Brothers Pt 2

Galician flavors and Memories

The day passed quickly. Dinner was going to need a plan, so I ran to the grocery store and picked up a large pork roast. I knew I could adapt my recipe and make it more Galician quite easily—adding sweet and smoked paprika to the marinade and finishing with an Albariño white wine, then slow-roasting for several hours to make sure the meat was tender and succulent.

To the pork, I was going to add my classic Caribbean Arroz con Gandules. I had grown up eating this at the houses of my Puerto Rican and Dominican friends, and it was always a welcome taste of home for me.

Finishing off the meal were crispy tostones made with green plantains and served with a piquant garlic sauce.

I chilled two bottles of Ribeiro white wine to go with dinner. As I was putting the finishing touches on the table and pouring the wine, Tristan entered through the garden patio door. The sun was just setting, and the air was cool—as it usually was in late summer in New York.

2260: Did you take care of what Leo needed?

I said, gesturing for him to sit while I began to carve the pork.

Tristan: Yes. Last-minute arrangements—but you already know what is in the works.

2260: Alright, I will say no more.

I smiled. Tristan could be tight-lipped when he wanted to be, and I had the feeling he had been pulled into promises of confidences that he would not break.

As I carved several slices of pork and placed them on Tristan’s plate, I thought about my next question—thinking back to where we had left off. I passed the plate to Tristan and, as I did, I said:

2260: Help yourself to the Arroz con Gandules. I realize this is not a Galician dish—you’ll have to forgive me. But pernil with rice and pigeon peas, like I had growing up in New York and eating at my Puerto Rican best friend’s house, brings back memories of home for me. Help yourself to the tostones and garlic sauce as well.

Tristan: When I came to New York with Leo, I sampled many of the cuisines that thrived in the melting pot of the city. Although rice and pigeon peas isn’t classic Galician fare, it is one of my favorites as well.

Tristan and I ate in silence, enjoying the food and each other’s company. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was respectful, as if words weren’t needed at the moment.

After eating for a few minutes, I took a sip of my wine and sat back, considering my next question.

2260: What were you like as a child growing up?

Tristan: I was inquisitive, filled with energy, and always seeking to know the why or how of things. It drove my mother and father crazy. My favorite word was “why.” If I was told the sky was blue—invariably, the next thing out of my mouth would be “Why?”

2260: How did Leo fit into this journey of exploration?

Tristan: Leo was the model of patience. Every question I asked, he answered. Leo taught me to think, and he encouraged my questions. He never gave me easy answers—he told me the way of things and helped me to learn.

2260: It seems that Leo has always been a large part of your life and that of your family. When did you realize that he was—different?

Tristan: I always knew Leo was different. My father was bonded to Leo before me. Many times, I saw my father and Leo perform the rite of offering. I grew up knowing that it was part of the sacred trust that the Carls had with the Sanguinis Divina. The firstborn males of the family held the sacred duty of sustaining the Divina until he or she found his or her Blood Match.

2260: So you knew all along that Leo was different, and that knowledge was part of your family tradition.

I thought about how other stories handled the myth of vampirism—how it was seen at times as an evil. The vampire: a tragic figure who shunned the light and crept through the shadows.

If there was love, it was usually doomed, and the vampire always ended up sacrificing himself or being destroyed in the light of day.

But Leo had come into my life and changed that perception for me. Here was Leo—immortal and filled with life, empathetic, nurturing, and—good.

As I was caught in my wool-gathering, I thought about you—my readers—and I know that you would want me to ask questions about what Leo was like with Tristan, to make Leo the focus—even though Tristan is the one sitting at the table across from me.

But you’ll just have to forgive me if I don’t do that.

This man—this sensitive, blonde, blue-eyed tank of a man—who was right now enjoying the meal I had cooked for him, deserved his place, his voice, and his time in the spotlight.

2260: Tell me about Tristan, the teenager—did you have a rebellious period, or were you always as perfect as you are now?

Tristan laughed. It was full-throated and filled with a bit of self-deprecation. He took a sip of wine, and I could see him thinking about how to answer my question—how far to let me in.

That was Tristan. Precise.

Tristan: Oh, I had my rebellious phase—between 15 and 19. I finally began to notice girls, and a whole new world opened up. Dara Fandiño—she was blonde, hazel-eyed, and devastatingly beautiful. But she was also spoiled, cruel, and calculating—qualities I didn’t notice until it was almost too late. She mesmerized me. Whatever she wanted, I gave her—desperate to please her in any way I could.

Tristan paused for a moment. He cut a bit of pork and ate it slowly. I waited, allowing the silence to stretch. I could feel the weight of the words he was yet to say, and I knew I needed to let him have the time to carry the telling.

Tristan: Dara was wild, always hanging with the popular kids. Her clique enjoyed privilege and status because of their parents—the elite of Spanish society. Even though my father was bonded to the Sanguinis Divina, we kept a low profile. I was never allowed to flaunt the wealth my family had access to. So although I came home to the manor house and the De La Cruz complex every day, to an outsider I was just another servant working for a wealthy family.

Dara took a liking to me—or so I thought.

Tristan paused for a moment and poured himself another glass of wine. He filled my glass as well.

She began inviting me out. First, it was simply lunch on the school campus. We would sit among her friends, eating tapas and delicacies that servants brought and set up as if it were some sort of Euro-garden party.

Then there were the parties and the charity events. Dara took me into a world of power and privilege—any 17-year-old would have lost their mind. But the wealth, the prestige, and the imagined power didn’t faze me. I had grown up in the manor house; power, prestige, and wealth were at my fingertips, if I wanted them.

It wasn’t Dara’s money that drew me in—it was the way she made me feel as if I actually mattered. She included me, welcomed me, and I thought cared for me.

Tristan took a moment. He stared at the candle that sat in the center of the table. For a moment, I could see him lose himself in the flickering light, as if he had been transported back to that time when he was seventeen.

I waited. This was important, and I would walk the road with him—as a friend, as a witness, as one who loved.

Tristan caught himself and refocused, smiling to let me know he was okay.

Tristan: I must say, the pork is exceptional, and the tostones and garlic sauce were a perfect choice with the rice.

I knew he was taking a moment to ground himself before continuing the telling of his tale.

2260: I'm glad the meal meets with your approval. I will admit, I agonized over it just a bit. I tend to stress myself out when I cook for people I care about.

I got up and began to clear the table. I wanted to give Tristan a moment—my instincts told me the next part would be difficult for him.

Tristan began to stand up, but I gently pushed him back down with one hand.

2260: No, you sit. I’ll clear and prep dessert. Pour me another glass of wine. Would you like coffee or espresso?

Tristan: Espresso, please. And can you bring me a shot of Sambuca, like your godfather used to give you?

I smiled at the memory. Leave it to Tristan to call my beloved Padrino to mind. I missed him terribly—he was so important in my life, and when he passed, it was as if he took a piece of me with him.

I still miss you, Padrino.

2260: Espresso it is!

I reached down and patted his cheek before walking out of the room, my eyes a bit misty at the memories he had brought back.

I placed the dinner dishes in the sink and took a deep breath. This next part of the meal would be the most nerve-racking for me.

I had attempted flan, which—if I’m honest with myself—I have never been able to successfully make and unpan intact. So my anxiety, on a scale of 1 to 10, was at an 11!

The flan had been cooling all through the evening while Tristan and I ate and talked. Now was the moment of truth: inverting the flan and hoping it slid out of the pan, whole and intact, with its delicious caramel topping oozing and pooling on the plate beneath it.

So now, with the dessert platter in one hand and the flan in the other, I said a short prayer to Glorietta.

Glorietta was my Padrino’s kitchen spirit—he always called on her when he had something difficult to do, or if he needed culinary inspiration. So I followed his lead and called on her, asking her to have pity on me and help my flan be a success.

Placing the plate over the pan, I took a deep breath and flipped. I stood there motionless for five seconds, and then I heard it—and then I felt it!

The release!

And then the heavy feeling of the flan settling on the plate.

I could have jumped for joy. I set the flan down carefully and stepped away for a moment. I paced the kitchen for fifteen additional seconds, the excitement threatening to explode out of my pores.

Then, slowly, I went back to the platter and lifted the pan, still praying to Glorietta.

There on the platter was a perfect flan, caramel perfectly even and oozing down the sides.

It was a God Damn Masterpiece!

I felt like I had just run and won the New York City Marathon! Now all I have to do was make expresso and pour a shot of Sambuca.

As the espresso was brewing, I got out two small shot glasses and filled them with Sambuca, dropping three coffee beans into each. I placed them on the tray with the flan.

A minute later, the espresso was done, and I added the cups to the tray as well.

When I reentered the dining room, Tristan’s eyes went wide at the sight of the flan.

Tristan: Did I hear mention of Glorietta? It seems that you’ve inherited your Padrino’s habit of calling on her when things get rough.

Tristan was doing his best not to laugh, but the twinkle in his eyes gave him away. He wasn’t laughing at me, but with me—and, at the same time, honoring my beloved godfather.

I set the tray down and took a moment to serve the flan. I placed Tristan’s plate in front of him and cut my own. Sitting down, I looked over at him. For a moment, we simply looked into each other’s eyes.

Then he took the shot of Sambuca, and raising the glass, he said:

Tristan: To José Rafael León, affectionately known by all who loved him as Joseíto, and to Glorietta—the ever-faithful kitchen spirit who has helped many culinary defeats turn into victories.

May you have light and peace in your travels until you reunite with us in the next life.

I raised my glass as well, wiping my eyes with my free hand.

In that moment, I thought back to when Tristan first appeared for this interview. At the time, I wasn’t sure what I would learn—what revelations would come.

But now, sitting with this faithful, sensitive, luminous man—who, in his own right, could capture the attention of everyone in any room he walked into—I understood.

This time was a gift.

A gift of love, of remembrance, and of healing.

Not just for Tristan…

But for me.