Downstairs, I paused with my hand on the cool metal of the door to the outside. The restaurant was dark, lit only by a red EXIT sign. The pass-through window was closed, but I spied a light from under the kitchen door. A peal of women’s laughter drew me in, and I couldn’t help tapping on the door.
“Carmen?” I called. She and her mom lived in a cottage at the back of the restaurant and B-and-B, but she’d told me they used this kitchen for their own meals as well as the café’s.
She pulled open the door, a Dos Equis bottle in her other hand. “Robbie, do you need something, hija?”
“No, not at all. I was going to go for a walk, and I heard you laughing. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Luisa sat on a high stool at the stainless counter in the middle of the kitchen, the surface and her hands covered in the finely ground cornmeal called masa harina. A stainless-steel bowl held a huge lump of pale yellow dough, and a stack of disks separated by waxed paper sat at Luisa’s left elbow.
“Come into our cocina.” Carmen stepped back. “We’re making tortillas for tomorrow. We’ll teach you.”
Her mom smiled and clapped twice, then beckoned me toward her. “Ven aquí.”
The simple company of women cooking? Way better than a lonely walk to soothe the soul.
“Gracias,” I said.
“Carmen, cerveza para Robbie,” Luisa said, trilling the first letter of my name.
Carmen drew another bottle of Dos Equis out of the fridge and held it up.
“Thanks, I’d love one.” I sat on a stool kitty-corner from Luisa.
Carmen popped the cap and handed me the bottle. “Cheers.”
Luisa raised hers, too, and we all clinked bottles. The cool drink went down as easy as Carmen’s smile. And the delicious corn aroma made me feel like I had come home.
After a sip, the older woman set down her drink and scooped out a portion of dough with her fingers. She formed it into a ball smaller than a baseball but a little bigger than a Ping-Pong ball. With a minute of rapid slaps between her palms, suddenly it was a thin tortilla six inches in diameter.
“Wow, she has the technique down,” I said. I smiled at Luisa and gave her a thumbs-up sign.
She smiled back as she slid a square of waxed paper onto the stack, laid her tortilla on the top, and started over.
“She’s only been doing it all her life,” Carmen said from the stool next to me. Her habitual cheery expression faded. “Did you hear any more news about poor Paul?”
“No. Why isn’t the story on local news outlets? I checked online and couldn’t find a thing.”
“I don’t know. Think somebody’s covering it up?” Carmen leaned closer and lowered her voice. “What if somebody from Agrosafe poisoned him? Maybe they’re pulling strings so the news doesn’t get out.”
“That’s quite a set of strings, isn’t it? I mean, the police were called and I’m sure his body went to the sheriff’s morgue. I thought newspapers and radio stations always monitor police channels and go right to the story.”
“Hey, with the devils who run that company, who knows how much power they have?”
“¿Quién es un demonio?” Luisa asked, eyes bright.
“Nobody’s a devil, Mamá.” Carmen batted away the suggestion, but she turned her face away from her mother and rolled her eyes, making me laugh.
“Robbie,” Luisa said. She gestured for me to scoop a ball of dough out of the bowl.
I held a finger in the air. “One sec.” I scrubbed my hands at the sink and dried them before rejoining her.
Luisa motioned for me to flour my hands with masa harina first. She scooped out a hunk of dough and made it into a ball. I dusted my hands and did the same. She slapped it flat with the fingers of her right hand into her left palm, then waited for me to do the same.
I tried, but Carmen burst out laughing. My tortilla was now the shape of a hockey puck and it had stuck to my palm. Luisa set to repeatedly slapping her dough.
“You gotta find the technique,” Carmen said between giggles.
I peeled it off, floured my palm again, and slapped some more. It got marginally thinner. Luisa’s was finished by now. It had joined the stack and she’d started another.
“Why don’t you roll them out?” I asked. “Or use one of those presses? Mom and I had one when I was young.”
“Pressing would be cheating. And Mamá’s a lot faster, anyway. The texture is better this way, too.”
I spent the next hour with these two sunny women, sipping beer and trying in vain to master Luisa’s technique. It didn’t matter. I had the balm for my soul I’d needed, and after our brief mention of Paul missing from the news, all we discussed was cooking. Recipes, ingredients, preparations, Cali-Mex and Hoosier alike. Cooking was Carmen’s and Luisa’s livelihood and mine, too. Who could ever tire of it?
By the time I slid into bed at ten thirty, it barely registered that Abe hadn’t called or texted back. I didn’t care. I was tired, happy, and distracted from the week’s issues, ever so temporarily.
Chapter 22
Cloth bag slung over my shoulder the next morning and a big grin splitting my face, I stood at the entrance to a long row, spanning two city blocks, of white-and-green pop-up tents belonging to the Wednesday farmers’ market vendors. The first one on my right displayed boxes and baskets overflowing with fresh vegetables in all hues and shapes.
