2:30 a.m.
Mateo still hadn't slept. He sat on the floor of the back storeroom. A single bare bulb hung overhead. In front of him: matches, a candle, and a wooden box.
The box hadn't been opened in ten years. It had a small padlock. Rusted.
He gripped the lock. His hand was cold. “If I open it... will I be strong enough?” he whispered.
2:58 a.m. He didn't go out front. Didn't turn on the stove. Tonight, he was skipping work.
Creak. The front door opened on its own. But Mateo didn't move.
He pried open the padlock with a screwdriver. Crack.
Inside the box: 1. A white apron. Stained dark red. Sauce? Blood? 2. A recipe book. Its cover was torn. Written in a woman's handwriting. 3. A photograph. Mateo, Lena, and Ana. Their daughter. Four years old. 4. A small bottle. Filled with salt. 5. A letter. Still unopened.
Mateo picked up the photograph first. Lena was smiling. One of her front teeth was slightly crooked. Ana was in her arms, holding a wooden spoon. Behind them: the kitchen at El Polvo. Still new. Still clean. Not a speck of dust.
“October 14.” Mateo whispered. “Ten years ago.”
He opened the recipe book. The first page: Receta de Lena For my husband, so he won't forget the taste of home.
His hands trembled as he turned the pages. Mole. Pozole. Chiles Rellenos. They were all there. Until the last page. Torn. Only half a sentence remained: ...and finally, cook with...
“With what?” Mateo closed the book. He pressed his forehead against the box.
FLASHBACK—10 YEARS AGO. 7 P.M.
The kitchen was bustling. Lena was grinding chiles. Ana sat at the table, playing with flour. “Mateo! Try this!” Lena held out a spoon. “What’s it missing?” Mateo tasted it. Closed his eyes. “Love.” Lena threw a towel in his face. “You idiot.”
The restaurant was full. Twenty tables. Laughter. Music. It was Ana’s birthday. A chocolate cake sat in the middle.
9 p.m. Lena: “I’m taking Ana to buy balloons first, okay? The shop out front. Ten minutes.” Mateo: “Be careful.” He kissed her forehead.
9:15 p.m. CRAAAASH. A sound. Not the sound of a pot falling. The sound of metal hitting metal.
Mateo ran outside. A truck. Lena’s car. Shattered glass. A pink balloon caught on the fence.
People screamed. Sirens wailed. Two people carried Mateo away. “Don’t look!” But he had already seen.
An empty seat. Ana’s wooden spoon on the floor. Broken.
BACK TO THE PRESENT. 3:10 A.M.
Mateo vomited into a bucket. There was nothing in it. Just water.
Ever since that night, he hadn't been able to taste anything. The doctor had said, “Trauma, sir. Psychosomatic. Your tongue is healthy.” But every time he ate, it tasted like paper.
He closed the restaurant the next day. He sat here. For ten years. Ate plain bread. Drank water. So he wouldn't have to taste the bitterness of his loss.
He took the letter from the box. Lena's handwriting.
Dear Mateo, If you're reading this, it means I'm gone. I know you blame yourself. Don't. You're a chef. Your hands were made to heal people through food. Cook again. Until you can cry because it tastes good. Until you can laugh because it tastes funny. Until you can feel me in every bite. I'll be waiting at the corner table. My order: Sopa de Aceptación. Love, Lena.
Mateo's tears dripped onto the paper. The ink ran. “Idiot... idiot...” He pounded his chest.
Knock. Knock. Knock. A knock came from the front.
Mateo jumped. “We’re closed!” he shouted. “Closed!” But the knocking didn't stop. Slow. Patient.
He walked over. His legs were unsteady. He opened the door.
There was no one there. Only a bowl sat in front of the door. Still warm. Filled with clear soup.
Beneath the bowl was a small piece of paper: FOR THE CHEF WHO FORGOT TASTE. EAT.
Mateo looked left and right. The street was empty. He picked up the bowl. Went inside.
He sat on the kitchen floor. The spoon trembled in his hand.
The first bite. No taste. Like water.
The second bite. Salty.
The third bite. He cried. Spicy.
The fourth bite. He laughed. While crying. Sweet.
“LENAAA...” he shouted.
In the corner of the kitchen, the shadow was there again. This time, it was clearer. A woman. Wearing an apron. She stirred an empty pot. Smiled. Then vanished.
Beneath Mateo on the floor. A fifth clean circle. Shaped like a wooden spoon.
4:45 a.m. Mateo had stopped crying. His eyes were swollen. He opened the recipe book again. On the torn page, he wrote with a pen:
...with tears.
He closed the book. Held it against his chest.
He stood. Walked out front. Turned on the stove. Today, he wasn't cooking because there were customers. He was cooking because he was hungry.
He made scrambled eggs. With the salt from the little bottle. He tasted them. Salty. Savory. Warm.
For the first time in ten years... Mateo could taste his food.
He cried again. But this time, he cried while eating.
He erased the old writing on the blackboard. Replaced it with: NO MENU EXCEPT FOR YOURSELF
Brrrrrr... The fan spun. Dust fell. But it didn't reach the floor. The dust swirled in the air, dancing. Then vanished.
Mateo looked at the corner table. Empty. But on top of it sat one clean bowl. And one wooden spoon.
He whispered, “Order received, Lena.”