1979

June 11, Monday

I’m nervous as a cat and say a silent prayer just before I serve my audition menu to Nora and the two sous chefs at Chez Alice. I worked my way up from dishwasher when I began in 1975, to prep and then line cook. I now have the opportunity to be promoted to sous chef, but Nora does things differently than other restaurant chef-owners. And she can, because Chez Alice is now one of the top restaurants in America and you have to book months ahead for a reservation. To move up I had to develop my own menu with the freshest local ingredients, and I’m about to serve. Two prep staff helped me cook all day, because Chez Alice is closed on Mondays.

I asked the prep staff, who are my friends, to stay and help me serve. We set down the appetizer plates in front of our diners simultaneously, and I announce the dish.

“Beet carpaccio with a fig-infused vinaigrette.” The plates are beautiful, with wafer-thin slices of golden, burgundy, and white and pink candy-striped beets. I turn to withdraw to the kitchen but Nora calls me back.

“Eva, tell me about the dish.” She’s still eating it, so that’s a good sign.

“I salt-roasted the beets to sweeten them and take out some earthiness, but kept them crisp. Sliced fine with the mandoline, and quick-pickled with the vinaigrette.”

She finishes a bite. “Where’d you get the fig-infused vinegar?”

“I made it at home last summer. Then extra-virgin olive oil, minced shallots and a bit of Dijon mustard to emulsify.”

One of the sous chefs has almost finished his plate. “It’s very good, Eva. Just crunchy enough but not raw.”

“Thank you; and the main will be served in just a moment.” I head back to the kitchen.

We plate the fish stew, served over fluffy basmati rice in a big flat bowl, garnished with a perfect sprig of cilantro. I set the dish before Nora as my colleagues serve the others. “This is my variation on Brazil’s moqueca de peixe, fish stew. Grouper cheeks in a tomato and coconut broth.”

They all breathe in the aroma and begin eating with the big soup spoons I’ve set at each place. I withdraw to the kitchen and pray. After a few minutes I peek through the porthole windows in the swinging doors and all three of them are eating in silence. A happy sign to my eyes. I step through to be ready to answer questions.

Nora looks up. “This is absolutely delicious. Why grouper cheeks?”

I take a breath and answer. “Because it’s a part of the fish that’s normally discarded, but I asked our fishmonger if he could bring me the heads this morning instead of throwing them away. We call the fish ‘garoupa’ in Brazil. The bochechas, the cheeks, are luscious and meaty but only poor people in Brazil eat them.”

Nora thinks about this for a minute. “I hate waste. That is brilliant. And the rest of the ingredients?”

“Moqueca normally uses dendê, or palm oil. But that is impossible to find and not very healthy, so I used olive oil. Onion, red and green bell pepper, fresh chopped tomatoes. Cumin and just enough coconut milk to give the fragrance.”

The three of them are nodding and they eat every bite. I take their empty plates away and return with dessert: my cocadas, that I have been making and selling since I was young, two on each plate with a fan of sliced strawberry and a nasturtium flower.

“Cocada, Brazilian coconut sweet. Please enjoy.”

I withdraw and hug my prep colleagues. They wish me well and step outside to smoke a joint before they head to the Rathskeller, a local hangout, for some lasagna. I lean out the doorway.

“Thanks, guys.”

“Good luck, Eva. I think you killed it. Come by the Rat later if you can. We’ll buy you a beer.”

I laugh. “I’m the one owing beers! I won’t be by tonight but we’ll catch up later.”

I steel myself and walk back into the dining room. There are no cocadas left on the plates.

Nora sits back in her chair. “Very nice, Eva. I have a few more questions. Did you use condensed milk in the cocadas? Canned coconut milk in the fish stew?”

I’m thrilled with this question. “Nora, coconuts are exotic and not local, but I was able to source fresh ones. I shredded the meat for the cocadas and used the liquid for the moqueca. The cocada is made with only coconut, water and sugar. I refuse to use anything but cane sugar.”

Nora nods, a bit surprised. “Well, then. Very good use of ingredients. My favorite cake is coconut, made from scratch just like you did. It’s too labor-intensive and expensive to sell in the restaurant but these cocadas echo that, and in a smaller package. Bravo.”

I take the plates away and begin cleaning up the kitchen. I know they are talking about me but I have done my best. I’m exhausted, and if it doesn’t work out and I have to still cook on the line that’s okay.

My thoughts are interrupted as one of the sous chefs pops his head in. “Hey, Eva, could we have some espressos? We’re all going to enjoy a dessert wine, and hope you will join us.”

I nod in agreement. “Thanks, espressos coming right up.”

I serve the espressos and Nora pours us all a sweet wine made from local grapes.

Nora raises her glass. “Santé!”

I reply, “Saúde,” and we all clink glasses.

The sweet wine is delicious. I’m a bit dizzy because I haven’t eaten, but I’ll dig into leftovers at home later. When everyone is finished, Nora speaks. “Eva, we are very pleased to offer you promotion to sous chef.” They all applaud.

Happy tears sneak out of my eyes. “Oh, thank you, I am so grateful. This is a dream come true.”

Nora gives an ironic laugh. “Maybe so, but believe me when I tell you it will be a nightmare at times.”

Everyone laughs. The guys shake my hands and leave and it’s just me and Nora.

She puts the cups on a tray, carries them into the kitchen and puts on an apron. “Come on, lady, this kitchen isn’t going to clean itself!”

“Nora, you don’t have to help me. I’ll clean this place up in a flash.”

She’s already puttering around cleaning. “Well, the two of us will clean it in half a flash.”

We clean everything quickly, and as I’m finishing up Nora leans back against the service counter and looks at me. “Eva, you must have an incredible story. I’d love to hear some of it whenever you feel like sharing it with me.”

I take my apron off and put it in the laundry bag. “It’s a long story, Nora. But no more or less than anyone else in this world.”

“You have two sons. You are from Brazil. You have been at Chez Alice since the beginning. I realize that’s about all I know about you.”

I look down at the floor. “Well, let’s see. I’m married. My oldest son is in school at NC State. My youngest is in middle school.”

She waits for a while. “And if I can ask, what does your husband do?”

It feels like a giant leap to say some things out loud. “My husband was in the resistance in Brazil. He has been missing since 1971. That’s why I left.” I realize I just spoke about Luiz in the past tense. “I’m sorry, Nora, I’m very tired and I need to go home.”

She looks at me and nods. “Of course, Eva. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk to me.”

“It’s okay, you didn’t push me. I just never talk about it, so it’s strange. Maybe sometime later we will talk again. For now, please know how happy I am to be sous chef. Thank you for everything.”

Walking home I’m exhausted yet full of the glow of success. It’s hard to wrap my mind around being sous chef in one of the most sought-after restaurants in America. My journey from Dona Francisca teaching me about cooking as a child in Picuí to all I learned from Chef Orlando runs through my mind like movie clips.

I never talk about Luiz. Speaking out loud about him to Nora makes me realize what I hold in my mind but don’t think about. I still imagine that Luiz is in exile in Argentina but protects me by not being in touch; that one day Chico and Sónia will call me and tell me that he has miraculously appeared on the doorstep after all these years. Tears stream down my cheeks as I walk.