North of Happy by Adi Alsaid

Author:Adi Alsaid
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2017-05-20T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

CUBAN LECHÓN ASADO

50-pound pig

5 heads of garlic

4 cups orange juice

2 cups lime juice

1 cup sherry

½ cup pineapple juice

4 tablespoons oregano

3 teaspoons ground cumin

6 bay leaves

2 tablespoons black peppercorns

2 tablespoons kosher salt

5 tablespoons olive oil

METHOD:

Morning comes, and I have not managed to push Emma out of my thoughts. The sun’s barely coming up when I arrive at the side door to meet with Chef. It’s a mostly clear day, which causes the dawn to paint the sky instead of clouds.

I hold my gyuto at my side, flat against my leg. I knock twice, hard. Chef appears in a moment, moves aside wordlessly. I hate her for taking Emma away from me and have half a mind to throw a fit. But a) I’m not exactly the throwing-fits type, and b) Felix reads my thoughts and makes an announcement over the kitchen speakers: “You’re about to get private lessons from an incredible chef. You sure you want to throw that away?”

Swallowing my anger, I follow her into one of the walk-ins, where Sue is counting tomatoes while holding a clipboard. “You got this for a few minutes?” Chef says, and Sue nods. Then Chef reaches for a white onion, and heads back out to the prep kitchen. She sets the onion down on the counter.

“Do you know how to chop an onion?”

I feel my eyebrows furrow. “Yes, Chef. Of course.”

“Show me.”

I hesitate but then think to myself, Clearly this is a test. I pull my new knife out from its plastic sheath, set it on a cutting board next to the onion. I wish I didn’t have to use it for the first time under these circumstances. It feels so right in my hand, like it was designed specifically for my grip. But Chef’s got her diamond-cutting gaze on me and I’m trying hard not to throw the onion across the room at her.

I step over to the sink, wash my hands thoroughly. A wave of insecurity hits me, as if every time I cut an onion in the past I was doing it wrong, Chef knows this, and this is all just a way to mock me. She’s just standing there, staring, arms folded. I take a deep breath, try to adopt a Felixesque ease. I’m standing in Chef Elise’s kitchen, about to receive her tutelage. I should be thankful.

It’s all muscle memory, really. I remember the day Felix taught me how to do this. I was thirteen; he was a couple months away from leaving home. Mom hovered behind us, trying to convince Felix that I was too young to hold a blade. He’d laughed mirthfully, as if Mom was a kid who’d said something naïve and ridiculous. I cut the onion in half, peel off the skin, keep the root intact. Nine or ten slits vertically, making sure the knife’s tip doesn’t go all the way to the other end. Then I turn the onion swiftly and start making horizontal cuts, using my off hand to

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