She had come direct from her village on the East of Manhattan. She’d brought with her two of the key ingredients. Two stalks of green onions from the bodega in her village. It was run by a hardworking man named Manolo. His prices there were firm, but fair. But most importantly, the dry white wine.
They opened the bottle and took a drink. It was cool and metallic. The first sip felt good. Crisp and dry with the faintest mineral from the rocks in the soil. It was then that he pulled out the recipe for “Papa’s Favorite Wild West Hamburger.” The “Wild West” added in Ernest Hemingway’s handwriting to a typewritten page recently scanned in from papers he’d left behind in Cuba.
Her lipstick ringed the glass and she smiled at the man.
“How was your day did y—”
“Please try to understand these instructions. They’re given knowing your goodwill in working hard to shop and cook well.”