A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,33
my sister.
Orion does a quick shoulder stretch. “Now you know the story of our graffiti problem. Roth and his crew are just trying to manipulate. You know, bully and taunt because they can’t get their way. And one day we’re going to catch them.” He scrubs his face and takes a cleansing breath. “But now you and I are going to have a quick look around a little church before heading into town.”
Little church? Hardly. The stab of homesickness lifts as we approach Winchester Cathedral. I’d passed the massive gothic structure from afar, but this is the first time I’ve stood right in front of the towering facade with its arched stained-glass window bay. The cathedral is so ornate. I don’t know what to throw my vision at first.
“Impressive, right?” And when I can only nod, he adds, “Eleventh century. One of the largest cathedrals in the U.K.”
We wind around the side to the sprawling nave, anchored like a long rib cage set with hundreds of stained-glass windows. The middle section juts out slightly on both sides—cross-like—just like Notre Dame in Paris. But I’ve only seen that cathedral in pictures.
Orion clucks his tongue, a glint lifting off his eye—also cute—and I know what’s coming. “A Russian superstition says if you take an old coin, walk ’round a church with it three times, then go home and put the coin in a spot where you keep valuables, you’ll get rich.”
“Oh, is that all it takes? And here I was planning on making my millions by feeding Miami Cuban pastries.”
We exit the cathedral grounds through a narrow access street. More quaint houses and shops, more old. “About those Cuban pastries, then?” he asks.
“You mean about you eating them?” I spurt out a laugh. “I’m just getting started here, but after one visit to the supermarket, I might have some trouble. No guava paste on any shelves, and that’s a must. My mother’s sending some. All I found was fig paste. I mean, fig!”
“Wait.” He actually stops. “Lesson one from your tour guide. Never knock the fig around here. One look in Polly’s book must’ve shown you figgy pudding and fig tarts and fig rolls.”
“Me cago en diez,” I say from one corner of my mouth. “Never mention that red book monstrosity around me.”
“Look at that.” He tightens his shoelaces. “I pissed you off right into Spanish. Bet that was a curse. I’ll need to learn those.”
He gets my best side-eye. “Keep mentioning Polly.”
* * *
I’m checking out the flavor brochure and price list inside Maxwell’s Tea Shop. I’ve already met Teddy and Marjorie, local college students who double as clerks. They deftly handle customers while Orion slips into the back.
This shop holds more surprises for me than gourmet teas, though. I didn’t expect it to look so much like the storefront at Panadería La Paloma. Same blond wood flooring and clean white counters. Similar industrial pendant lights and fresh cream paint.
Orion appears infuriatingly scrubbed and fresh in a new long-sleeved tee (does he have a closet here?). He jerks his thumb toward the arched opening behind the counter. “We have a washroom in back if you want.”
Oh, my damp forehead and sweat stains want very much. “Thanks.” The passage leads through a small commercial kitchen space, but it’s a culinary ghost town of covered equipment and counters doubling as storage. No one cooks in here. I can’t help but feel sorry for this space, or any space that’s so obviously missing its own chef. Silly. I roll my eyes at myself and welcome the washroom’s gardenia soap and hot water.
When I return, Orion’s packing up a wholesale order. Weighing and filling little foil sacks with loose teas, he could easily be an apothecary who’s been shot forward in time to a modern, light-filled space and running clothes. Dozens of metal canisters line the wall behind him. His own variety of herbs and potions.
“All set. I’ll run this by the bistro on my way home to clean up.” He waves me to the small tasting bar that caps off one end of the counter.
I drop into a stool. “Are you officially working today?”
“Later, when Teddy heads to class. First I’m gonna go and see Mum.” The small word flickers between us. We hold it for a few beats before Orion exhales through a resigned smile. “Now, how much do you know about tea?”
“About as much as you know about Cuban coffee. Other than that, Miami’s more about iced tea at outdoor cafés.”