“I know I can be such a pain in the ass as a boss,” I groan.
“You? A pain in the ass?” Faye replies sarcastically.
“Shut up. I know I like things done a certain way and to look a certain way, and I know that it bothers some people—”
I pause momentarily to see José side-eyeing me again while peeling a stack of potatoes.
“—okay, nearly every employee here, but you’ve always put up with it. Even when I change how you stack the cups or fold the napkins, I just really appreciate it.”
“Hey, listen. I get it. This was your father’s restaurant. It may not be a Michelin-star experience, but it’s important to you. I see how important the details are to you and your mom—I mean, mostly her.” Faye laughs.
“Much to my dismay,” I admit.
“But let’s be honest. This is a way better gig than when I worked at that dental office next door. The sound of the drilling alone was going to be my demise. No, really, I would have ended up on the news in a freak accident with the drill stuck inside my ear or something. So, really, don’t worry about me. I went to culinary school for a reason. To be around food. And here I am.”
They make a pastelito dance in front of my face and laugh before placing it with the rest of them.
Nestled in Union City, New Jersey, La Mariposa sits on a quiet, unassuming block, surrounded by tall, brick buildings that have been there for decades. The kind of place where fire escapes line the windows and faded murals tell the stories of the neighborhood. The leaves are just starting to change, painting the sidewalks in golds and oranges, a reminder that autumn is creeping in. It’s got that ‘90s Brooklyn vibe, but without the hustle of Manhattan. Instead, there’s a sense of familiarity here; it’s a place where everyone knows your name and you can’t walk down the street without running into someone from your childhood. Union City isn’t glamorous, but it’s home. It’s full of families like ours, immigrants who built their lives from scratch, just like my father did with this café. It’s small, but it’s ours, and it’s been a part of this neighborhood for as long as I can remember.
La Mariposa is one of those hole-in-the-wall places where you never stop talking about it once you find it. You tell everyone about that fabulous Cuban café and bakery that had pastries so good, you wonder how you’ve lived your entire life without eating them. Not to toot our own horn, but I know we are great. My father created these recipes. Some, I think, even came from his mother.
I remember helping at the restaurant when I was ten, even though it was totally illegal, and my father pulled out what he called “El Libro Sagrado,” the sacred book, in the morning, and I knew we were about to eat something out of this world. In there, along with other useless doodles and notes, were handwritten recipes older than I was, and you could barely make out what they said, thanks to his undeniable chicken scratch. My father could, though. Not that it mattered since he never let me see it up close. He said it held too many secrets I wasn’t old enough to understand. That one day, I would, but after his passing three years ago, my mother took it and boxed it up along with the rest of his things. I haven’t seen it since. Even if I wanted to take the book, I wouldn’t be able to get it open since he had a lock on it, because of course he did. My father was notorious for three things: his killer food, his obsession with Sherlock Holmes—since it was the first movie he saw dubbed when he arrived in the States—and his using said obsession to practically torture me with puzzles my entire life.
Before his death, he emailed me PDF versions of several of his recipes while I was at college so I’d feel closer to home. And now, I run the restaurant that houses all of these recipes for the public to enjoy. The format of the restaurant is simple: you walk to the counter, place your order, and we bring it to wherever you choose to sit. If it’s takeout, even better.
I hear the rumbling sounds of a truck just outside the store. It’s Sunday, so that must be Carlos with the delivery. Late, of course. He knows exactly how to irritate me. I rush to the door to prop it open since he insists on using the front door instead of the back.
“It’s faster this way,” he’ll argue.
I used to argue back, but my mother waved me off and said it was okay. So, I guess, now I just let him through the front door, much to my annoyance.
“Hey, Carlos, you’re late again, I see,” I say between clenched teeth.
“I just like to keep you on your toes, Isa,” he says, winking.
“Do you need help? I can grab those extra boxes in the—shit.”
“Hey, it may be old, but I wouldn’t call my truck shit.”
“Sorry, no. Not you,” I whisper.
Carlos looks over to where my eyes have fixated to see a tall man in a light grey suit walking towards the restaurant. Not just any man, but Gabriel, the owner of the building that houses the restaurant—and my father’s longtime friend.
“Who’s that acere?”
“Our landlord.” I swallow, but my throat is dry. “Is it okay if Faye helps you instead?”
I run inside in a panic and grab my bag. I never let anyone help with the food order, but if I have to, Faye is the only person I trust to do it right. It pains me to ask, but I must keep the landlord outside the restaurant.
“Faye! Can you help Carlos with the inventory today? I have to go…deal with something.”
“Really?” Faye pipes up excitedly. “Hell yes!”
We both rush toward the door, but I cut ahead.
“Here’s Faye—bye,” I say as I scurry toward the landlord, stopping him from heading any closer.
“Hola, Isa. How are you doing today?”
