La Mesa de Abuelita

It was past 3am when Lucia awoke to a commotion in the kitchen. She went downstairs, drawn toward the sound of a wooden spoon scraping a pan.

“Mateo, it’s after 3. What are you doing?”

His dark hair hung in his eyes, and sweat beaded on his forehead. Mateo scraped the pan like he was angry. Drops of Madeira wine dappled the granite countertop next to the stove. Two tenderloin steaks sat on a plate next to a half dozen slices of foie gras on a paper towel.

He added a cup of veal stock to the pan and said, “Come, darling. I want you to try this. Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

Lucia stood next to her husband while the sauce simmered. Mateo returned the steaks and foie gras to the pan, spooning the thick luxuriant sauce over the meat, adding black truffle slices to complete the recipe.

She patiently watched as he transferred the meal to a plate with a shaky hand and slid it in front of her. With his eyes blazing, he looked at her with anxious anticipation.

Lucia smiled warmly as she savored the feeling of the razor sharp knife slicing through the beef. She gathered a slice of foie gras and black truffle, then dipped the entire amalgam in the rich sauce. As the food hit her tongue, she closed her eyes and exhaled audibly.

Nodding, she opened her eyes and said, “This is amazing, Mateo. But why are you making this at such a crazy hour?”

He pushed his fingers through his hair and paced around to the other side of the kitchen island.

“Something’s missing, right? Or did I cook it too much? That’s it, isn’t it?”

Shaking her head, Lucia dropped the fork and walked to the other side of the island, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“No, dear. It’s perfect. Now, what’s going on? What are you thinking?”

Mateo put his forehead to his wife’s and whispered, “The restaurant opens in two weeks, and it’s going to be a disaster. I just know it. I can’t do this, can I?”

“Do what?”

“Open a restaurant! What if the critics say I’m no good? What if they just laugh? Then I’m done! It’s over. My reputation ruined! And then there’s the customers! If they get one whiff of a bad review, I’m finished. You know how mercurial they are!”

Mateo backed away from his wife, unable to hold her gaze.

Lucia grabbed his hand and pulled him gently to her.

With a tremble in his hands, he added, “Do you know how incredibly lucky I was to have this investor group show any interest in me? I’m floundering now because I know I’m not good enough. I already left Chef D’Arcy, and there’s no going back. These investors are counting on me, and I’ve got to deliver!”

“Escuchame, amor. You went to Johnson & Wales, you worked under Chef Lucien D’Arcy for years. Le Table Ventures is investing millions because they believe in you. I believe in you. I know it’s a lot of pressure, but you’ve got this.”

He shook his head and closed his eyes. Quietly, he said, “Something’s missing. I can feel it. I’m trained in French cooking, so I should be able to figure this out. They invested in me for this very reason, Luz! This is what’s expected of me.”

She gently pulled him toward her and said, “Sit down. Let’s figure it out together.”

They went to the kitchen table, sitting across from each other. Mateo folded his hands in front of him. Lucia noted how tight his fingers intertwined.

“Ok, let’s run it through. Starting with the menu. Let’s have a look.”

A single legal size of vellum paper sat between them. Mateo slid it over to her.

As she peered down at the menu, she said, “Ok, you’ve got Tournedos Rossini, foie gras, bouillabaisse, Coq au Vin, Sole Meuniere, an impressive but selective wine list...it looks amazing. Are you missing a dish?”

“No, it’s not that. But you tasted the Tournedos Rossini. It’s not right, is it?”

“It’s perfect, amor.”

With his eyes filling with tears, Mateo stared at his wife and said, “Do you think I’m a failure?”

She reached across and grabbed his hand again. “I’m surprised you would even ask me that. You know I would never think that. You’re brilliant, Mateo.”

“Then why does it feel like opening this restaurant is going to kill me?”

Lucia smiled warmly and said, “The menu is just right. I know you can make everything to perfection. So what else is there? Is it the name?”

Mateo’s fingers slid over the the words Le Plaisir de la Table scrolled across the top. “No. I don’t think so. But it does feel foreign, doesn’t it?”

Lucia shrugged. “What about the space itself? The kitchen?”

Nodding with a hint of a smile, he said, “The kitchen is right. Even the staff is right. I know that much.”

“I’ve watched you work for months, Mateo. You’ve planned every detail. This has been your dream since you were a child. So, what’s wrong?”

He lowered his head and buried his face in his arms resting on the table. “I’m miserable, Luz. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I hate the food I have to cook. I don’t like the investors, always telling me what to serve, how things should look, who to hire. And while we’re at it, no. I don’t like the name. I hate it. But what should I do now? I’ve spent my whole life preparing for this moment, and now I don’t want it!”

“Why?”

Mateo lifted his head to look at his wife and said, “Huh? Why what?”

She sat back and folded her arms. “Why have you prepared your entire life for this moment?”

“I don’t know what you—”

Lucia held up her hand and added, “Why did you want to open a restaurant? What made you love cooking and food so much?”

“My mama. You know that. And my Abuelita.”

The tension in Mateos’ shoulders and back eased as he sat back. His mind wandered to when he was a little boy in his grandmother’s kitchen. The three of them making one of his favorite Cuban dishes with flank steak and onions and peppers. A smile spread across his face, and a lump formed in his throat.

Lucia grabbed his hand and said, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking about when I was 8 and my mama and Abuelita let me help them make dinner. I was so proud. We made it for the whole family. Just the three of us. And it was good, Luz. It was so good. I remember we sat with my brothers and sisters, my cousins, my aunts and uncles, everyone. All night. Eating.”

“You know, Mateo, I don’t really care if you make a successful French restaurant or not. The most important thing is that you are fulfilled in what you do. That you are happy.”

Lucia stood up and said, “I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared upstairs for a couple minutes and came back down with a note card.

As she slid the card in front of Mateo, his heart swelled with nostalgia. The card was folded in the middle, the corner was torn off, it was wrinkled, and the recipe written in blue ink was so faded he could barely read it all.

Mateo lovingly traced his fingertips across the lines. Waves of emotion washed over him as memories of following this very recipe, line by line, with his mama flooded his mind. The title read “Ropa Vieja”.

“Where did you find this?”

Shaking her head, she said, “Doesn’t matter. Tell me, what are you thinking now?”

With a deep breath, he said, “I’m thinking about what the investors told me last time I met with them.”

“And what was that?”

“They said if there were any more delays they would have to consider pulling the funding. They said they have other chefs they are willing to back, Luz! I can’t fail. I just can’t!”

“What is success anyway? Is it making a lot of money but being miserable?”

Mateo just stared at her blankly.

Lucia added, “What happened that first time you cooked with your mama and Abuelita? Why does that memory stay with you?”

“It was the first time they let me cook with them. I was surprised because I thought for sure they would let my older sisters help, or at least one of my older brothers. But they never did. They never let anyone in their kitchen. Until they let me. I felt proud. I would always hang around the doorway to the kitchen, asking them questions. One time, I reminded my Abuelita to add the garlic, and I think she was surprised I was paying such close attention. And that night, when I helped them prepare our huge dinner, she announced to everyone that it was my creation. And I watched as everyone ate until they were full, and then some. The laughing. I remember that too. Mama was so proud of me. I knew it that night. I knew I wanted to cook forever.”

Her eyes never left her husband’s face. Lucia leaned toward him and softly asked, “And what do you want to do now?”

Thoughts about losing his investors swam through his mind. But there were other investors, weren’t there? Mateo traced the words on note card again with his finger. Even the card itself had a scent to it that brought him back to Abuelita’s kitchen.

Finally, he said, “I want to make this Rope Vieja and sit here with you all night eating it. I want to feed you a bite and watch you close your eyes like you do when you really enjoy something I make. I want to sit with my mama and Abuelita and hear their laughs again. But most of all, I want to cook.”

“Then do it.”

Mateo hurried back to the stove and dug a large pot out of the cabinet at his knees. Lucia watched as he turned the burner back on.

He asked, “Can you get me some peppers out of the pantry, Luz?”

She watched him silently for a long time as he seasoned the meat and seared it in the pot. Then he sauteed the vegetables, adding the cumin, oregano, and a bay leaf. His hands glided through the air effortlessly, even as he occasionally glanced at the recipe.

Then, he added the crushed tomatoes and beef broth to the pot, adding the flank steak. With his eyes bright with passion, he gathered two more pots in preparation for the rice and black beans.

Looking over at Lucia who sat watching him with a grin, Mateo pointed to the menu and said, “Would you bring that to me? I’ve got an idea.”

Lucia slid the menu in front of him. He looked at it for a long time as the savory aroma of Ropa Vieja filled the kitchen.

Then, without another word, he grabbed a pen from the kitchen drawer and scribbled over the words Le Plaisir de la Table.

Puzzled, Lucia asked, “What are you doing?”

“What I should have done to begin with.”

He wrote La Mesa de Abuelita, and put a big X across the French dishes, replacing the first one with a new dish. Ropa Vieja.

For the first time in months, the tremble in Mateo’s hand was gone. Abuelita and mama, laughing with him again at her table. La Mesa de Abuelita.