On a cutting board on the table, a modest-sized pork roast awaited processing. I knew where the thin-sliced meat was headed, and the thought made my stomach growl in anticipation. Fernando’s daughter Aileen stood at one of the large stainless steel prep sinks, washing and sorting a mound of vegetables. She saw us first, and raised her head in greeting. “Dad,” she called, and Fernando eased out of his fog, turned, and saw us.
“Look at this!” he exclaimed, and drew out the word this as if it had about five i’s and at least that many s’s. His speech had the music of Chihuahua, the state of his birth-a nice, rich accent that the years hadn’t diluted a bit. He wiped his hands on his apron and then locked mine in a double-handed grip. “Bill, mija said you were here earlier. I’m sorry I missed you. I don’t know where my mind is today. I’m thinking a lot about George, I guess. You know how that goes.”
“’Fraid so,” I said.
“It was his heart?”
“Most likely.”
He frowned and looked askance at me, then at Estelle. His gaze dropped to the manila envelope that she was carrying, and he waited for us to drop whatever bombshell we’d brought into his kitchen.
“We have a question or two, Fernando,” I said.
His eyebrows arched in surprise. “About the food, you mean? Was something wrong…”
I held up a hand. “Everything is preliminary…just a goddamn mess, is what it is. Look, we’re starting to think that George had an allergic reaction to something.”
“An allergic reaction? How…”
“It looks as if he passed away just after he sat down at the kitchen table to eat his lunch. A couple of bites, and something came apart.” I rested a hand on my own chest at that thought. “So it’s natural that we would have some questions.” I glanced at Estelle, wondering if she’d noticed how effortlessly I managed to slip back into the we business. But as usual, her lovely face gave no hints about what might be going on in that inscrutable mind.
“An allergic reaction?” Fernando repeated. The notion obviously didn’t compute. “Tell me what that means, Bill.”
I knew that he understood the word just fine-it was the context that puzzled. “Just that,” I said. “You know how some folks are super-allergic to something that doesn’t bother another person one bit, like a bee sting. Or pollen. Or juniper. It gets one person, and not another.”
“So George…”
“There’s some reason to believe that he reacted strongly to something, Fernando. To something. We don’t know what. I don’t know if a wasp flew in the kitchen and stung him, or what. It may turn out to be as simple as that.”
“A bee sting?” he said in disbelief, and he looked to Estelle for corroboration. “¿Y usted, señora?” he asked. Estelle had remained watchful but silent, simply a presence that I knew could make a person nervous.
“What I’d like to find out from you, Fernando,” she said, “is a list of ingredients. George had a take-out…”
“The burrito grande,” Fernando finished for her. “Almost every week, that’s what he has.” He laid a hand on his own chest. “By arreglo especial.” He grinned and pointed a stubby index finger at me. “And sometime he shares the festivities with a special friend, am I right?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Today was one of those days. Didn’t work out.”
Estelle rested a small note pad on the stainless table, pen poised. “Let’s start with that,” she said. “Just the ingredients.”
“You want…” Fernando began, then shook his head, his patience under the test. “You know, such a dish is a combination of so many things. And George, he’s been eating with us for years, agente. Why should something suddenly,” and he waved a hand in the air helplessly. “All of a sudden, as you say?”
“I’m looking for changes,” Estelle said. “So it will be helpful to know the ingredients. Especially if you have made a change recently.”
“There has been no change,” Fernando said vehemently. “That is part of the secret. But,” and he took a deep breath of resignation. “If you want a list, you want a list, ¿verdad?”
“Cada uno y todo,” Estelle said.
“Híjole, where do I begin with a thing like this,” he muttered, and he glanced over at the large wall clock by the door. “Mija, can you?” and he gestured at the waiting roast.
“Just take one part at a time,” Estelle said. “Begin with this, perhaps?” She pointed at the pork.
“That’s good,” Fernando agreed. “I oven-roast the pork, you know. The old fashioned way. Let me show you.” He strode to the large walk-in freezer and reappeared in a moment with another three or four pound package bundled in white butcher’s paper. “Little ones like this,” he said. “You know, most people don’t know what’s involved.”
“Me, for one,” I said. “You never know how many customers you’re going to have, do you? Or what they’re going to order.”
“That’s exactly right,” Fernando said. “One can never know.” He held up his left index finger. “There is an idea, but it cannot be exact. With small roasts, there is not so much waste. And the quality is better. That is always, what do I want to say, at the heart of what we do. Each ingredient must be quality, or the final result is not. Simple, ¿no?”
“May I have the label?” Estelle asked.
“Of course.” He peeled off the sticker and handed it to her. “This is not the same roast, you know.”
She stuck it neatly on the page of her notebook. “From the same vendor?”
“Yes, of course. But if you ask me what the pigs eat, I can’t tell you,” Fernando said. He crossed quickly to the stove, opened the oven, and removed a flat pan covered with aluminum foil cover, revealing a small quantity of sliced pork. “This is the remains from the roast used for George,” he said. “You want a sample?”
Estelle nodded and extended a small plastic bag to him, and he selected a forkful or two. An evidence bag wasn’t what the chef had in mind when he offered the sample, but he didn’t question her. “Is this enough?” She nodded again. “This comes from Aguirre’s Meats, of course,” he added. “In Deming. They are the best. They can tell you just what the pigs ate, if you are curious.” He pushed the pan back in the oven. “There’s no telling what is in meats these days. I won’t pay for the organic label-I don’t trust them, either.” His eyes twinkled. “What’s an organic pig, can you tell me that?” He put the frozen package back in the freezer. “I roast the meat, keeping it just a touch raro, ¿verdad? It’s going to be cooked again, you know.”
Aileen had left the sink, and was engaged with the finished roast, a large catch pan positioned at the outfeed side of a spotless stainless steel slicer. The gadget’s motor was an innocent, soft buzz, but that spinning blade captured my respect. I had visions of thin slices of fingers spraying out the back.
“We slice very thin, Bill.” Fernando stood at Aileen’s elbow and watched the preparations. “Very, very thin,” he said again as Aileen fed the first pass. “That’s one of the secrets. Like paper, eh?” He jerked his chin at me. “You know, don’t you. It’s best that way.” He held out his hand and caught a slice. As he folded it, he inspected it judiciously, then tore it in half, handing half to me and popping the rest into his mouth. How could I refuse?
“Seasoning on the meat?” Estelle prompted.
Fernando ticked them off on his fingers as his daughter continued to work. “Salt, pepper, maybe a touch of garlic. A little bit of sage. A tiny trace of chipotle, for the smoky quality. With good meat, you know, not so much is necessary.” He made a volcanic gesture with his fingers. “You want the pork to come through,” he said, and his hands settled. “You need some of each?”