A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,48
man in a raincoat (although it’s actually sunny outside), rows of foil tea bags lined up in front of him. A busy Orion greets me with his eyebrows.
I entertain myself by checking out a few corners of the shop I missed the last time. Built-in shelves display delicate porcelain tea ware, and small Asian teapots in deep russet and iron black metal. A lone table offers books about tea preparation, as well as stacks of linen towels and tea cozies.
I glance around at Orion’s thick sigh. Besides a navy checked button-down, he’s wearing a strangled help me face; the customer is being overly inquisitive or some other kind of annoying. Of course, I make it worse. Cubans can play cheeky as well as certain Brits.
Behind the oblivious man, I grab one of the wrapped pork roasts and pretend it’s a long-lost love. I pantomime sweet nothings and bat my long lashes, gazing dreamily into its “eyes.” One corner of Orion’s mouth jiggles, but he keeps his cool as he grabs another tin—Earl Grey this time. Oh, he’s good, but I’m better.
I twirl and sashay, silently dancing like I’m Clara and the pork is my super special Christmas nutcracker. I win. My target’s neck blazes pink and he’s forced to hide his crack-up with an obviously fake coughing burst. When the customer finally finishes and moves to the cash register, Orion takes the chance to shoot me a glare full of warning and toy knives.
“You are a dangerous human, Lila Reyes,” he says, meeting me at the tasting bar.
I sit and lift the sleeve of my Pilar-pick striped top. “My warning label must’ve rubbed off.”
“Ha bloody ha.” He sets his jaw like he’s trying to keep his face straight. Fails. “You hardly deserve a cuppa after those antics but I’m a sucker and just can’t help myself. Plus, we still need to find your signature tea.”
Intrigued, I watch him grab a tin and follow the same steps as last time. After a few minutes he pours the tea. This one fills our white cups with deep burgundy. “What is it?”
“Assam,” he says. “A single-variety black tea grown in India. Give it a try.”
I do and tell him, “It’s full and… malty. That’s the best word I can find.”
“Exactly. It’s robust, and that’s why it’s used primarily in Irish breakfast blends, which are some of the strongest out there.” He pushes the milk toward me. I add a generous glop.
I sip again, the tea warming my tongue with comfort and flavor. I get why Brits look forward to this ritual every afternoon. “I swear you can taste the land it came from, all the plants around it. But I don’t think it’s a contender for my favorite. Good, but maybe a little too smoky?”
“Ahh, I’ll keep at it, then.” He peeks into both of my shopping bags. “This might sound off, but that’s a hell of a lot of meat you have there.”
I laugh. “Mr. Robinson, the butcher, hooked me up. I’m making a hell of a lot of Cubanos tomorrow. You’ll probably eat at least one and a half, if not two.”
“At least,” he says.
Our chatting and drinking makes the space between us light and easy, the way the milk settles the strong Assam in our cups.
A man enters the shop floor from the back and no introduction is needed to tell me he’s Orion’s dad. Orion plus thirty years equals the tall blond in a thin black sweater and chinos. He spots me and Orion, smiles, and approaches.
“Phillip Maxwell,” Orion says to me. “Dad, this is Lila.”
Mr. Maxwell shakes my hand. “So you’re the brilliant baker who made the delicious pastries on my kitchen counter.”
“I’m glad you liked them.”
Orion hooks a thumb toward me. “If I put on a stone and my trousers don’t fit, it’s her fault. And watch out, Dad, she’s sending Cuban food home for you and Flora, too.”
His eyes are kind, the mirror of his son’s. “That’s so generous. You might find me jogging behind you soon.” His smile wanes as he pulls out his phone. “Elliot just sent this along to a load of shop owners. Have a look. Definitely not in the running for any gallery space.”
We both lean in and, there it is again—black graffiti on a large whitewashed brick wall.
“Elliot owns a tool shop near Farley’s. This is his back wall, at the alleyway,” Orion tells me, and pegs me with a knowing look.
I study another close-up shot; the same infinity symbol