The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,106
the window that was now completely gone. The car had pulverized the entire area just inside the condo, and whatever had been left had been dragged out when the tow truck hauled the car out. She looked at the floor carefully. One leaf. Just one.
Nothing. The pot was gone, though she saw shards of the red clay. There was a scattering of dirt. And there—she dove for it. But not even she could pretend this leaf would survive. It had been crushed to nothing.
“Oh, grow up,” she said aloud. “Go to work.”
“Ma’am?” said Harry from the door. “You ought not to be in there. The structure is unsound.”
Elena nodded, and stepped over some shattered wood left from her sideboard. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
As she pulled into the parking lot of the Orange Bear, she took a moment to breathe. She felt hollowed out, as if all of her organs and feelings had been sucked from her body.
But she was absolutely not going to let this freak accident interfere with what was a hugely important day in her life. Pulling on her gloves and twisting a scarf around her throat, she carried the box of kitchen things up to the back door.
Inside the kitchen, things were quiet. Much too quiet. She glanced at the clock, feeling slightly disoriented by a low, constant hum and the lack of music in the kitchen. “Hello?” she called, settling the box on the stainless steel table by the door. Unwinding her scarf, she headed into the dining room, wondering if they were all out there. “Hello?”
Nobody. Frowning, she glanced at the clock. It was only nine, but somebody should be here by now. Where were they all?
With a sense of dread, she headed upstairs. “Hello?”
A knot of people were gathered around a table in the bar. Alan, the daytime bartender, Peter, Tansy, Patrick, and Ivan. They looked at her with long faces. “Hey, Jefa,” Ivan said, his palms cupped around his elbows.
Elena touched her belly, feeling the scars and empty spots within her fill with liquid dread. “What’s wrong? Who died?”
“Nobody died, Chef, but it’s bad,” Alan said.
“What is it?”
Ivan said, “The INS staged a raid in Carbondale and rounded up a bunch of people. Some kind of government crackdown, to coincide with the first day of ski season.”
Elena thought of the man at the condo, swearing into the phone. “Fuck,” she said. “How many did we lose?”
A giant well of silence opened into the room. “How many?” she repeated.
“All of them.”
“Not Juan?” She looked at Ivan. “You told me you checked all of their green cards. You personally vouched for Juan.”
“Chef, it’s—”
For one long moment, she was stunned. What would they do? “Who staged the raid?”
Ivan shrugged. “The government. They probably timed it this way on purpose.”
Elena shook her head, and made a decision. “I don’t know why you’re sitting there. Get your asses up and let’s get to work. Peter, get your buddies in here—tell them we’ll pay double for the night. Tansy, call anyone you can think of who might be able to do anything for a weekend.”
“You’re going to open?” Alan asked.
“We don’t have any choice. We’ve advertised all over town, and passed out coupon books, and the radio ads are probably running right now.” Acid burbled in her stomach. She tried not to imagine her entire career going up in flames. Pulling her hair into a thick band, she cocked her thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “Get on it, guys. You’ve got a lot of prep to get done. Tansy, I need you in the main kitchen—listen to what they tell you.”
In her cigarette-ruined voice, Tansy said, “I gotta call home and make sure somebody can watch my granddaughter, but I’m sure my sister will do it.”
Ivan said, “Do you want to simplify the menu a little, maybe? Cut some things ahead of time that might slow us down too much?”
She nodded. “Do it. Figure out the most time-consuming items and we’ll tell the servers to emphasize tamales. We should have enough tamales for anything.”
The cooks headed into the kitchen. “Alan,” she said, “cut the seating by 20 percent at a time. Marta, you’re going to have to prepare for the overload in the bar. Any suggestions on making the wait more appealing? Free drinks, appetizers?”
“Sangria and Mexican coffee? They can have the regular free, and pay one dollar for rum.”
“Give the laced away free, too.” Elena pursed her lips. “What if we do a bunch of corn