"What's the ETA of the churros?"
"Two minutes, Nong-Chef!"
"Good."
SJ took a moment from assembling what felt like his hundredth pavlova–theirs was called 'Macuja,' in honor of the Filipino ballerina–to look out onto the crowd gathered in front of the Azucarera de Papi stall. His cousin's party supplies company came through, stringing softly winking fairy lights in garlands over the seating area fronting his stall, the tables adorned with little centerpieces made of bunting, sampaguita strands and little glass jars of pastillas. A camera flashed in front of him, making him conscious of the sweat beading on his nose.
"Churros out!" Dom called out, dumping the fresh logs of puff pastry onto the wire rack to cool. "Icing them in one, Nong-Chef!"
"Pudding out?"
"Yes, chef!"
From the chiller, Dom pulled out the little jars of dulce gatas, banana cream cheese custard and whipped cream that they had painstakingly assembled earlier that day. One of his cousins' waiters came by with a tray, and both he and Dom loaded it with plates of Macuja and the jars of pudding.
"Prims, can you tell who's there?" He asked his assistant as Dom started pouring out gumamela iced tea into waiting paper cups.
"I think most everyone you invited is here, Nong-Chef. Even the press."
"Mm. Start icing the napoleones churros."
"Yes, chef." Dom whipped out a pastry bag and called, over his shoulder, "The ladies from Bacolod Goodies are here too."
Damn, why was he blushing? Why did his body feel like freshly baked cookies shoved into the freezer–steaming on the inside, freezing on the outside, and guaranteed to be a gooey mess?
The waiter returned to the window. "Chef, out na po yung parfait?"
"Ah, yes." He could smack himself, but he did the sensible thing: haul out the next batch of jarred desserts they'd made, carefully piping rambutan infused-cream on the piaya parfaits while shaking pinasugbo dust on the quezo de bola ice cream ones. "Out!" he called, placing them on the waiting trays. He could moon over Ling, his long-lost-and-now-found-love, later. Right now, he had to focus on churning out the food for the launch.
"Churros out!" Dom called, carefully arranging paper sleeves filled with Dom's version of Silay's napoleones: elongated and deep-friend, a meld with the popular Mexican treat. Another waiter whisked those away. Dom leaned against the counter and wiped away his sweat. They kept the food stall chilly for the desserts, but both had felt the heat and the pressure of their first major event, all on their own. "All desserts out, Nong-Chef."
SJ reached out and patted his assistant on the shoulder.
"You should go out there. Mingle," said Dom. "I'll take it from here."
"Are you sure?"
Dom gave him a look, like he knew exactly why SJ was avoiding the crowd and let him know he was being silly.
"Okay, okay, I'm going," SJ muttered, wiping his face and removing his apron. He knew that this was part of the deal–that him going solo meant facing his guests, like a good host, and making small talk. If he hadn't been willing to play the game, he wouldn't have had a launch. He could have just as easily opened his stall and be done with it. But he was making a point, trying to build something; and he knew that for what he wanted to achieve, this was the logical starting point.
He circulated among the guests, asking after the quality of the food and how the night was going for them. He took their compliments in stride: SJ had a clear vision of his own abilities, and he knew that he and Dom had put together a superb menu consisting of impressive desserts that were logistically–if not easy, at least doable–to prepare. Someone with a web series stuck a camera in his face and interviewed him; he thought he'd been charming and personable. No trace of the sugar torch-wielding black sheep anywhere.
At the edge of the tables fronting his stall, he spotted her. Ling held a phone to the dishes on the table while Hera shined her phone's light and read off the menu card.
"So this one is a barquillos cannoli," Ling was saying as he approached their table.
"Ano man na?" a voice from the phone trilled.
"Tita,'extra-large barquillos piped with coconut custard and topped with a layer of crushed pinasugbo' gali," Hera read.
"Namit gid?"
"Namit bala," he said as he reached them. Ling turned in surprise while Hera let out a terribly loud screech.
"Tita Emma, this is Chef SJ, he invited us to this event."
Ling turned the phone to him. A video call was in progress with two gray-haired, bespectacled ladies wearing identical sweet smiles. "Good evening po," he said.
"Abaw ah, you're the boy who used to walk Ling from school when she studied here!" the taller one, whom he remembered was Tita Emma, said.
"Yes Tita."
"Bata ka gali ni Joe San Joaquin?" inquired the other lady, Tita Bebot.
He nodded and smiled, though his skin prickled at the thought of his father. Would he have been proud of what his son achieved on this night? The sad answer was: probably not. His father had a superiority complex, as befitting the son of landowners clinging to the faded glory of the old sugar days. But SJ did not grow up with French crystal and crates of imported goods that totally bypassed Manila; he only knew of his mother pawning her jewelry, his father losing land used as collateral to fund some scheme or other, and the endless dinnertime sermons when his father and uncles got together. On and on, they gossiped about the other families, who were either crooks and cronies or poor sons of bitches who'd turned away from their legacies to migrate abroad or work at BPOs. On and on, they talked of the old days, when they lived as literal feudal lords, every whim granted on the sugarcane-bound lands they owned, as though all it took was one scheme, one deal, to get it all back.
So, no. His father would not have been proud. But SJ realized that he didn't care anymore. He had the courage to build something that wasn't handed to him. He would be proud of himself enough for them both.
"...your menu is so creative ha," Tita Emma was saying. "Ling was telling me about the fruit-infused creams and the repurposed Negrense pasalubong. So inventive! I hope I get a chance to taste them."
"I hope so too, Tita. Please visit Ling in Manila, I will make sure to treat you."
"Hay but my sugar, oh no!"
"Ambot, Emma." Tita Bebot rolled her eyes. "Ling, pangga, can you give the phone to Hera? We need to talk."
Ling handed the phone to Hera, who took it with the air of someone facing their doom. She pulled earphones on to spare them the oncoming sermon.
"Poor Hera," Ling said. "Tita Bebot heard all about your wrong order."
"I hope she goes easy on her. After all, if she hadn't messed up, I wouldn't have seen you again."
Under the evening sky and the softly blinking lights, she looked up at him. Her eyes were full of hope and sweetness. He wanted to slow dance with her right in the middle of the tables full of his guests.
Unfortunately, he caught a glimpse of two approaching men who were sure to put a damper on this night.
He glanced back at the stall. Dom paused in the middle of piping cream onto a new batch of parfaits and shook his head at SJ. He had spotted them too.
"What's wrong?" Ling asked.
Both men reached them. "Papi SJ," said one, in a grating, nasal twang that he'd hoped, five months ago, that he'd never hear again.
"Wacky. Liam." He acknowledged their presence with a gruff nod. "Run along now."
Wacky, ever the more annoying of the famous Velez Brothers, clutched at his heart. "Pare naman, that hurts. It's as if we hadn't shared so much together."
SJ raised a brow. "If by 'sharing so much together' you mean pestering me to cut costs and 'up the Down & Dirty presentation' so you could keep jacking up prices, then, yeah. I guess I'm sorry, bro."
Liam tutted and placed a condescending hand on his shoulder. "Your principles, SJ. Always so lofty." He picked up the barquillos cannoli from Ling's table and stared at it like it was roadkill. "Is this why you're filling mass-produced barquillos with supermarket cream and calling it a day?"
Wacky snickered into his hand while Liam looked at the people milling in front of Azucarera de Papi. SJ was aware that people were starting to stare.
"A tiny stall in some common, run-down food park," Liam muttered. "It's the perfect place for a 'black sheep chef' like you."
SJ felt his jaw tightened, but before he could react, Ling spoke first.
"I don't know who you two are, but you are both giant snobs and I think it would be better for everyone if you just left," she said firmly.
Wacky's jaw dropped. Liam turned his nose up in the air further.
"Chef SJ took ordinary pasalubong that everyone thought they all knew so well and turned them into culinary works of art," she continued.
Liam laughed. "I don't know who you are either, miss, but my brother and I run one of the most profitable and widely known restaurant concepts in Manila. We know what a 'culinary work of art' is, and this sad, soggy log isn't it." He tossed the barquillo back to the plate on the table, causing some of the custard to splatter on her skirt.
SJ saw her fists tighten and felt a flash of panic. The last thing he needed was Ling punching out Liam Velez at his dessert bar launch. Liam would deserve it, of course, but it would be bad optics after the social media shitstorm that exploded after he pointed a sugar blowtorch at Liam's face.
He reached out to Ling, but she only gave him a sweet smile.
"I'm proud to say I've never heard of you," she told Liam. "And if you're so amazing and profitable, why are you stressed about this tiny, affordable dessert bar? Afraid your customers will realize you're ripping them off when they taste what Chef SJ has to offer?" She picked up the barquillo and dropped it with a satisfying plop! on both brothers' fancy sneakers. "Oops. Sorry, SJ. I really wanted to eat that, but it slipped my grip."
If Liam had the ability to shoot lasers from his eyes, Ling would be a smoldering heap right now. Fortunately for them all, the best he could do was curl his lip like he smelled something bad. Wacky could only gawp like a stunned goldfish.
"This isn't over," Liam seethed.
"Listen, man, you made your point," SJ said. "You made my last few weeks at Down & Dirty a total pain in the ass, and I quit, just like you wanted, so that you wouldn't need to give me severance pay, remember? Now you and your brother get to come here and feel smug and superior seeing my dinky little stall, so I hope that got you off. You can go now."
"You little–" Wacky said.
"Chef SJ isn't hassling you, but if you don't stop, we might just drop by DOLE and tell them all about the terms of his separation from your company, how about that?" said Ling. "How long did you work for them?"
"Three years. We had a contract and everything."
"Tsk, tsk. I'm pretty sure my aunt, who is a labor lawyer, will be pretty interested hearing all about that. Who knows what else an investigation will uncover, should they look into your books?"
Liam turned ashen. He gripped his brother's forearm and tugged him away. "Let's go, Wacky. They're not worth it."
He watched them leave in a huff, the dignity of their exit marred by an earsplitting yell from Hera: "Bye, mga gago!"
Ling dissolved into a fit of giggles, which he couldn't help but join.
"That was awesome, Manang Ling!" Hera exclaimed. "You were so cool and tough!"
"I know," he said, and he couldn't help but squeeze her shoulder. "What happened to the Ling I knew, who only wanted to fade into the background and not be noticed?"
"I don't like bullies and I don't need to suffer them," she said, facing him. "I learned that from you."
"What do you know?" His arms curled around her waist as her hands settled on his shoulders. "I kept my cool, and you fought my bullies."
"That's what happens when people grow up. They change." She leaned her head against his chest.
"I'm looking forward to finding out all the other ways you've grown up," he whispered in her ear, and thrilled when she shuddered in his arms.
Hera coughed. Loudly.
They hastily broke apart and faced the girl, who looked scandalized. "You two are in public," she hissed.