Cinco de Mayhem (2 page)

I had to smile, imagining my own mother's reaction. Mom claims that mild Anaheim peppers set her throat on fire, and when I told her about our Cinco de Mayo preparations, she snorted in disapproval. Likely she pictured me surrounded by bucket-sized margaritas and mountains of nachos. I can't blame her. I love any excuse to indulge in a tart drink and cheesy chips, and that's how much of the country views the holiday. Flori, however, taught me the true meaning. Cinco de Mayo, or May Fifth, commemorates the day when underdog Mexican forces in the state of Puebla fought off French invaders. Don't ask me the exact
date, although I think it was sometime in the mid-nineteenth century.

Flori saw the holiday as a chance to decorate and add some Mexican specials to our New Mexican menu. A few days ago she cooked up a vat of delicious red
mole
, or
mole
coloradito
, a Oaxacan recipe with spicy smokiness from dried red chiles and tangy sweetness from raisins, cinnamon, and cloves. We'd serve that this week, along with Baja-style shrimp tacos topped in a zippy lime dressing and a burger stuffed with fiery jalapeños and melty
queso fresco
. I'm the one who thought the holiday provided a fine chance to spice up a French classic.

I closed my eyes to taste-test the would-be soufflé. Texture aside, it was pretty good. Next time I'd add more cheese and a few extra peppers. An intensely flavored base is one of the keys to soufflé success. So are room-temperature eggs, a superclean mixing bowl, and judging the perfect glossy stiff peaks of your egg whites. Needless to say, you shouldn't rock your oven by hurling in casserole dishes.

I opened my eyes and faced soufflé flatness. Thank goodness this was a test run and not my final version. Butterflies swarmed across my stomach as a dire thought struck me. What if the soufflé flop was a sign?

I wasn't honing the recipe as a Cinco de Mayo week special. I was making it to serve to Jake Strong, Santa Fe's hunkiest lawyer, a man of rugged cowboy good looks and twinkling-eye charm. The man who kept asking me out despite my supposed dating moratorium, not to mention
my inability to dance, my divorced-mom status, and my penchant for stumbling upon crime and corpses. Over the past several months, Jake and I had progressed from casual coffee meetings, to lunch, and then to happy hours and dinners out. This Friday would be a dating milestone. Dinner at my casita. My tiny kitchen was definitely an intimate setting, and I had no one to blame but myself for the romantic escalation. The dinner invitation fell from my mouth when Jake mentioned missing his mother's home-cooked meals. What woman could resist such sweet sentiment? Not me, clearly. Now, however, the nervous lobe of my brain nagged me to call off home-cooking and call out for Chinese.

I wasn't so worried about kitchen failures under pressure. I'm a café chef, after all, and even a flat soufflé is tasty. It wasn't holiday expectations either, since the fifth fell on the Monday after our date. No, I was more anxious that my relationship with Jake might be moving to another level. Did I want that? Was I ready?

Linda reached across the table and scooped out a chunk of soufflé, making appreciative sounds as she did. “Will you put it on the menu?” she asked. “A soufflé seems risky. Look how this one fell for no reason.”

Right, no reason
. I helped myself to another bite of golden, cheesy eggs.

“Exactly! Risky!” This exclamation from Flori coincided with a thump on the back of my chair. My shoulders jolted so high, I nearly punched myself out. I swear, Flori has the footsteps of a ghost. I hadn't heard her sneak up behind me, and
yet there she was, all five feet barely three inches of her. Inexplicably, at least to me, she wore a karate costume tied with a crocheted sash. Floury fingerprints smudged her Harry Potter–style glasses.

“Rita's making this soufflé for her hot boyfriend,” Flori informed Linda, pushing back her spectacles to peer into the blue ceramic dish. “I tell you, Rita, forget the fancy French food and make that man a good, solid green chile stew. He's a true New Mexican. My Bernard says that once he tasted my stew, he had to ask for my hand in marriage. You and your sisters wouldn't be here, Linda, if it wasn't for my stew.”

Linda groaned.

I silently seconded her feelings. A proposal was not on my wish list. Plus, as I'd told Flori, I'd already blabbed to Jake about my soufflé plans. My culinary honor would fall flat if I didn't make one.

Flori was still set on getting me an engagement ring. “Linda, your father also wanted to propose after his first bite of my
pastel imposible,
but he held off because he's a gentleman. No man can resist a magic chocoflan. Mark my words, Rita. If you have chocoflan on your date-night menu, that handsome lawyer will be down on one knee before you can clear the dinner dishes.”

Linda and I shared an eye-rolling moment. Flori loves to dish out dating advice. Some of her tips are fine, like making a truly magic dessert that transforms into moist chocolate cake on the bottom and a delicate caramel flan on top. Other advice, like pinching hunky men on the tush and excessive eyelash batting, is better left ignored.
Linda was a master at deflecting her mother's romantic suggestions. She claimed to be happy in her widowhood and never wanted to date again.

After my divorce, I'd also instituted a dating moratorium. One year, I'd vowed. Twelve months, at least, to come to terms with my single self. The attentions of Jake Strong had turned those plans topsy-turvy. I did a quick calculation. Here it was, roughly month nine, and I was already fixing an eligible hunk dinner at my house. A romantic French soufflé, no less. Plus some kind of dessert. Magic flan cake is one of the best desserts I've ever eaten, and I've eaten a lot. But was it too forward? The dessert equivalent of a plunging neckline and stilettos? My mind turned to modest fruit salads and old-fashioned berry crumbles. Images of my Aunt Sue's rainbow Jell-O mold with grated carrots and celery chunks flashed through my head. Vegetables in layers of cherry, orange, and lime Jell-O would keep any man at arm's length, especially if I went for Sue's Christmas version in which she added festive mini-marshmallows and cheddar cheese chunks. I put down my fork, feeling slightly queasy, and not only because of questionable gelatin concoctions.

Luckily, Flori didn't notice or she would have given me more romantic tips involving hot chiles and hotter flirting. She'd turned to Linda, asking why she wasn't at work. Linda, in the same fashion as my teenage daughter, muttered an unintelligible response.

Flori employed the time-honored mom move of waiting her out.

After a long silence, Linda relented. “Fine, I'll
tell you. I was out with my cart, but Napoleon squeezed me from my regular spot. It's okay, though. I'll serve the rest of my tamales at the soup kitchen tonight. I'm keeping them warm under foil. Lucky for me, Rita already had the oven on.”

From Flori's frown, I could guess that her thoughts mirrored mine.
That jerk Napoleon. That mean, petty, place-stealing bully.
Except, as usual, Flori went further. She didn't offer Linda more tea. She slammed her arthritic fist on the table and declared war.

“That's it! The final straw! That man has to be stopped. We'll arrange a citywide boycott. We'll identify his weaknesses and run him out of town, Old West style. Ha!”

For a moment I felt emboldened by Flori's passion and her karate costume. Then she turned to me. Her eyes sparkled with determination and flashes of danger. “Rita, what are you doing this afternoon?”

I may have felt bold, but I wasn't ready to jump into one of Flori's frying pans. I delayed answering. Yes, I was technically free. Ever since Flori's seventieth birthday, Tres Amigas had closed on weekends, her version of retirement, although we often came in to prep vats of stews and sauces for the coming week. I could be prepping or revamping my soufflé or dozens of other less Old Westy activities.

I considered how far I'd go in a Napoleon battle. I could wave a protest sign or join in anti-Napoleon chanting. I'd happily write irate letters to the mayor. Knowing Flori, that's not what she had in mind.

She adjusted her orange and yellow crocheted belt. I hedged, leading with a drawn-out “Well . . .”

“Good, sounds like you have time,” Flori declared. “Let's gather the other food vendors and surround his cart. I have pretty new handcuffs. We can chain ourselves to his cart. Well, two of us could latch on, unless we buy some more cuffs.”

I looked to Linda for guidance. Fire was in her eyes too, but of another kind.

Linda pushed back her chair, nearly tipping it. “Mama, no! Please! I appreciate your offer, but I can handle this myself. Do
not
get involved.”

My teenage daughter, Celia, would have the same look and tone. She'd stomp off just like Linda was doing too, slamming the door behind her. The piñata nearest the entryway, a blue poodle, trembled. If my soufflé hadn't already flopped, it would have fainted.

Flori frowned in the direction of Linda's departing backside.

I offered her some tea. “She says she'll handle the situation,” I said, understanding the pain of a daughter's rejection of well-intentioned maternal help.

Flori accepted the tea but didn't drink it. She thumped her index finger on the brightly colored tablecloth. “I have a bad feeling about this, Rita.”

I sipped my tea, telling myself that Flori was wrong. Linda was a grown woman, a hardy small-business owner. She could take care of herself.

I should have known better. Flori may offer off-base dating advice, but her bad feelings are always right.

I
should have known something else too. Flori wouldn't stay out of the Napoleon battle. Midway through the breakfast rush the next morning, she announced a strategy of covert warfare.

I admit, I didn't pay proper attention. Otherwise I might have stopped her when she mentioned “striking his soft parts.” Another problem was distracting me, namely the conundrum of a cheese-free cheese enchilada, which I was trying to work out with our head griddle guy, Juan.

“The customer requested the same enchilada, just minus the cheese,” I said, my voice extra chipper in anticipation of disagreement.

Bilingual grumbles preceded Juan's perfectly reasonable logic. “A cheese enchilada without cheese is not a cheese enchilada. It is the tortilla without cheese.”

“What about a tortilla dipped in red chile sauce and rolled up with some nice diced onions or
pickled jalapeños on top?” I asked. “Could you do that?”

Of course he could. That, Juan informed me, would make a rolled flour tortilla in
chile colorado
. Not a cheese enchilada. An enchilada encasing rice but no cheese was also no cheese enchilada. Stacked tortillas, northern New Mexican style, minus cheese, similarly fell outside the cheese category. As Juan launched into other cheeseless tortilla configurations, I sensed that we'd entered the territory of unanswerable philosophical questions. Does a falling tree make a sound if no one hears it? Can one hand clap?

“Right. True,” I said, mainly to placate Juan, who was recalling another recent mind-bender, a request for vegetarian
carne adovada
.
“Carne,”
Juan said, rolling the
r
with extra verve. “
Carne
means meat.”

“Yes, I know, I agree, but—” I was about to lie and say the customer was always right. Little did I know, I'd just agreed to Flori's scheme.

“I knew you'd agree!” my elderly friend crowed. “We'll defeat him before he sees the battle coming!”

“Wait! What? Who?” I spun around to question Flori. My questions went unanswered as she hustled toward the dining room loaded down with four platters on her palms and wrists. I marveled at her balancing skills and strength. Most of all, I worried.
What had I just agreed to?

“Like I said . . .” Flori said, when she returned empty-handed.

Since I didn't know what she'd said, I waited.

Flori addressed Juan. “We'll take the Sun Tzu approach on that mean little man, right, Juan?”

“Sí,”
Juan replied in the same tone my teenage daughter pairs with “whatever.” His spatula hovered over an egg nearing the perfect over medium. Juan was short, but no one would call him little. No one could call him soft either. Juan was a bundle of muscles honed by his maestro moves at the grill. He shrugged his thick shoulders and resumed his philosophical grumblings about cheese.

Flori stood across the kitchen, stirring a vat of chile. Scarlet sauce dripped from the spoon she pointed at me. “You weren't listening, were you, Rita? I was saying, I'm taking tai chi at the Senior Center, and we're reading
The Art of War
to get in the mood.”

This news got my attention. Thanks to the well-meaning folks at the Senior Center, Flori and her compatriots knew how to count cards, tread water, and chip flint into arrowheads. Flori had also recently taken a women's self-defense course that taught her the fine arts of well-placed kicks and Taser zapping. I believed in self-defense for women of any age, and treading water, even in a desert, could come in handy. But ancient Chinese war techniques in the hands of Taser-wielding bifocal wearers with access to arrowheads? I sensed danger all around.

“I thought tai chi was about slow movements and breathing and meditation,” I said, swaddling crispy bacon, roasted potatoes, and scrambled eggs in a burrito the size and weight of a newborn. I took my bundle of joy over to Flori, who bathed it in red chile sauce. After a sprinkling of shredded Jack cheese and a quick broil, the bur
rito would be treacherous to deliver and a delight to eat.

“Tai chi is the world's deadliest martial art,” my elderly friend said cheerfully. “It's good for arthritis too.”

“That's wonderful,” I said, focusing on the health benefits for Flori's aching knees and hands.

She, however, was still fixated on war. “Know your enemy. That's what Sun Tzu teaches. Defeat your opponent without fighting.”

No fighting sounded good. I heaped praise on Flori's nonconfrontation technique, though I had my doubts. Napoleon would eat nonconfrontation for brunch. Besides, he'd already confronted and won.

Juan grunted. He sounded as impressed with battle-free battle as he was with cheese-free cheese enchiladas. Or maybe he was commentating on the next special order. “Burrito with no tortilla wrapper, coming up,” he muttered.

While we waited, Flori enlightened me on her newfound ancient wisdom. “You surely know some of the key points, Rita.” She stopped for a beat, likely for effect. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

I had heard this. Now I considered it in terms of a food-cart war. “We know a lot of people who don't like Napoleon. Like Crystal. Linda said that Napoleon got Crystal's juice cart shut down. Something about her permit paperwork. She has to be upset about that.” I was too. What if Napoleon had run her off for good? How would I get through a southwestern summer without Crystal's cool fruit
ag
uas frescas
or her
jamaica
tea,
bright red and brewed from hibiscus flowers? Crystal not only made great drinks, she was kind. When I first asked for
jamaica
tea, pronouncing it as an English speaker refers to the island nation, she didn't scoff at my poor Spanish skills as my ex would have. She kindly coached me. “Ha-Mike-ah,” she said, adding an affirmation. “And you're right. The flower is named for the island,
flor de Jamaica
.” Poor Crystal. Another nice person Napoleon had bullied.

Flori accepted the enchilada order from Juan. A rolled tortilla dipped in red chile lay beside little hills of guacamole, refried pinto beans, and green and red salsas. I was glad Flori was taking it out. She could practice her subduing techniques if the customer got fussy.

“Crystal's a good person and an ally,” Flori said. “We need to befriend Napoleon's powerful enemies too. Perhaps your hot lawyer boyfriend knows a judge or commissioner who'd help in exchange for free burritos.”

I wasn't ready to think of Jake as my “boyfriend.” I also wasn't eager to mess with anyone's soft spots or burrito-bribe public officials. Besides, we had a bigger problem, as I delicately reminded Flori.

“Linda doesn't want our help. She got upset when we offered yesterday.” When Flori offered, I held back from saying.

“Linda's too nice,” her mother countered. “Always has been. Have I told you about that time she picked up a stray wolf, thinking it was a German shepherd? The kids were little then and buckled in their car seats, right by that wolf. My
daughter frets about everything except the very things she should be worrying about.”

Juan uttered some holy names, possibly in regard to wolves or the mound of scrambled eggs, crispy potatoes, and chorizo that composed the wrapperless burrito.

Flori nodded. “Exactly, Juan. Napoleon's much more dangerous than that wolf, which was actually kind of cute. Linda
needs
our help. She just doesn't know it yet.” With that, Flori raised her spoon in a tai-chi striking move and gave me marching orders.

I
protested, but only slightly. I agreed that Linda could use some help, and I liked my mission. Walking the few blocks to the Plaza, I felt like a kid playing hooky. Birds warbled, new green leaves glittered, and I was off work on a sunny spring morning. I practically skipped. I may have whistled, until the killjoy, list-making side of my brain reminded me I wasn't a carefree school kid.

Here I was, skipping along like Little Red Riding Hood, off to spy on a wolf in French chef's clothing. Not only that, my to-do list was growing to epic length. Groceries, laundry, driving out to chain-store land to stock up on cat supplies, calling my mom, e-mailing my sister, perfecting a Cinco de Mayo soufflé, picking a dessert that said let's take our time . . .
ack!
All these tasks were doable, I assured myself. Even the task I dreaded most, the one that involved sorting, cleaning,
managing teams of movers, and—worst of all—loads of emotional baggage.

The very thought brought a cloud to my morning. At least Celia and I weren't packing up and moving, although that hardly cheered me. Nor did the fact that the person whose home I was to “streamline” had moved on already. Victor—my landlord, neighbor, and dear friend—had been murdered last year, and I'd helped catch his killer. His younger sister, Teresa, inherited his home and planned to use it as a vacation retreat for herself and out-of-town friends. I was relieved the adobe compound would stay in Victor's family. I was even more relieved that I could keep renting the nearby casita. I loved the little cottage's beautiful wood beams, colorful Mexican tiles, and quiet setting by Victor's gardens and the burbling upper reach of the Santa Fe River. I'd also been happy when Teresa offered me the job of caretaker. All I had to do was watch over the mostly vacant house in exchange for lower rent. Saving money is what every single mom and café worker craves. The job sounded pretty easy too . . . except for one catch.

Teresa wanted me to assist in clearing Victor's home. Depersonalize it, she said, so that she could put her own touches on it. Or, rather, her decorator could. The hardest part, Teresa claimed, was already done: Victor's art collection. A world-renowned folk artist, Victor had packed his home with floor-to-ceiling art. Teresa's appraisers and consultants had tagged and removed the most valuable pieces, sending them to specialty storage, faraway auction houses, and the Museum of International Folk Art just over the hill. I was to
deal with the everyday items, like the comfortable furniture, knickknacks, clothes, and the miscellany packing the closets.
The hard part.

“Clutter,” Teresa had said with a wave of her manicured hand.

Victor's life, I thought, and I didn't know where to begin. I hadn't begun, unless wandering his house, feeling overwhelmed, counted.

“Rita? Hey there. Hi!”

A familiar voice jolted me back to the springtime present. I looked up and spotted my best friend Cass a few feet away.

“I was waving like a fool from across the Plaza, trying to get your attention,” she said with a grin. “You were in another world. It's the weather, isn't it? Much too nice to stay cooped up inside with a torch, right?”

I agreed, but then I shied away from Cass's torches in any weather. My silversmith friend wields flames attached to giant vats of flammable gases and looks great doing it. Her lemon-yellow dress, lime-green cardigan, and dressy leather boots made her look like she was popping out for an artistic ladies' lunch, not taking a break from melting metals. I get nervous heating the deep fryer and don goggles when making caramel. If I had Cass's work, I'd be decked out in fireproof coveralls and a welder's helmet. Or at least jeans, which is what I had on most days anyway. Today, I had on my “good” jeans, the dark, dressy kind, topped with soft T-shirt with a scalloped neckline. For my outdoor spying mission, I'd added a cotton scarf the color of lemon curd and a spring jacket, olive green with a peach polka dot lining, a
coup from my favorite secondhand store. Despite my dating doubts, I'd been paying more attention to my wardrobe since Jake Strong started paying attention to me.

Cass asked what I was doing. I told her about Flori's new Senior Center class and my mission to scope out Napoleon's weak points.

She chuckled. “I love that Flori's practicing deadly tai chi. How exactly are you supposed to be scoping out the enemy, though?”

“That's the best part. I've been ordered to buy a crepe.” After weeks of boycotting Napoleon's delicious snacks, I was delighted with this excuse and hoped to make repeat scouting trips.

“Ooo . . . I want in on this,” Cass said. “My stomach's rumbling just thinking about that lemon sugar crepe he does.”

We approached Crepe Empire from the periphery, as Flori recommended. Flanking, she'd called it, technical terminology she probably picked up at the Senior Center.

“There he is, the man himself,” I said. Napoleon stood behind the narrow counter, wearing a white chef's jacket and a hat that reminded me of my prefallen soufflé.

Cass sniffed. “That hat is absurd. Pompous little man.”

“He's full of himself,” I said. “All bluster.” I was bluster too. The spring in my step slowed to a stall. As much as I wanted a crepe, I dreaded ordering from Napoleon. He tolerated no hesitation, no changing of one's mind or requesting special ingredients. Napoleon was happy to let his customers know they were wrong.