13

ZEMCON 5

WE SPENT THE next week on high alert. Everyone worked harder to make the best possible impression on guests. I washed dishes over and over, and Martín yelled at me a couple of times because I was taking too long to move the dish racks through El Monstruo. It felt like guests were really responding to our extra level of service. We sent out free goat cheese croquets with fresh fig jam to every person who came in to eat. My mom instructed the servers to say it was a thank-you from Abuela. Brian prepared fresh mint juice and poured it into these amazing ceramic jars that said Agua in cursive on them. Every table got a jar of fresh mint juice. It was all hands on deck, and the restaurant was buzzing.

Abuela was the only one missing. My mom, Aunt Tuti, and Uncle Carlos insisted that she stay at home so she could take her medicine and rest. But that meant we all had to try to fill the dining room with Abuela’s essence—the thing our customers loved more than her cooking.

We had more specials, extended lunch menus into the night—something that a few of our regulars had asked for in the past. Commissioner García finally came back to the restaurant and was especially pleased when he heard he could eat his favorite Cuban sandwich for dinner also. As the week went on, we felt really good about the upcoming vote.

Then everything exploded on Friday morning.

Aunt Tuti was in a total panic. She paced up and down the restaurant, a newspaper in her hand, ignoring all the guests waiting to be seated for lunch.

“Look at this? Look. At. This!” Aunt Tuti practically crammed the Tropical Tribune into my mom’s face. My mom’s eyes bounced left to right as she read, and after a minute her eyes stopped cold on Aunt Tuti’s face. In that moment you could tell she was freaked out. That expression was quickly replaced by what looked like a totally fake calm.

“Tuti, right now, you need to do your job and not get hysterical.”

“Hyst—”

“Yes, Tuti, hysterical. Take control and go do your job. We are going to figure this out after lunch. Keep it together. I need my sister to be strong. Okay?”

Tuti nodded quietly. It was the first time in my life that I didn’t see Aunt Tuti make a face at my mom when she told her to do something. Aunt Tuti went back to the hostess stand to greet a guest.

“Hi! I’m so sorry for the wait. Come—let me get you the perfect table.” Aunt Tuti grabbed two menus and walked a couple I didn’t recognize over to a table by the window. They looked at La Cocina like it was the first time they had ever been there. Maybe they had just moved into the neighborhood?

Aunt Tuti returned to the hostess stand and took out her phone, texting a million miles an hour. Her lips were pressed tightly together as she stared at her screen. When the door opened, she looked up, and the huge smile returned to her face as she seated another guest. Aunt Tuti really was trying her best to be strong. But why did my mom need that?

My mom had already disappeared into her office, leaving the newspaper behind at the bar. I thought the coast was clear when I grabbed it, but Martín shot me a dirty look and barked at me to get back to work. I quickly scanned the page. There wasn’t an article, just what looked like a half-page ad.

PIPO PLACE CELEBRATES
THE COMMUNITY WITH

¡EL FESTIVAL DE LAS ESTRELLAS!

FREE FOOD, DANCING,
AND GIFTS FOR RESIDENTS

JUST THE FIRST OF MANY COMMUNITY EVENTS COURTESY OF PIPO PLACE

WILFRIDO PIPO LAND HOLDINGS, LLC

SATURDAY, 11 A.M.–8 P.M.,
ON THE CORNER OF MAIN STREET

¡NOS VEMOS!

“Wilfrido Pipo is throwing a festival to promote Pipo Place,” I said, showing Martín. “The city votes in two weeks!”

Martín was quiet for a moment before throwing the paper into the garbage and yelling at me to get back to work.

I fastened my apron angrily. Working with Martín was like trying to corral a stubborn water buffalo. Impossible. He checked his phone and must have seen the million messages Tuti had sent to the group chat about the festival, because his face suddenly scrunched up and he kicked over the garbage can. He said Wilfrido’s name and then a really bad word I can’t repeat. This was going to be a fun shift.

My head pounded as I hung up my apron. As it turns out, when Martín was truly mad—yeah, everything I’d seen up to that point was him being cheery—he liked to blast death metal in the kitchen. I had a clear shot to the front door and bolted before anyone could stop me to talk. That was when my mom appeared and blocked my path to freedom.

“Come with me,” she said, taking off her chef’s coat and La Cocina de la Isla baseball cap.

“Where are we going?”

“To Wilfrido Pipo’s office. He’s having a catered lunch for the local businesses.”

“Were we invited?” I asked, following my mom outside.

“No,” she said, moving quickly from the back alley to Main Street.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded and followed her.

Banners hung from the ceiling at Wilfrido’s office, and people swatted playfully at gold and silver balloons tied to their chairs. I scanned the room for the model of the town, but it was replaced with a Photoshopped image on the wall of Pipo Place.

“The model of the town isn’t here anymore,” I said. “It used to be by the window.”

Dulce Dominguez, the lady who owned Two Scoops, munched on a crostini that looked like it had red caviar on it. Mr. Michaels suspiciously eyed a meatball and decided he wouldn’t try it. Chuchi Flores, who owned the boutique clothing shop down the block, sipped on sparkling red juice while she spoke excitedly with Estelle Anderson, who owned the antique store next to Chuchi’s.

“The festival should bring lots of people this weekend,” said Estelle. “I told my staff to be ready.”

“It’s delightful for the community!” said Chuchi, taking a long sip from her champagne flute.

“And for the local businesses,” said Wilfrido Pipo. He emerged from behind a door, wearing a bright-blue suit with a pink shirt and sunglasses.

“Oh, it’s La Cocina’s mother and son. How nice of you to stop by our little gathering.” Wilfrido smiled brightly as he walked toward us.

“We didn’t seem to get an invitation,” my mom said, fake smiling.

“Funny, it was for all the local businesses in the neighborhood. I’ll have my assistant look into it.”

“Well, we’re here now,” my mom said.

“I hope the restaurant is able to run without its star chef!” Wilfrido made it a point to talk loudly so everyone heard him.

“The restaurant runs perfectly well even when I’m not there,” my mom said, not taking her eyes off of Wilfrido.

“Excellent,” Wilfrido said, handing my mom a champagne flute. “Then let’s toast to new beginnings!”

My mom took the flute, and the other business owners watched carefully. She smiled and raised her glass high.

“To the businesses of this community,” she said. “Thank you for making Canal Grove what it is.”

“Hear, hear!” declared Mr. Michaels. “And to La Cocina for being the foundation!”

Soon the rest of the room followed.

Wilfrido raised his glass and quickly took a gulp of his drink. “Let’s have the raffle drawing! We’re giving away an all-expenses-paid weekend getaway to the Caribbean for two!”

He moved around the room, holding a bowl full of business cards.

“Actually, why don’t I pick two different winners? Then four of you can go!”

Wilfrido didn’t wait for anyone to respond. He dug his hand inside and pulled out the first business card.

“Chuchi Flores!”

Chuchi’s jaw dropped while Estelle clapped excitedly. Everyone grew anxious and excited as Wilfrido scanned the room. He looked at my mom and handed the bowl to her.

“Do you want to pick the next winner, Chef?” he asked.

Enrique Surmallo, the artist who owned a gallery close to La Cocina, approached my mom.

“Don’t worry, Cari,” he said. “You are part of this community like we all are.”

“Exactly!” Wilfrido said as he extended the bowl. “It’s all in good fun.”

My mom hesitated.

“Don’t do it, Mom,” I said. “Remember why we’re here. The festival.”

“How did you get a festival approved on such short notice?” my mom asked, pushing the bowl away.

“Commissioner García is just the nicest man. He loves golf as much as I do.”

My mom gave Wilfrido the most intense look, but he didn’t seem fazed. In fact, he smiled brighter. His assistant popped up next to him and took pictures with his phone, furiously typing after every picture.

“Claudio is my assistant extraordinaire,” he said. “He is posting pictures of all our events. Here, let’s take a selfie!”

Before my mom could react, Wilfrido put his arm around her and took a photo. He handed the phone back to his assistant. “The caption should read: ‘Chef Caridad and Wilfrido at the local business luncheon for Pipo Place!’ Hashtag: working together.”

Claudio typed and posted the picture, then left to take one of Chuchi in front of the banner with the raffle information. My mom looked over to me and motioned for us to leave.

“Come on,” she said.

“Well, at least throw your business card in there, Chef!” Wilfrido said.

“No, thank you,” she replied. She turned to everyone else and managed a smile. “It was nice seeing you all.”

We walked out of the office and toward the restaurant. My mom took out her phone and began texting.

Everyone meet at the restaurant today before we open for dinner. ZEM.

With that, her phone went crazy. Two family meetings in one week—and this one was upgraded to a Zamora Emergency Meeting? The last time we’d had a ZEM, Abuela went to the hospital for her third stay in three months, and it was decided that she wouldn’t cook Sunday family dinner anymore. ZEM was not a good sign. I could only imagine Aunt Tuti’s hysterics back at La Cocina. I looked at my mom as she scowled. Maybe now we’d break out the machine guns and samurai swords.