Bitter Sweet Mole

Jorge felt the pain course up through his wrists to his arms as he stirred the thick dark brown sauce simmering in the large clay cauldron. The long handled spatula he held with both hands had to be in constant motion to make sure that the sauce did not get burnt. The kitchen smelt of the wondrous blend of the countless ingredients that went into the mole, the aroma pungent and mouth-watering at the same time. At La Santa Elena, they made molethe old-fashioned way; no metal spoons or cauldrons here and all the spices were ground and mixed by hand. Senor Bernado, the head chef in the restaurant made sure that no one cut corners. There was no room for laziness in his kitchen. 

These were also the moments that Jorge would let his mind wonder and rest on those memories of his mother and grandmother as they stood over a similar clay cauldron; their beautiful brown faces bent over the pot and their arms sinewy and strong as they stirred the sauce. His father had left a few months after his younger brother had been born and with no means to support two young children Elia had moved back to Oaxaca from Mexico City to the safety of her mother’s house. That was when Maria had brought out the large clay cauldron from the small shack that stood in one corner of the garden; the delicate pattern of white flowers almost faded and burnt black in places but the cauldron still thick, heavy and ready to be used. She had asked Jorge to help carry it to the kitchen, his seven-year-old face already showing signs of hardship. The unexpected weight of the cauldron had made him look at his grandmother’s face in surprise. Elia had looked up from the child in her arms as her mother stood over the cauldron and then looked at her with an expression of determination.

“We will cook and sell food at the market……… and we will make sure these children and you have enough to eat.” Maria had said, her voice deep from age.

Elia burst out crying, her slim shoulder’s shaking from her sobs. 

“There’s no time for tears.” Maria had said kindly. “You have these two children to take care of……”

Elia nodded her head weakly as she tried to control her sorrow. Jorge stood next to his mother, his small hand on her shoulder trying to comfort her. 

“But mother, we don’t even have money to buy the ingredients……how are we going to start?” Elia had said.

“Don’t you worry your head about that. For now, tend to your children and I will take care of that. It will be hard work but this is what we have……this is our heritage.”

The younger woman nodded her head in agreement. There was very little to do but listen to her mother. It was she who had chosen to move to Mexico City with Diego despite her mother’s protests. At that time, it had been an act of rebellion; moving away from the small village she had known all her life, marrying a man from Mexico City, and the promise of better opportunities for them both. And now all she was left with were her children; the traces of their father in their light brown skins and hair and the memories of a love that she had thought would last a life time. 

Jorge remembers the look of acceptance and understanding between the two women; Doña Maria had forgiven her daughter’s foolhardiness and Elia had finally accepted her mother’s wisdom. 

                                                                                  ****

Jorge was startled as he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Senor Bernado; a grim expression on his face. With a jerk Jorge started to stir the mole again. It had become thick and hard to stir, there was a faint smell of burnt spices in the air. 

“Stop daydreaming!” Bernado yelled at him as he glared at the younger man. 

“So sorry….” Jorge muttered as he pushed harder with the spatula to scrape the bottom of the cauldron, trying his best to make sure the moledid not get burnt. His grandmother would have asked him to start all over again, insisted that he grind the spices and make the paste from scratch, costing him an entire day’s work. He sighed in relief as no burnt clumps of sauce appeared on the top of the gently bubbling sauce. 

“You lucky bastard! Don’t fall asleep on the job again.” Bernado said as he walked away from him. There would have been no mercy from the chef if he had indeed burnt the sauce. Jorge was making the most popular of the them, mole rojo. It had taken him many years before he could gain the trust of Don Bernado who had finally allowed him to make that most beloved of sauces. He shook his head in disbelief as he wondered how he had been so absent minded, all his hard work and effort could have been thrown away in one moment.

Samuel, who was working next to Jorge looked at him with an expression of mock horror on his face. He was making the pipianmole; that beautiful earthy green sauce, its spicy and nutty flavors melding together to perfection. It had always been Jorge’s favorite; pipian moleover chicken and white rice made by his mother for his birthday. 

“Yo brother, that was a close shave!  Bernado would have had your hide for that rookie mistake.” Samuel winked exaggeratedly.

“You can joke but I shouldn’t have been distracted like that…. He was right to berate me.”

“Urgh……only youwould say that!” Samuel said tutting as he added more energy into each stroke of the ladle. “You kiss-ass!” He muttered under his breath.

Jorge simply chuckled. They had been friends for more than five years, most of their time together spent in the semi-dark cavern of the kitchen of the restaurant. Samuel who saw himself as an expert of the city, had taken Jorge under his wing as soon as they had met. It was he who had introduced him to El Centro, the bustling center of the city with its maze of side streets where you could find anything you were looking for, and to the charms of Zona Rosa, the red-light district where he had seen his first night club. It was also Samuel who had introduced him to Natalia, her light complexion and soft brown hair immediately grabbing Jorge’s attention. And when Natalia had ended their relationship, when Jorge had gone into a stupor fueled by beer and self-pity, it was Samuel who had pulled him out of his bed and shoved him under the cold shower and taken him out to get a meal. 

                                                                       ****

A week after Elia had moved back to her mother’s house she had begun selling moleat the market in the town. Her mother had already spoken to Silvio, the elderly cab driver who lived two houses down to help her transport the molethey had prepared to the market. The car, an ancient Chevy, was rusty and unwieldy, and Silvio with his skinny old-man’s body seemed to be swallowed up by the giant insides of the vehicle. The first day, as Elia sat in the back seat of the car, her hands firmly on the containers filled with food, she was startled as the car came to life with a terrible rumble. But after a few seconds it began to move with a jolt and they were on their way to the town. For the first time in her life she had had to leave her children behind; the weeping face of her younger child and the stoic expression of her eldest making her heart break. At least they were with hermother, she said to herself to comfort her own overwhelming maternal instinct.

That first week she had felt humiliated as she waited on a corner of the public market; her carefully prepared wares on the floor ignored by those walking by her and the looks of animosity from the other sellers. It had been a harsh introduction to reality; single motherhood and becoming the breadwinner of the family. Her husband’s job in Mexico City as a security guard working in a condominium had sheltered her from the burden of earning a living. But now she was responsible for putting food on the table for her children. She had sighed deeply as she looked at the beautiful shades of the different moles, their glory going to waste in the harsh midday heat. She wished she could tell all the passersby the effort and love her mother and she had put into the preparation, that it was not simply food, a sauce to accompany meat but the soul of her people.  As she sat in the backseat of the old Chevy with Silvio’s chatter in the background all she could think of was the empty bellies of her children and that she had failed as a mother. 

Doña Maria came out to help her unload all the food. The two women silently exchanged looks as they brought in the plastic containers and clay pots containing the food into the house; on one a look of dejectedness, and on the other a look of quiet determination. Doña Maria, gently touched the arm of her daughter, as if with that gesture she could transfer her strength and wisdom as Elia stifled her sobs. 

“Don’t worry……. we will make do. We always have. Your children won’t go hungry. I will make sure of that until I live but youmust never give up. Tomorrow morning you wake up and go to the market again. Silvio has promised to help us as much as he can and with the grace of Mother Mary, you will soon start selling and making money.” 

“Mama, but I don’t know how longIcan go on like this………the humiliation, the feeling of failure is too much to take.”

“You can’t think like that……. you can’t let those thoughts take over you. Think of the children. You are their mother andfather now. You are the person they look up to and if you want to bring up those boys to become good people……youhave to strive, youhave to swallow your own pride and youhave to keep going.”

Elia shook her head in despair. That night as she lay next to her children; Mateo suckling at her breast, his eyes half closed in sleep and Jorge sleeping with his little-boy’s-body pressed close to her own for comfort, she knew that there would be no relief for her. The entire weight of her responsibilities seemed to converge on her at that moment, the small room that she shared with her mother filling up with her own unfulfilled dreams, each fighting for space. Through the night she had wrestled with her own thoughts, battling her own self-doubts. When she woke up the next morning, Elia had felt empty like something within her had been expelled. And as she dressed herself to return to the market, Jorge who had been sleeping stirred and looked at her with a blank gaze. 

“Mama, where are you going?” he had asked, his voice drenched in sleep.

“To the market, my son.”

“Let me come with you……. I want to help.” He had said standing up groggily.

“But what about staying with your grandmother?”

“I’m bored and besides I want to help……. I’m a big boy now.” Jorge had said, stifling a yawn as he wore a pair of shorts. Looking at her son’s face, she could see the determination of her own mother. 

“Hmmmmmm…. okay.” She had said, thinking that he would probably get bored and decide not to join her the next day. Jorge had smiled and looked at his mother’s face with adoration. His seven-year-old mind already beginning to comprehend the gravity of their circumstances.

                                                                             ****

When he first returned to Mexico City as a young man, all he had was an address to his aunt’s house written on a piece of paper in his mother’s careful handwriting. As he walked, trying his best to navigate the confusing maze of streets, Jorge had felt threatened by the immensity of the city. He had tried calling the phone number next to the address, but had got no answer. His only option had been to find her apartment by himself. 

 After an hour of walking when he had finally found her apartment, Janet had hugged him briefly and showed him the small room that would become his bedroom. While he longed to speak to her and know more about his father Janet continued to speak only in monosyllables, rarely giving away any information about his father. All Jorge knew was that Diego had somehow crossed the border to Texas and had found work as a farmworker. It had been thirteen years since he had lived there and that he had a family of his own. He had caught his aunt glancing at him to see his reaction once she told him about his father, and Jorge had done his best to hide his emotions; his sense of pride overpowering his sadness.

Janet’s husband, a large, boisterous man had taken pity on the young man.  Unlike his aunt, it was he who had volunteered to help Jorge to find a job. The first night they had met Victor had offered him a beer.

“So, son what are your skills? What is it that you do best?” Victor had asked, his breath smelling of beer. 

“Um………I can cook and I’m hardworking.” Jorge had said suddenly feeling unsure himself.

“What can you cook?”

“Any kind of mole………any kind of dish from Oaxaca.”

“Hmmmmmm……. all seven of them?” Victor had asked, his own appetite for good food making his mouth water. “Maybe you can make some for us one of these days.” He added chuckling.

“Of course, Uncle. Yes, I can make all of them and more……”

“Okay……let me find out what I can do for you. I might have a friend who might be able to help you but I guarantee you it’s going to be hard work.” 

“I’m used to hard work. I’ve helped my mother and grandmother make food to sell at the market every day…… I’m not afraid of hard work.” Jorge had said feeling hopeful. Victor had patted him on the shoulder and grunted his approval. 

Two weeks later he had found himself in the spacious kitchen of La Santa Elena, the large terracotta cauldrons much like the one’s he knew from his grandmother’s kitchen and the aromas that stung and welcomed his nostrils, felt familiar like good friends. His first feelings had been of happiness until he met Senor Bernado, the head chef of the restaurant. The man had sized him up with one look and had ordered him to clean all the dirty dishes that had been piled up in the sink. 

“This is not some taqueria on the street okay……. this is a proper restaurant and we have a reputation to keep. So, anything you do has so be done perfectly.  We don’t cut corners here, no short cuts……you got it? And that applies for washing dishes too.” The man had said wagging a long skinny finger at him. Jorge had breathed deeply before nodding his head. He knew that he would have to gain the confidence of this man before he would even be allowed near a cauldron of fragrant mole, the hierarchy of the kitchen having already been established. Jorge had bowed his head and nodded in agreement. 

And as he had predicted it had taken him a full year before he could help with the preparation of the moleand another year before he could oversee making them. All the while he had hardly been able to visit his mother and brother; working through the weekends with Monday his only day of rest. After the first year, he had got used to the distance, finally saving enough money to send to his mother so she could make the trip to Mexico City. 

Jorge still lived in the cramped room in his aunt’s house and when his mother visited he gave her the bed and slept on the floor. Despite the cold reception of his aunt, Elia was pleased to see her son thriving in a city that she felt she could never belong. Her own memories and impressions of it shaded by her failed marriage to Jorge’s father.  Looking at the face of her eldest child she recalled his determination in joining her at the market that first morning, his small hand in her own as they walked to Silvio’s car. That was also the first day that she sold the food she had prepared. Speaking in a soft voice that night she had told her mother that she thought Jorge had brought luck to her that day. A smile of pride crossed her face as she gently brushed away the hair from her sleeping child’s forehead. And even though Jorge had started school the next month he had always shown a preference for helping his mother and grandmother, finding every excuse possible to skip school to join his mother at the market.

It was Mateo who seemed to resemble their father the most; his handsome features and café-con-leche skin and quick wit meant that he could charm anyone he met. While Jorge would falter, and struggle with speaking to a girl, Mateo with his winning smile and cheeky jokes would easily gain her confidence. Unlike Jorge, Mateo refused to help his mother and grandmother with the family business choosing instead to focus solely on his school work. Once when his grandmother had reprimanded him about not supporting the family, he had argued that he planned to complete school and find work in Mexico City as soon as possible. He had only been sixteen at that time, but Elia could already see the adventurous free-sprit of his father in her youngest son.  And she knew that when the time came there would be no stopping him from leaving the safety of his home and family.

                                                                          ****

In Jorge’s seventh year of working at La Santa Elena, his grandmother died. That was also the year that his girlfriend of two years had decided to end their relationship. It was also the year that Jorge found out that his brother Mateo had reunited with their father and had been welcomed into his home. For months, Jorge could feel the weight of all his troubles gathering strength, their collective forces overwhelming his mind and body like a disease coursing through his blood. That was when he had drunk himself into oblivion one weekend, a month after Natalia had left him. That was when Samuel had to push him under the cold shower in the small bathroom that November, the sky steel gray and the air cold and unforgiving, to bring him to his senses and wash off the caked vomit from his body and hair.  He had cried in his friend’s arms; tears of mourning for his grandmother, tears of heartbreak for Natalia and finally tears of abandonment for his father. The next morning, he had woken up to the sound of his aunt’s voice outside his door calling for him to wake up. For the first time since he had lived in her home she had made breakfast for him; chilaquiles with spicy green sauce, fried eggs, fried tortilla chips and plenty of queso fresco. He had looked at the dish on the table and at her face in amazement, unable to contain his surprise. She had simply patted him on the back.  Jorge savored the food with relish; enjoying that unexpected instance of his aunt’s affection. 

The next year, Jorge was made sous-chef at the restaurant and he had called his mother on the phone he had bought for her and had told her the news. There had been pride in his voice as he told Elia the news, imagining her face lighting up in the confines of the small kitchen of their grandmother’s house. She still prepared moleas she used to, only now she had a young woman from the neighborhood to help her with grinding the spices and stirring the sauce, arthritis over the years having made her fingers numb and crooked. There were still days that Senor Bernado would yell at him but it no longer felt like an insult or an accusation. Instead he would focus on watching the older man as he went about managing the kitchen, learning as much as he could.

He had wanted to call his brother and tell him the news, and yet some strange stirring within him had stopped him from doing so.  Was it pride? Or was it jealousy? He wasn’t sure. That evening as he completed his shift and walked out onto the sidewalk from the back entrance of the restaurant, Jorge once again thought about calling Mateo. There was already a small crowd of customers waiting to be seated for the dinner service; the men in their smart clothes and the women with their faces and hair made-up perfectly for the evening stood chatting and laughing on the side walk. He stood for a moment and watched them; these beings from a different world, everything about them oozing privilege and money. He Immediately felt an outsider in their world. Did they know it was he that made their food? That it was he who made the beautiful sauces that would be served to them on elaborately garnished plates? 

Jorge shook his head to brush off thoughts he knew were futile. He knew the truth just as they did. They would never know. As he turned the opposite direction to walk to the bus stop, he felt at peace. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and dialed his brothers number. As usual it took a while to connect, as he imagined the lines connecting across the border. He wondered what his brother was doing at that moment. After a few minutes, there was a clicking sound as someone picked up the phone on the other end. 

“Hello….” he said hesitantly.

“Hello……. who is this?”  A man’s voice answered, his Spanish accent thickly laced with traces from his homeland.

“Jorge……. where’s Mateo?” 

“Jorge?” The man’s voice repeated his name, lingering on the syllables.

“Yea……. who are you? Isn’t this Mateo’s phone?” Jorge asked concerned now.

“Are you calling from Mexico City?”

“Yes, I am……but what is it to you?” Jorge asked, feeling annoyed by the man’s questions.

“It’s your father.” 

“Who?” 

“Your father, Jorge. You can tell me the message for Mateo.” The man said matter-of-factly.

“Papa?” Jorge asked, feeling completely disarmed, his voice reverting to that of his seven-year-old self. 

“Yes……. it’s me. I—I know we haven’t spoken in a very long time.”

As he listened to his father’s voice, Jorge felt a waves of emotion rush to his mind; anger, sadness, frustration, and then happiness. He could no longer remember what his father sounded like, nor what he looked like. And for the longest time as a child he had tried to hold onto his memories of his father’s face which were eventually replaced by a distorted collection of fragmented memories. 

“I-----I just wanted to tell him that I got promoted to sous-chef at the restaurant.”

For a moment, there was only silence on the other end and then he heard his father breathe, choppy as if he was struggling.

“Are you okay Papi?”

“Yes……yes I am. I just couldn’t help myself.” Diego said, his voice heavy with sobs. 

As Jorge stood on the sidewalk, his phone in his ear, he suddenly felt his breath stop and his heart race at the same time. These were the words he had been waiting to hear for so long and yet, instead of wanting to yell back at the man who had abandoned him all he wanted to do was to hug him, to feel his father’s embrace and to see pride in his eyes.