With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo

 

Café Sorrel

When ’Buela, Babygirl, and I have an excursion, the getting-ready part is always a production. Toss in that my hands are still shaking from my conversation with Tyrone, and I’m moving in slow motion just to iron one blouse. By the time we have Babygirl strapped into the stroller and exit the house, it’s already noon.

We don’t go out to eat much. When I was younger, we used to visit the local restaurants for holidays and birthdays or after going to the cemetery to visit with my grandfather or moms. But that was a long while ago, before ’Buela stopped working. Now the only time we have outside food is if I bring something in from the Burger Joint or when Tyrone and I used to go on dates. Otherwise it’s on me or ’Buela to cook.

Today I’m surprised when ’Buela heads to the train. We go to a spot in Rittenhouse Square called Café Sorrel. The napkins are made of cloth and the flowers in the vases are real and fresh. The hostess asks if we need a booster seat, and I realize that Babygirl has never been in a high-class restaurant. When the server arrives, I notice everything he does, including the way he straightens the knife and salad fork, and how he folds our napkins into a triangle and gently holds them out for us to place on our laps, and how elegantly he pours water into our glasses.

“This is really fancy, ’Buela,” I say when the server walks away. I trace the delicate embroidery on the edge of the tablecloth.

“Yes, I like this place.” ’Buela takes a sip of her water. And well, that doesn’t make any sense. This place looks new, and when would ’Buela have ever had the occasion to come eat here? I open my mouth to ask but the server has circled back with our menus.

“We have a fall special with the following dishes . . .”

He reads off his notepad and I close my eyes when he describes how each dish is prepared. I want to memorize everything.

“You order, nena. This is all you.” ’Buela turns to the server. “My granddaughter is taking a culinary arts class. She is amazing in the kitchen.”

“Oh”—the server raises an eyebrow—“how lovely. You’re going to have to let us know what you think of the meal.” I have a feeling he’s probably a college student at Penn or Temple and couldn’t care less what I think; he’s simply being overly friendly to get that tip. So, no, I don’t plan on giving him my opinion on anything.

I take a look at the menu and keep my smile on my face even though the prices drop-kick me in the gut. I look for the cheapest items on the menu, then smile up at the server.

“May I have the duck appetizer on the bed of risotto? My grandmother will have the partridge. And can we have pommes frites for this little one?” I gesture to Babygirl, who gives a huge smile and bangs on the table.

The server removes our menus and stacks them in his arms. “Very well, your bread is on its way.”

Buela neatly folds and refolds the napkin in her lap. “Those sounded like very nice orders. How is class going? I haven’t heard you mention any special quizzes lately,” ’Buela asks, and sips her water.

She knows. I can see it in her face that she knows. “Who told you?”

“Told me what, nena?” ’Buela says. She smiles at the busboy, who sets a basket of bread on the table. He has a tattoo of the Puerto Rican flag on his neck, and although ’Buela hates tattoos, she loves her island. I bet she’ll pass him a tip later. “Oh, lord, m’ijo. Bringing us all this bread! I haven’t been walking as much as I used to. This bread is going to go straight to my hips,” she says as she grabs a roll and breaks it in half. She gives the other half to Babygirl, who bites into it with enthusiasm. The busboy smiles at her.

“And what would be the point of hips if we couldn’t enjoy bread every now and then?” the busboy says in Spanish. And although this whole exchange is cute, I need him to walk away. As soon as he does, I pounce again.

“I know you know I’ve been skipping class. It’s written all over your face. Who said something?”

’Buela takes a huge bite of bread and makes me wait until she’s done chewing to speak. “What is most important is that you didn’t tell me.”

Angelica must have found out somehow. Or maybe Ms. Fuentes saw last week’s attendance sheet and called home.

“You’ve never had an issue with attendance, not even when you were pregnant. It seems to me like you were really excited about the class for a while and maybe when it got hard you got scared about the challenge.”

I look away from ’Buela, and use my napkin to wipe crumbs from Babygirl’s chin. ’Buela reaches across and stills my hand. “I’m not saying I don’t understand. Or that I don’t know you well enough to say that you’ve climbed higher hills. I only mean to say, I hope you didn’t sell yourself short.”

I squeeze her hand. “I haven’t dropped the class entirely yet.”

“So are you going to go back?”

I shrug and look down at my plate where I’ve crumbled a bread roll into nothing but dust. ’Buela takes the hint. “Tell me about your other classes.”

She listens as I tell her about physics and English. About the college essay I’m working on. When the food comes out the scents fill my nostrils and I close my eyes and inhale deeply.

“What’s this with my bird?” ’Buela points.

“Polenta,” I say, and take a bite of my risotto. I close my eyes again and savor. Basil, cream . . . and a pop of something. I take another bite but still can’t place it. ’Buela says something and I chew slowly, trying to hear her past the rush in my ears.

“What’d you say?” I ask, when I come back to earth.

“I was saying, this is really good. How is yours?”

“Too good. I can’t wait to try it at home.” Babygirl murmurs agreement through a mouth full of fries.

“So how was it, miss?” the server asks as he takes away the plates.

“Really good.” And although I said I wasn’t going to say anything, I can’t keep the question to myself. “There was something in the risotto. Not the basil or cream or mushroom but something else?”

The server shakes his head with a puzzled look, crinkling his forehead. “I’m not sure. No other ingredients are listed on the menu.”

I hope my annoyance doesn’t show on my face. “Oh. Okay.”

’Buela smiles. “May I have a coffee and the check?”

“Very well,” the server says.

“Yumyumyum.” Babygirl hums under her breath and I offer her water. She takes a sip and lets it dribble down her chin and grins.

“Emma!” I look up when I feel someone behind my shoulder, hoping it’s the server so I can ask for another napkin, but my eyes land on a buttoned-up white jacket, a woman’s smiling face beneath a chef’s hat. “Everything good here, ladies?”

’Buela and I nod. “Very good. I enjoyed the polenta!” ’Buela says, and holds up her forefinger touching her thumb. I try not to groan at how excited she sounds.

“I heard there was a question about the risotto?” The chef looks at me.

My mouth goes dry. Even though I don’t know this lady, I’m starstruck by the jacket, by the Crocs and checkered pants. By the food that melted in my mouth and looked almost too pretty to eat. Chefs rarely leave their kitchens so I know it’s a big deal she decided to answer me in person.

“Umm.” Get it together, Emoni! “I tasted the basil, and cream. What might have been cremini mushrooms? But there was something else. At the back of my tongue . . . I couldn’t place it,” I say, and blush. I sound as silly as ’Buela.

“Ah, probably the orange zest. It’s just a hint. Most people can’t even taste it but it adds a bright note.” She cocks her head to the side.

“Oh! Orange zest.” I close my eyes and run my tongue along my teeth. Try to remember the flavor. “Yeah, that feels right. Orange zest.”

My eyes pop open. The server comes back and hands the check to ’Buela, who immediately swoops it under the table so I can’t see it.

“Chef, did the young lady tell you? She’s taking a culinary arts class,” the server says, and takes the check back from ’Buela with her payment.

“Are you? At the Institute?”

I shake my head. “At my high school. It just started this year with a new instructor.”

Her eyes sharpen on my face and I almost lean back from the intensity of her look. “Wait a minute, a friend of mine just started teaching a cooking class at a high school. You don’t go to a charter school near here, by any chance?”

Before I can answer ’Buela chimes in. “She does! Emoni goes to Schomburg Charter School about fifteen minutes from here on the bus. Is your friend Chef Ayden?”

The chef claps her hands together and laughs. “What a small world—one of Ayden’s students coming into my restaurant. You have a good instructor; Ayden is one of a kind. . . . Kind of a hard-ass, but he’ll teach you a lot.” Her eyes twinkle when she says it and I can tell she and Chef Ayden must know each other well.

And just in case they are friends, I keep my mouth shut about his hard-ass-ness.

She smiles at me again. “You have the taste buds, and married with the technique and work ethic you’re learning in class, you’ll acquire the holy trinity to make it in this industry. I need to get back to my kitchen, but don’t worry about today’s bill.” She waves at the server to bring the bill back. “It’s on me. Let Ayden know it was a pleasure to meet one of his students.”

I hear her chuckling under her breath as she walks away.