The Best Bet by Hebby Roman

think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
    Beaming, she asked, “I did good then?”
    “More than good. You did perfect. Eat, eat,” he urged. “I thought you were hungry.”
    She looked down at his plate and asked, “I’m supposed to take these crinkly things off?”
    “You mean you don’t know?”
    “Well, I’ve eaten a lot of Mexican food, growing up in Las Vegas. But the tamales were on a plate with chili sauce over them. I don’t—”
    “Here, let me show you.” He leaned over her and deftly removed her cornhusks. “There, just the same as a Mexican restaurant, except no chili.”
    “Thanks, I wasn’t sure.”
    “You’re doing fine.”
    He popped half a tamale in his mouth, savoring the taste, thinking of home, remembering his Mamá and tías preparing the filling and then rolling out the wet corn mush, masa , which formed a tasty tube around the filling.
    “Making tamales.” He shook his head. “It’s one of my earliest memories. All the Escobedo women would gather in the kitchen and go through mounds of meat and spices and corn meal, with my Mamá directing.” He took another bite and sighed. “What dishes did your mother make? What do you remember?”
    He silently congratulated himself for bringing the conversation from food to something more personal. He hoped he hadn’t overplayed his hand, though. He could tell her grief was still fresh over losing her mother. But he’d promised himself to draw her out, to get her to talk about herself and her background.
    Slowly, she wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and raised her gaze to his. When he glimpsed the raw anguish in the depths of her eyes, he wanted to take the question back, but she surprised him by replying, “My mother cooked pork. She was Puerto Rican, and they eat lots of pork. Pork chops, pork tenderloin, and even whole roasted pigs at Christmas. Of course there was always rice, too, saffron or white. And beans or peas— gandules , as my mother called them.  Occasionally, we had arroz con pollo .
    For special holiday celebrations, we made pasteles or empanadas . They’re like your tamales, with the filling inside, except pasteles are wrapped in banana leaves and boiled, while empanadas are coated in flour batter and fried.”
    “Oh!” she exclaimed. “And tostónes .” She licked her lips. “They’re the best. Tostónes are made from bananas, sliced thin and then fried, a special kind of banana, called plantains. You dip them in a garlicky butter sauce. They’re wonderful, but muy fattening.” Her eyes grew misty. “I haven’t had tostónes in years. Not since my mother . . .”
    He covered her hand with his and squeezed it, wanting her to know that he sympathized, that he appreciated her sharing memories, especially since the remembering seemed to bring her pain. In a way, he was sorry for drawing her out. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her.
    He’d never lost a close family member, not even his grandparents. That made it difficult for him to completely empathize with her. He wondered how he would feel under similar circumstances. How long would the grief stay raw, a subject to avoid? But after a time, wouldn’t he want to talk about the loved one, to remember the good times?
    “It all sounds very tasty, but a mystery to me.” He tried to make his voice light. “As foreign as the Chinese dishes you ordered the other night. But I would love to try them.” He squeezed her hand again and then released it. “You still miss your mother a lot, don’t you? When did she pass away?”
    He’d made a decision to respect her grief but not avoid it. He could see how important her mother had been to her and maybe that was the key to getting to know Adriana better—through memories of her mother.
    And maybe if she talks about it, it will ease the hurt. .
    He didn’t normally play pop psychologist, but there was something about Adriana that aroused his protective instincts, compelled him to want to understand the woman within. It