Dinner on Friday

2. Dante

HONESTY

Carla and I decided to name the new restaurant after my mother. Instead of Comida porno it was now La Cuchara de Mamá.

Simply put Mom's Spoon.

Carla's marketing expertise came in handy and I was excited about working with her. We came up with a solid business plan and defined the concept of what the restaurant was truly about.

Now that I had gotten all the licenses and the location was secured, it felt weird not having my sister, Annabella, there with me. The thought of hiring strangers to work the bar and serve the food, and help with the food prep made my stomach uneasy.

There was so much of my mother in the recipes that I was afraid that an outsider would want to do things differently. The simple act of adding or removing a spice could fuck the whole thing up.

My mother's recipes weren't just a list of food put together; they were memories and tactile moments of love and delicious nourishment.

She had traveled the world, gathering and perfecting her recipes. Every one of them had a story, most of which were memorable in joyful and sometimes disastrous ways.

Sometimes I believed she preferred to live in the faraway worlds of her travels instead of the one where my father was a mafia Don and her son was a trained assassin. With every new recipe, she would escape on a journey, talking about the people she met and how they had impacted her life.

My father would listen, nodding when needed, and if my mother talked too much about a particular cook who so happened to be a male, he would grunt in disapproval.

I remembered the time she came back from her trip to India, tanned as a loaf of bread, her fingertips stained yellow-orange from the spices she'd been using.

I greeted her at the gate and she swooped me up in a big hug, her long skirt billowing around her sandaled
feet. On her hands, she wore rings made of beautiful stones that I hadn't seen before.

She smelled different. More homely. The scent that clung to her clothes was a sweet combination of incense and earthy spices.

Her black hair was parted in the middle, the top half tied together at the back of her head while the bottom half fell to her waist. It was a new hairstyle, something she'd certainly picked up while hanging out with the many Indian women she'd met on her trip, and who I was fated to hear all about.

"My sweet boy," she said, smiling broadly. "I've missed you, mi corazón. I can't wait to show you the new spices I've discovered."

"I missed you too, mom."

"The people were so friendly. Whenever I go back, you're coming with me. You have to experience the culture and meet the people to understand the food and the history behind every dish." She pinched my cheek and then ran her hand through my thick hair. "But it feels good to be home. Where is your sister?"

I held her hand as we walked toward the door where my father stood waiting, his face harder than a hammer.

"She's asleep. Thank God because she plays too much."

"Well, Dante, she's eight. She's allowed to play. And you should play with her and stop trying to be tough all the time."

"Dad says I have to be tough if I want to run the clan someday. I must learn to keep you and Annabella safe."

"No." She stopped and held my shoulders. Worry scattered in her exuberant eyes as she held my gaze. "You're ten. The only thing you need to worry about is your schoolwork and cooking. Your clan duties can wait. I want you to develop other skills. Skills and characteristics that will help you in the future when you get a family of your own."