I had spent the last two days working on the same five layers of cake before I went in for my haircut.
The project was a big deal: it was the cake for the 18th birthday party of Odette Belmonte, this year's "It Girl" debutante. The five layers were thick stacks of vanilla and chocolate cake, sculpted and covered in sheets of fondant and molding chocolate to look like designer luggage and hat boxes. The topper, a shopping bag marked with the words "Odette No. 18," was made out of rice cereal and marshmallows, covered in more fondant.
My assistant Monica and I had worked on bigger cakes than this, but it still took a lot out of us to make it. The tropical heat in the kitchen made everything unbearable. Cracks in the fondant base were covered up with strategically-placed ribbons. A whole chocolate panel had to be discarded after the painted labels began to bleed.
My cramped neck chafed at the scratching of the hair net against my skin. Fat beads of sweat formed on my scalp, leaving my hair in clumps at the end of the day. It was enough to make a girl want to rip her hair out.
Thankfully, my hairdresser talked me out of going bald by suggesting a shoulder-length cut that I could put up into a neat ponytail or tie back with a scarf to keep the stray hairs in check. But it was still a radical change – and I was already overdue for one.
"I can't believe you went for it, Eloisa," Monica told me, after I came back with my hair hanging no farther than my shoulders. "You should've gotten it straightened if you're going that far."
"Girl, I've already had it with my long hair," I replied, taking a bandana from my pocket so I could tie my hair away from my forehead. "It's about time I kept my hair under control. Besides, I was getting tired of the hair net."
"What about the stray hairs?"
I pointed to the bandana. "Minimized."
My sister Neri took a break from assembling a club sandwich to check out my hair. "The cut looks good on you, actually. It softens up your face a bit."
"Really?"
"Yes," she answered. "Just put on some red lipstick, and you'll look like those pictures of Lola Carmen in the café."
I took it as a compliment. Had our grandmother lived long enough to see this moment, she would have approved of me wearing lipstick to work at the bakery.
"So no more hair nets, then?" Neri put on a clean glove on her free hand.
"Not for now. But you, on the other hand…"
"All right, sis, I'll take the appointment with your stylist. Maybe I'll get myself some pink highlights, just like Monica's."
The thought of my broad-shouldered, strong-armed sister getting anime-like pink streaks in her hair amused me. Monica had a delicate, doll-like face which matched her petite frame, so she could get away with hot pink streaks in her dark, chin-length bob. Neri and I had thick, wavy hair, and we both stood tall – thanks in part to the dominant genes we inherited from our Pappy – so looking like a Japanese cartoon character was out of the question.
"We better start working," Monica remarked. "Are you going to tell your brother about your haircut?"
"Later," I answered. "Let's get this cake out of the way first."
My brother Paul Carreon graduated with an MBA from one of the top universities in the country, with the intention of assisting Pappy with the day-to-day business operations of Reyna Bakery. It was Paul's idea to set up the café as a showcase for our cakes and baked goods, which were often served with the sandwiches and pasta dishes that Neri developed in culinary school. Pappy, who had run the bakery with Mom since Lola Carmen's death, was not crazy about the changes in the bakery, but Paul insisted that this would create more business for us – "taking the brand into the 21st century," as he used to say. Pappy responded by assigning Paul to handle the business side of special orders, which I was already supervising on the creative side.
As my co-supervisor, Paul saw to it that I had everything we needed to keep up with our orders, including keeping track of our schedules and suppliers. As my brother, however, Paul made it his business to get into my business.
"How could you leave the bakery to go to the salon?" he asked, his large eyes burning into mine as he waved his hands in the air. "So you take off just like that, just because you feel like getting a haircut?"
"I'm just trying to make things more efficient for both of us, Paul. One less stray hair means one less thing to worry about when I'm working with the cake."
Mom, who had been plating slices of carrot cake, felt the need to speak. "Eloisa did ask me and your Pappy, you know. And that was while you were talking to your clients on the telephone this morning." Taking a good look at my hair, she added, "This hairdo is pretty on you, dear. It makes you look more like an adult."
"She is an adult," Paul snapped.
My voice began to quiver. "I'm sorry, Kuya, This is going to be the last time, I promise."
"It's not just this cake, Eloisa."
Paul was practically growling at me. This could not be good.
"I got a phone call from Hazel Valencia's mother," he continued. "She's been asking me questions about the cake tasting this week for the wedding."
"Paul, I told you, it's just a cake tasting. All they have to do is sit down, eat cake, and tell me what they want…"
He knitted his thick eyebrows together. "She wants to order the cake now."
"Who – Hazel, or her mother?"
Paul pointed frantically towards the calendar printed on the whiteboard in the kitchen. "Eloisa, I know that you're not a happy camper about Hazel's wedding to Vinny, but please be reasonable."
"I am being reasonable, Paul. I just hate being pressured. "
My brother thumped on the calendar again. "We have deadlines. Please stick to them."
That afternoon, I took another break from working on the cake to get coffee from the espresso machine.
The café was half-full with customers from the village coming in for their merienda, so it was easy for me to make my own espresso. Moving quickly, I pressed down some ground coffee and let the machine do its thing while I poured myself a cup of milk.
That was when I heard my father talking to one of the customers.
"You say you are the son of Betsy?"
"Yes," he replied. "My dad was a polo player from Argentina. He passed away two years ago."
"I am sorry to hear that. But your mother, she is still around, yes?"
"She's still active. She now makes costume jewelry – earrings and necklaces with beads."
Sitting in the corner next to a black-and-white portrait of Lola Carmen were two middle-aged ladies who kept glancing towards Pappy's general direction. Those ladies had been regulars of the bakery for years, and Mom used to say that they always visited the store to check out Pappy's dark movie-star looks and polished, masculine presence. Today, however, they seemed to be checking out the smooth-cheeked mestizo who was speaking to him.
"Your mother used to bring you to the store with her because you liked the empanadas," Pappy remarked.
"Yes," the younger man answered. "I was a bit of a brat when it comes to those empanadas. I used to throw tantrums all the time…"
The customer that Pappy was talking to stood at least four inches taller than him – no mean feat, considering that Pappy was already tall by Filipino standards. I could only see his face in profile, but judging from the way he carried himself I figured that he could be around Paul's age, roughly in his early to mid-thirties.
Pappy turned around and found me standing behind the counter. "Come here, Eloisa, I want you to meet someone."
I took a closer look at Mr. Empanada Boy, who was now standing right in front of me. His dark hair was rumpled, as if he had forgotten to comb it after a long day at work. His eyes were a rich cocoa brown, his chin was perfectly squared… and, dear God, was that a dimple I spied peeking out of one cheek? Not to mention that the skin that showed from under his shirt collar was the color of rich cream.
"This is my daughter, Eloisa," said Pappy, extending a long, mahogany-colored arm in my direction. "And… I forget now, what was your name again?"
"Sean Alvarez," he replied, shaking my hand. "It's short for Sebastian Juan, my great-grandfather's name."
"Sebas-Chan," my father repeated, putting the accent on the last syllable.
Interesting nickname, I thought to myself. "It's nice to meet you, Sean. What brings you to the bakery?"
He smiled, and the dimple on his cheek became more prominent. "Actually, I was in the neighborhood to get more empanadas."
I tried to catch my breath. "You drove all the way here for the empanadas?"
"I just thought I'd stop by here on the way to my Mom's place," he answered. "She always said that your chicken empanadas are the best."
Pappy turned his attention back to Sean. "I forget again – you say your mom's name is Betsy?"
"Betsy Verdadero Alvarez. I noticed that you have a picture of her, from her 18th birthday."
The picture in question hung on the butter-colored wall right behind him, next to the old news clippings featuring Lola Carmen's work. The society pages of the Manila Herald ran a story featuring the lavish debutante ball that the Verdadero family hosted at one of the city's grandest hotels for their daughter Elizabeth Joyce, also known as Betsy. This picture had Betsy posing next to one of Lola's creations, a traditional three-tiered buttercream beauty decorated with roses and gardenias that were tinted the same blush-pink shade as Betsy's delicately beaded chiffon ballgown. It was one of the most beautiful cakes I had ever seen, as breath-taking as the girl for whom it was created.
And now, the pretty debutante from that picture had grown up to become the mother of this be-dimpled, creamy-skinned, half-Argentinian specimen standing right before me. No wonder the ladies in the corner were gawking at him.
"Anyway," I continued. "Chicken empanadas, we still make them. How many do you need?"
"I can finish a dozen in one sitting. Wait, are these flavors new?"
"Yes. We added them recently. Chinese pork, Mexican beef, Italian tuna pesto..."
"Our best seller is the cheese vegetarian," Pappy declared, his dark eyes beaming with pride. "This is the specialty of Eloisa, with the mushroom, bell pepper, and the local white cheese."
"Cheese and mushroom," answered Mr. Alvarez. "I like that."
Pappy grabbed a large take-out box for the empanadas. "Eloisa, take out six chicken and six cheese vegetarian for Mr. Alvarez."
As I took out the empanadas from the display case, I could not help but eavesdrop on Pappy engaging the aforementioned Mr. Alvarez in a conversation about his lineage as Betsy Verdadero's son. It had been years since Betsy's last visit, and she had no idea that the old pastry shop had been converted into a bakery-slash-café which still sold the cakes and empanadas which she so loved since Lola Carmen was alive. Sean said that she had moved back to their old house at an exclusive village half an hour away from where we were, since the place where they used to live, towards the central part of the city, had been sold following the death of his father from cardiac arrest caused by heart disease. Incidentally, Lola Carmen did not survive her first heart attack.
There were too many connections between Betsy and Lola Carmen, as if they were bound by fate.
"Here you go," I said to our customer, handing over the box of empanadas.
"Thanks, Eloisa."
Interesting – he got my name right the first time. People usually got my name wrong after being introduced to them. I've heard Eliza, Elisa, Alicia, and at one point I even had somebody calling me Helen. Rarely do people call me Eloisa right off the bat.
"Oh, you're welcome – wait, Sean, you said your mom's last name is Verdadero, right?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Do you happen to be related to Hazel Valencia? Her mom's also a Verdadero."
"Yes, Hazel Valencia is my cousin. Our mothers are sisters. Do you know her?"
"She's a close friend of mine. We went to school together."
"Nice. She's getting married, you know."
"I know. I'm making the cake for the wedding."
His eyes widened. "Wait, seriously?"
"Yes, I am. It's the biggest order we have right now."
"The expectations must be high."
"That's an understatement."
"I can imagine." He shrugged. "Well, I'll see you around then."
"Tell your Mom 'hi' from the Carreon family," Pappy added. "We will always have empanadas for her."
"I will."
I tried not to sigh as he made his way out of the door. When I did, I made sure that I was out of Pappy's line of sight.