A Taste of Passion

The family needed extra money. Even with Lupita working full-time at the panadería, they were barely getting by. But everytime she tried to mention it to her husband, he took it as an insult. It was an attack on his sense of pride, of being a husband, a father, a man. So she did her best to approach the topic with care. Her tone was sweet and tactful, but it didn’t matter. Once Alfonso’s pride was hurt, he shut down, bottled up. Not giving up, she took another angle. Their son wanted to join the science club, to study English with a tutor, to go on a field trip to the museums in Mexico City. They needed money so he could do all that. This was about their son, she reminded Alfonso, not him and his ego. But the conversation ended the way it usually did. With him storming out of the house, running off to go drink with his friends. On his way out, he called her ungrateful, and slammed the door. 

On Saturday night she cooked dinner for a few friends. The dinner was a tradition. Cooking for her friends was a small pleasure she afforded herself once or twice a month despite her family's tight budget. And why not? He went to the bar with his friends, why couldn’t she have fun with hers?

The girls arrived together. As Lupita finished cooking–pozole verde and enchiladas rojas–in the kitchen, the girls sat at the small table and drank cheap beer and bitter wine. They laughed, they teased, sang along to sad old love songs that mirrored their lives, and in between it all they talked, they shared. They always did. It was part of the tradition. The drinking made honesty easier. They vented about their men, worried over their children, and cursed their measly pay and horrible bosses.

When it was her turn, Lupita told the girls about her money problems. Told them how Alfonso got angry anytime she brought the matter up. He’s stubborn as a goat, she said, and proud as a rooster. The girls understood her perfectly. They immediately encouraged her, hugged her, brought her up and raised her spirits. You could open a taquería, they said. You’re the best cook we know. That night they pooled their money together, transferring it over their phones. 

There was enough there to get her started. 

The next night when she told Alfonso about her plans, they had it out–had a big, big fight. There was lots of yelling. He wanted her to give the money back. How does it look? he said. Your friends giving you money like I can’t support you–how does that make me look?

This isn’t about you, she said, and refused to hear more. Her plans had become a dream. There would be no compromise now. They went on arguing, while their son sat on the couch, covering his ears, crying for them to stop. Neither listened. Instead they both said things they’d been holding inside for a long time, things that felt good being said in the moment, but which they'd both regret having said later.

My mom was right about you, Alfonso said. I should have listened when she told me. Shouldn’t have rushed to marry you when you got pregnant.

Lupita’s face darkened, and her eyes glowered with a furious light at the mention of his mother. Oh, she laughed wickedly. The little boy is mad that his wife isn’t his momma! That old bag has hated me since the day she saw me, and you’ve never corrected her. How do you think that makes me feel? You’re married to me, not her. 

A cold war ensued. For the rest of that week they didn’t talk. When one needed something from the other, they communicated through their son. When Lupita came home pushing an old taco cart, Alfonso watched from the threshold, arms crossed, lips pressed tight. He tried to make love to her one night. Making love had always been their way of fixing things–or starting to fix things, but this time she wasn’t going to make it so easy. Not after what he’d said. She snapped at him, turned her back to him, and couldn’t sleep for all the roiling thoughts and emotions inside her. 

The next day when he got home from work, Alfonso repainted the taco cart with a fresh coat. With that act alone the glacial walls Lupita had put up started to warm. And although they still weren’t talking, she would have made love to him that night if he had tried.

A couple days later, she was preparing to open her taquería. She cooked and prepped in the kitchen, the smells of habaneros, fresh diced cebolla, and grilled jitomate in the air. When it was time, her son helped her push the cart out the garage. One wheel was missing and it clunk-clunked down the street, as though rolling over unseen ruts. Alfonso followed behind, frowning at the wheel. Quiet. He kept a distance. Still afraid to overstep his bounds, maybe, she thought. They reached the corner and she started to set up. Her son helped set out the plastic chairs while she turned on the hot burner, took out the bins with the meats and salsas. She watched her son as he worked, and felt a little guilty. Maybe one of your girlfriends from school will pass by, she teased. He giggled and she turned back to the cutting board. To her surprise, Alfonso was there beside her, cutting the limes. A small smile crossed her face, but she turned away to hide it. We need more tortillas, she said to no one, but just loud enough for him to hear. He didn’t say anything. With a little worried flutter in her heart she spun round, hoping to see him, but he was gone. 

He had left, and she stood there watching his back as he walked briskly towards the tortilla makers.

Later, as the sun set, curious neighbors gathered round the new taco stand. The family worked together. She was in charge and they listened. And why wouldn’t they? She was the best cook they knew. Business was steady. Each one of them fell into their role without their roles having to be discussed. She cooked while her son cleaned the dishes and her husband took care of the orders and the money. At the end of the night, when they were closing, a customer asked Alfonso the name of their taquería. He shrugged his shoulders and with a sheepish look glanced at his wife. She met his eyes, and something unseen and unsaid passed between them. A resolution. An agreement. A peace. She sighed satisfied then, and turned to the customer with a bright smile, and answered: Un Sabor de Pasión.