“I had a craving for cool-weather food last night, for thicker sauces, a deeper carnal connection. I was ready for summer to be over. I ordered the slow braised oxtails from Madame Matisse on Sunset near Lucille and waited for my delivery.
My window was open to the warm LA air, thick with nicotine light and the soft thudding flutter of namesake wings. From the corner of Wilcox, I could smell grilled chorizo and onion rings. Two buck tacos. Always an option. But I waited.
Forty minutes later, there was a knock on my door. I opened it, hungry for that meat but there stood a whole other treat: Delivery Boy, standing on my step, smelling like carne and youth.
Good God he was gorgeous, in a Chalamet way, with a little more hunk but less soul.
“I have an order for–” said hunk said, trying to read the name on the order.
“It’s for me.” I took the bag, packed with three take-out cartons – the tails and two sides. I breathed in deep. He watched.
“It does smell good.” he commented.
“So do you.” I smiled and tipped him a twenty.
Made him blush; I didn’t think a thing more of it. “Thanks.” he said, “Appreciate it–” I thought he meant the twenty but when I started to close the door, I felt him linger.
“Hope you enjoy your–?”
“Oxtails.” I told him.
“Oh.” he pulled back. No bueno.
“They’re nice…” I tried to entice him, “…she braises them until mouth tender; shreds the meat and layers it inside little pillows of dough, then sautees them to a crisp in butter.”
“I like butter.” he smiled. It was a good one.
“And duck.” he carried on, “I like her duck.” He stepped a little closer, “Simmered in fat and Remy.”
OK, he knew a thing or two, but…
“Are you old enough for Remy–?” I asked, needing to make sure, I mean, he looked at least nineteen….
“The alcohol burns off.” he looked me in the eye, “But yeah, I’m old enough.”
I held his gaze, not sure what to say. He was,
“It’s the end of my shift.”
His car was idling out front. Someone in a Vega pulled out of a parking spot across the street. I pointed at it, “If you hurry–”
Three minutes later, I let him inside. I got two beers out of the fridge. Tsing Dao. It went well with beef. Two kinds.
He said his name was Andy. That was a lie. It didn’t matter. As he mouthed the neck of that beer, I couldn’t stop thinking how smooth his arms were, how young his dick was, how good it would feel and… But the cartons were hard to get open. He took over; opened them like a pro. I got napkins. And pillows.
We started with asparagus, their shanks sauteed but firm; their warm tips swollen with tangy cream. They went down my throat like a treat. We followed with a mound of roasted mushrooms: fleshy shitake, pungent oyster; their umami filled his mouth like a dream.
An hour in, skin to skin, we shared every inch of those buttery, warm oxtails from Madame Matisse.
My name is Rhea Porter. I eat.
Madame Matisse. Sunset near Lucille. Open for lunch and dinner. They deliver.”
Joe’s
At a little after eight under a dusk blue Ensenada sky, thirty-eight-year-old Rhea Porter navigated her ninety-three LeBaron around the potholes on the east end of Avenida Placido. She found a space outside Boom Boom Carneceria, parked, finished the last few bites of a glazed mango donut and chased it with a swig of thermos coffee. She got out, locked her car and headed toward Joe’s café, two doors down. Between Boom Boom and Joe’s, she passed six little kids begging for money. She looked away.
Rhea paused outside Joe’s; a wave of hesitation stalled her. She shook it off, opened the door and stepped inside. It wasn’t a cafe anymore. Gone were the smells of citrus and cinnamon, of cilantro and chilis; gone were the sounds radio music; friends talking and gone were the little tables where a child left alone for a moment could slip outside, chasing after a bluebird.
Now there was a makeshift stage in the center of the room. On it, eight stone-faced almost-naked women swayed to a scratchy recording of Dylan’s “Mr. Jones”. Smelling of Bal de Versailles, lemongrass and cooze, their scent was sweeter than the stagnant breaths haloing the dozen male customers scattered around the room, watching them.
Man she wanted to leave. Then she spotted him, behind the bar that spanned the back wall: a small, graceful man she had once known. He had to be in his sixties now. He looked good, despite everything. When she was a girl, he’d taught her about the joys of rellanos fried in chili butter, the pungence of fresh hoja santa, the particular tang of lemons grown near the sea. He’d revealed a world to her – and though now, 22 years later, she could still find joy in a good chili relleno, Musso pot pie or kimchee turkey melt, it was fleeting.
After awhile the man looked up and saw her. It took him a moment, then a smile accordioned his eyes. She shoved off the wall and headed toward him, passing a skinny jackass who thought licking his lips at her was appealing.
She reached the bar. And the bartender. Christ she was nervous. So was he.
“Hello Joe.” she stuck out her hand. He took it, drinking in her once familiar face.
“Rhea.” It really was her. He held on. “You look–”
“Tired. Yeah.” She cut him off. She knew what she looked like.
“No. Good. You look…” He was at a loss to describe how she looked to him after so many years and so much loss, “It is good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too.” She held on to his hand. “I was in town– and wanted to see if you were still here. And you are–”
“Yes. I stay. In case–” A familiar pain filled his eyes; she couldn’t stand it.
She let go of his hand. She looked around at the stale incarnation of the once charming cafe.
“I hate what you’ve done with the place.”
He nodded at the obvious, “There’s more money in–” his wave referenced the ugly room, the booze and sex.
But she knew. The real reason he’d given up the light-filled cafe… here there were “no kids allowed”.
They both let it go. Too hard to talk about.
He kept it safe, “Get you a beer?”
She shook her head, “I’m driving back to LA. Just came for the day… I saw officer Nala,” she stumbled on, not wanting to explain but needing to, ”-he’s still working– it’s Detective Nala now–”
Joe’s pulse raced, “Is there some news–?”
“No.” Rhea answered fast, shutting down his hope. “I thought maybe there was, but no.”
Hope. That smirk of light that makes you think the lost will be found, that love will prevail; that smirk of evidence that had sent her back to Baja. For nothing. That was that. Neither wanted to think anymore of the past, even though that’s all they had. Except…
“You still cook?” she asked.
That’s all he needed. He poured her a lime soda, “Give me a few minutes.”
He gestured for one of the dancers to take over the bar then slipped through a curtain to a back room.
Rhea drank. It was good. But she could feel the skinny jackass oozing toward her. She angled away from him. The stool next to her was empty. She put her purse on it. Doubling down on the “stay away” vibes, she pulled out her phone and started writing, looking occupied. Jackass hovered but kept a distance, watching the show on stage, beer in one hand, the other hand deep in his left pocket. Stroking.
Six long minutes later, Joe emerged from the back with a small, fat hunk of sizzling halibut, nestled on a pillow of tomatillo salsa, drizzled with thick crema, with a side of hot fried tortilla strips.
He set it down. She gave it her full attention. T’was a thing of beauty. She swirled the crema into the tomatillo, cut the fish with her fork, slid it through the sauce and ate it.
It was so good it made her laugh. “Still the best in town.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Both.” No more talking. She ate. He watched her. It was good to see her like this.
She finished; full, for now.
“Thank you, Joe.” She started to get up.
“Don’t go yet–” He went back through the curtain, into the back room.
She was alone again. Fair game. The Jackass seized the moment. He came up behind her. As he put his empty glass on the bar, he leaned into her, pressing against her, smelling of tobacco and wet cement. Fucker. She elbowed him but not too hard – gotta be careful with sleaze.
Joe came back. Jackass retreated. Joe put a take-out carton of the salsa and two bags of hot, greasy fried strips on the bar, “For the drive back”. She pulled out a twenty. He wouldn’t take it.
“Please, Joe, please– C’mon Joe–” She leaned over the bar, leaned into his face and kissed his cheek,
“It wasn’t your fault.” she whispered, “It was mine.” She set the money on the bar. She took the salsa and strips and left.
As she walked toward the door, she felt the Jackass behind her. By the time she reached it, she felt his menace. She opened the door and stepped outside.
The air was sharp with the edge it gets just before a Santa Ana wind has been freed. It got under her skin, irritated her. Man she was tired of always walking away. Pissed her off. She stopped hard, turned, faced him, ripped open her jacket. He looked her up and down, focused, backed away. For now. She knew it could go either way. She buttoned up and hurried away.
Rhea passed the young beggars, this time she looked at them: two were sisters, holding hands. She fished in her pockets and thrust whatever money she had left into their hands. “Go home! Vete a casa!” she snapped. The younger girl grabbed hold of the money. “Vete a casa.” Rhea said again, “Ahora. Por favor.” She gave them a bag of strips, too. She walked to her car. She got in and watched them until they walked away, hopefully to home.
She looked back at Joe’s and saw the Jackass step outside. He had two friends with him. “Here we go–” she thought.
She started her car. They spotted her. She whipped a U and headed up the street, out of town.
Rhea hit the outskirts, there were three roads ahead, all leading out. One was highway 3, the main paved road heading north to Tijuana and the US border. There might be someone on that road she could flag down for help, if needed. The second was a dirt road leading to a cluster of squat faded houses. The third was a cracked blacktop heading northeast, into the open desert.
Rhea checked her rearview; a car was approaching. The three guys were in it. Fuck it. She chose option three and headed into the desert. They followed.
The road got bumpy: potholes and scrub growing through the cracks and hares hopping across the pavement slowed her down. A coyote howled.
The trio gained on her. Her adrenaline soared but she kept her speed steady. Her headlights revealed a turnout a few hundred yards ahead.
She sped up. She swerved into it and spun-out, so that she faced them when they skidded to a halt, inches from her LeBaron. One had a gun drawn, the other a knife. She was pretty sure the skinny asshole driving had zip ties. She snatched her gun from the console and shot all three. Hand. Shoulder. Eye. Blood splattered. Zip tie guy could still drive. He got them the hell out of there.
Finally feeling relaxed, feeling a little free, Rhea took a minute to finish her coffee. Crisp, clear night desert night filled her. Time to go home.
Rhea started the LeBaron. As she pulled away she heard a “crunch”. Damn. She got out and checked the back of the car. When she’d first spun out, a taillight had cracked on a rock, breaking the red plastic. A piece had broken off and she’d rolled over it. She picked it up. It wasn’t too bad; an easy superglue fix once she got home. The tail light, now white, shone on the rock she’d hit. Sticking out from under it was a slip of paper. Curious, she wedged it out. It was an old, faded receipt; hard to see where it was from. She turned the receipt over.
On the back was a handwritten note… faded scratches of pen that came together like a dream: “Dear Rhea Porter, I am here. Aggie.”
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