A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow by Laura Taylor Namey

Author:Laura Taylor Namey
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Published: 2020-10-06T00:00:00+00:00

17

“You do realize I’m a useless dolt in the kitchen,” Orion says a few seconds after stepping into mine at the Crow. He turns, eyes widening at the Cubano sandwich assembly line I arranged on the butcher-block island.

“Useless, huh?” I sweep my hand inches above the flat top grill on the range. Almost hot enough. “Can you make a sandwich, or do you need a tutorial on cheese slicing and mustard spreading?”

He goes for side-eye but ruins it with a sputtering laugh. “Christ, it smells fantastic in here. I followed it like a rat up the walkway.”

“The Cuban siren song. I lure my prey with pork fat.”

“I’m a goner, then.” Orion washes his hands. Winks. “But worth it if I get to eat that before my demise.”

He’s at my side. I drag over two of my Cuban bread rolls and hand Orion a spreader. “No Remy and Jules?”

“Remy’s doing late shift at Bridge Street Tavern—that’s his family’s pub—and Jules has practice with Goldline. But I mentioned pork and homemade bread and I think actual tears were shed in group text.”

“Bueno. No one cries over me not feeding them. I’ll make them a care package.”

Gordon whips through like our personal hurricane. “Don’t mind me. Not staying,” he says, shielding himself from us with raised arms like he’s interrupting. “Thought I’d ride one of the guest bikes to the gym for a bit of extra.”

He’s gone before we can tease him, so we settle for slanted gazes. “He ate two Cubanos with the Wallaces. Which explains,” I gesture to the back door, “that.”

“Does it, though?” Orion peers into the pan containing the roasts I slow-cooked for six hours. I tear off a hunk. He chews. Swallows. “I was right before. You’re dangerous.”

I aim for full-blown assassination, leading Orion through the steps of Cuban sandwich making. A mayo-mustard hybrid goes first, then Swiss cheese, thinly sliced pickles, pork, ham, and another layer of cheese. His first effort is worthy; we brush softened butter on the outside of the rolls and I tote them to the stove.

Orion follows. “Oh, it’s hot?”

“And melty. At home, we use a big sandwich press, like a panini maker. But here I have to improvise.” I grab a potholder and the big cast iron pan I’ve been heating. Our sandwiches sizzle on the flat top; I press down on the tops with the pan. “With this method we have to flip them, but it works in a pinch.”

I griddle both sides of our Cubanos to a perfect crisp, cheese oozing over all the meat. Two counter stools and white plates later, I watch Orion take his first bite. He loses all words, a British drama school demonstration of a classic swoon. His free hand drops over his heart.

I laugh and dig into mine. We eat in food-drunk silence for a bit. Miami fills my senses, feeding all the rest of me.

“I call Cubanos the Miami fourth meal. People used to eat these after dancing at salsa clubs. Still do, actually.

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