where a few people are gathered at the end—mostly couples speaking in hushed tones.
Diego sits on the wooden boards, his feet hanging over the water. I take off my sandals and join him, letting my bare feet swing next to his. My body leans into him and I rest my head on his shoulders. The warmth of his touch travels from my side through my chest. Our feet entangle below, pulling the same heat all the way to the tips of my toes.
We don’t speak as we watch the lights of a large sailboat cross the bay in the dark.
“We can leave a little later tomorrow, if you want to visit your dad,” I say. At this point, an hour or two will not make much difference. The best I can hope for is that I’ll be able to finish the test.
“I don’t know, Isa,” he says, his voice suddenly soft and vulnerable. “I feel like he doesn’t see me sometimes. Like I’m just a trophy son. I’m sick of it.”
I take his hand and pull it into mine. Our fingers intertwine as our bodies move in closer. I’ve never felt like this with a guy—so just me.
“If I talk to him, he’s only going to bring up Cambridge and the whole swimming thing. He thinks I’m wasting my life. Nothing I say is going to change his mind.”
“What if it’s not about that?” I say. “Maybe it’s just about not being angry with him anymore.” I think about Lala and my own dad. It’s time I start listening to my own advice. What’s the point of holding on to all this resentment? When do I move on and stop reliving all our collective mistakes? When do I let go of my own?
“It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you,” I add.
Diego lets out a deep sigh. His eyes are set on the water as he says, “There was never a time when my life wasn’t scheduled. He never asked me what I wanted to do.”
After a long silence he adds, “And I never asked myself,” his voice resigned.
“How come?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I was too busy shaving a tenth of a second off my time, stressing over the position of my feet or how my hands were pointed during entry. Did you know that the ideal finger separation for optimal propulsion is point-three-two centimeters?” He shows me the separation between his fingers.
“That’s so sad . . .” As the words trail off, I think of all the exact measurements I’ve had to memorize to succeed in Grattard’s kitchen: the brunoise cut, measuring one-eigth of an inch cubed; the julienne sticks, one-eighth of an inch by one-eighth of an inch by one to two inches. And so on and so forth. It is sad.
“I just want time to figure out what I want to do. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Do you?” He looks at me, expectant.
I press my lips and shake my head no.
“You can tell him that,” I say. “And if he doesn’t understand, then at least you tried. But you can’t hide in Bessenay forever and pretend he doesn’t exist. That’s not a good way to start your new life.”
The waves lap at the columns of the pier as we both stare out into the infinite ocean. A soft breeze carries the sounds of music, laughter, and conversation from the beach, filling the momentary silence between us.
“What about you? Are you staying in that restaurant?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know that I can turn down the apprenticeship if I get it. It’s a big opportunity. It would be stupid to say no.”
“Whatever you do, just make sure it’s what you really want. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
The point is, if you want to be the best, you have to train under the best. The real question on my mind, however: Is it worth the pain?
We leave the pier to walk on the beach, and I find myself enjoying the cool sensation of the waves breaking at my bare feet. Diego reaches for my hand and holds it gently as we walk. Our bodies lean into each other once more as our feet sink into the wet sand.
It’s a perfect night. One I’m not sure I want to end.
Pippa’s voice echoes in the back of my mind, egging me to “have a good time.”
“We should head back soon,” Diego says. “It’s getting late.”
I nod, my heart thumping inside my chest. We haven’t talked about the possibility of sex, but I know it’s coming. I can feel it in every cell of my body.
We take a cab back to the apartment. Diego never lets go of my hand. I rest my head against his shoulder and close my eyes. This is so much more than a good time.
The cab drops us off in front of Clara’s building. We take the stairs until we’re inside. Diego locks the front door behind us, then turns to face me. My open palms come to rest on his chest. His heart is drumming as fast as mine.
He kisses my forehead first, then the tip of my nose, then my lips. Everything about the way his lips search for mine, the way his hands find the small of my back, says he wants this, wants me, as much as I want him.
I kiss him hard, pressing all of me against all of him. His mouth slips down my chin and gently explores the contours of my neck. I lift my head and a soft moan escapes my lips. My hands slip under his shirt, fingers digging into his hot skin. The intensity of our limbs wrapped around each other leaves me gasping for air in the best possible way.
My head is spinning like I’ve had too much to drink.
For the briefest of moments, my eyelids flutter open and I catch a beam of light shimmering on the metal surface of one of Clara’s culinary awards.
I close my eyes and tighten my grip on Diego’s torso, trying to recapture the heat of the previous moment, but something has shifted inside me.
The fear of losing myself completely in someone else niggles at the back of my mind. Doubt quickly creeps in.
This thing between us—whatever it is—has only just started and I’ve already jeopardized everything I’ve worked so hard for by coming on this trip.
Yet, given the opportunity, I wouldn’t take it back.
Diego’s lips brush the tender skin above my chest and I shiver as if intoxicated.
What I don’t get is, how can I give myself completely and still be wholly me?
I wrestle with my thoughts and all these new emotions for answers, but none come.
My hands slide over his shirt and come to rest on his chest. His skin blazing under my palm.
I turn my head so that my cheek is resting against the soft skin of his neck. My lips start to relax as I try to calm down my own racing heart. As I try to formulate a coherent thought.
After a long silence, I manage to whisper, “I’m not ready.”
Diego presses his forehead against mine.
“Not yet,” I add, touching his neck with my hands.
“Haven’t you heard? I have all the time in the world,” he says, kissing my earlobe and sending goose bumps down my back. “Clara has more leftover flan in the fridge. Wanna join me?”
I suppress a laugh, afraid of waking up our host.
“Are you always thinking about food?” I ask, following him to the kitchen. He opens the fridge and pulls out a plate of flan and two spoons.
He gives me a Do you have to ask? look that only makes me want to laugh harder.
“See? Even Clara knows,” Diego says, pointing to a sticky note attached to the plate that reads, “In case you’re hungry when you get home.”
“Give me one of those spoons,” I say, sitting next to him on the living room couch. It’s a big sectional with a chaise large enough for two.
The hours pass as we raid Clara’s fridge, eat, and laugh, sharing random stories of life across both sides of the Atlantic.
When we are both so tired we can barely keep our eyes open, Diego leans back and I rest my head on his chest. I fall asleep to the soothing sound of his heartbeat.