The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,36
It looked to be in order, along with everything else, but good forgeries always did, didn’t they?
What a headache.
A bubble of irritation at the absurdity of the whole game burst between her eyebrows. Without Mexican workers, the service and agricultural businesses in Colorado—maybe all of America—would collapse. Unfortunately, there were so few Mexican workers allowed in on legal green cards that millions flooded over the border to claim the jobs illegally, forcing them to present forged documents that were only uncovered if the INS staged a raid, at which point thousands of workers were deported, only to flood back in again as soon as they could raise the money.
It was fruitless, demoralizing, and hugely expensive. Better to create a system of allowing more temporary workers to enter legally—and voilà! Crime down in every quadrant.
Unfortunately, she was stuck with the system as it was. Without a doubt, there were illegals in her kitchen, alongside those who had secured proper documents by some miracle. She had to be careful—the laws were tight in Colorado, despite the tourist-and agriculture-based economy—and while fines would be annoying, the bigger worry would be losing a chunk of employees in case of a raid.
The green card and Mexican driver’s license looked to be in order. Elena stood up and held out her hand. In Spanish, she said, “You’re hired. See you at eight a.m. Monday.”
He smiled and gave her the charming little bow that always made her think of medieval manners. Old world and courtly. “Gracias.”
As he left, Julian came in through the back door. “How’s it going?”
The day was crisp, not yet full autumn, but no longer summer, and Elena could smell the sunlight on his jacket, a tweedy silk in oranges and browns. She wanted to pet it.
She straightened, tapping the stack of applications together. “Good. Finally.” She shook her head. “Staffing issues were more difficult than I anticipated.”
“Yeah, that’s always the trouble with a tourist economy…” He plucked a pitted black olive from a bowl. “…getting enough bodies to do the work.”
Elena waved the papers. “And the state has really cracked down on undocumented workers. I could have had twenty dishwashers and prep cooks by now, but their papers were not particularly believable.” As it was, half her kitchen spoke either Spanish or Vietnamese. The rest were ski bums, as were a lot of the front-of-the-house crew. “How is your end going?”
“Patrick is a gem,” he said.
“Absolutely. And you haven’t even seen him in action with customers.”
Ivan came in from smoking a cigarette. “Hey, Boss Man,” he said in his rumbling voice. “Cómo está?” Pulling a lid from the steamer, he reached in and nimbly snatched a tamale wrapped in a corn husk. “I got something for both of you to try. Check this out.”
He grabbed a plate and dropped the bundle on it, smoothly snipped the tie around the corn husk and let the tamale roll out of its covering. A heavenly scent wafted into the air.
“What is that?” Elena breathed, drawn to his magic.
He cut the tamale into slices. They held in elegant rounds, the masa firm but not dry, the color a faint pale red. A secret little smile played over his lips as he held out the plate. “Taste it.”
Elena took a fork from the basket on the pass-out bar and captured a small bite. The flavors exploded, spice and meat, filling her throat and sinuses, then sliding away to a lingering complexity that urged her to take another bite, start again.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured, obeying the urge for a second taste. She closed her eyes. Pressed her fingers over her lips as if the food might run away if she let it. A silken combination of subtle layers—earthy and gamey and dark, a thread of cinnamon and languid chiles and something she couldn’t quite capture. She looked at Julian. He was reaching for a second bite, too.
“This is fantastic,” he said. “What is it?”
Ivan shrugged, his eyes glowing turquoise with barely concealed pleasure. In his typical way, he crossed his arms, watched Elena’s mouth move, rubbed one finger on his chin. “Mole—I’ve been experimenting.”
“Yeah, but what’s the meat?”
“Elk.” He looked up as Patrick came into the kitchen, neat as a pin in a crisp blue shirt and jeans. “Some buddies of mine hit one on the highway out west and they dressed it and brought it home.”
“Is that legal?” Patrick asked.
“It is.” Ivan grinned. “The state patrol issues a limited license at the scene. It’s good for like