La Bodeguita: The Little Market

By Pablo Zaragoza

When a Cuban couple with two sons opens La Bodeguita in Miami, their intent is to capture the charm of a small market that caters to a diverse customer base, offers a wide range of fresh products, and delivers family-style customer service.

 

What they received is another family besides their own. Loyal customers and employees comprise that other family, complete with back stories that few will ever know. On both sides of the counter, they are faceless people. Neither knows what heartache or heartbreak the other might be suffering. The main difference between the two is that the employees must mask their troubles and project a pleasant attitude, whereas the customer can be demanding and unpredictable to the extreme.

 

The next time you are in a market – large or small – stop for a moment to thank those who stock the shelves, make countless deli salads, bake tasty sweets, and offer prime fish and meats.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pablo Zaragoza
• Release date: Dec 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201205423

Book preview

LA BODEGUITA

(The Little Market)

Pablo Zaragoza

To my family – my children, father, mother, brother,

uncles, and cousins – whose stories inspire me to write.

Special appreciation to Susan Giffin for

her excellent first-line editing of all my books.

Thanks particularly to my friend Javy.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Epilogue

About The Author

Also By Pablo Zaragoza

Copyright

Prologue

How It All Started

My name is Pablo. I had just graduated from college when Dad bought a store on Miami Beach. He wanted to open an old-fashioned grocery like the little neighborhood stores in New Jersey where we grew up. He remembered what he liked about those neighborhood stores: the fresh produce, local and imported; the exotic deli meats and cheese from the Italian shop; the olives, dates, and pimentos from the Greek grocers; and the Grade A meats at the Cuban butcher shop. His store would cater to high-end clientele but still be down-to-earth. He wanted his market to stand in a place that was devoid of all those homey shops – South Beach.

Part of the Miami metropolis, South Beach is the land of the nouveau riche, of old Jews telling jokes, beach bums, gays, and a dash of street performers – schizophrenics who shout at you as you walk by – and policemen in blue shorts on motorized scooters. This, of course, is something Dad didn’t anticipate. He looked at the whole of Miami and saw many Cuban and Latin American markets. Whole Foods hadn’t opened yet, so he picked a spot where there were only traditional markets. He wanted something different.

When the first pair of hand-holding gays crossed the threshold, he ducked into the office and didn’t come out for the whole day. See, Dad was very old school. When we were kids, he thought there were too many black people on television. When All in the Family introduced Lionel as the Bunkers’ next-door neighbor, he said, It’s enough we have this Flip Wilson guy but now another one. He couldn’t understand why television programs would show two grown men raising a little girl on Modern Family. When I told him that they were homosexuals raising a little girl, he said, Ay Dios mio, the world is about to end.

He would ask my brother Mickey and me, You are not fruity or happy like those people?

You mean gay, Pops?

Yes, whatever. Swear to me that you are not like them. It would kill your grandmother.

Grandmother had the back room. She walked out each morning, ate breakfast, and watched Cops all day long. I would ask her if they’d caught the guy yet.

These criminals are stupid.

Why is that, Grandmother?

Every day, they catch the same guy doing the same thing over and over again.

I tried to explain to her the concept of reruns, but she would tell me the same thing over again each morning. She would pass gas and blame the dog, Pero, stop that.

Get out of there before Grandma shits on you, I would say to the dog.

Dad sent my brother Miguel, whom we called Mickey, to business school so he could help manage the place. When Mickey and I graduated, he went to work at American Airlines, and I found myself at La Bodeguita on Collins Avenue. There, I saw folks I’d known since I was a teenager, as well as plenty of new people.

Dad introduced me to the market layout, and then I began my education, learning how to corral stray cats, how to discern deception, and how to deal with a very diverse group of customers and employees. How to manage people is an art, and not everybody is a good artist.

Chapter One

The Meat Counter

My father’s approach to training me was to put me to work in different departments. How can you become manager, a supervisor, or a chief if you haven’t been an Indian? You have to know the job inside out before you can direct other people.

When my parents came from Cuba, they settled in Union City, New Jersey, the center of the Cuban community outside of Miami. Dad had been an accountant in Cuba before the Castro disaster and exodus of the Cuban middle class. Most of the qualified doctors, lawyers, engineers, and architects boarded the ferry and headed for Key West. Those that didn’t make it to the ferry came here like we did – on the Freedom Flights. My Uncle Mario bought us plane tickets to New Jersey. I remember getting off the plane to feel the cold and snow. We had no winter coats, but Uncle Mario had coats and hot chocolate waiting for us.

We went to school and learned English. Dad worked at the store during the day and attended night school to get recertified as a public accountant. He worked long hours at the store and did accounting for other Cubans who had immigrated and were unfamiliar with the laws of this country. He made sure their taxes were paid, and he made my uncle’s business profitable. After a long while, my mother and father grew weary of the cold and snow. The gray winters and the unhappy Christmas without being able to roast a pig in the traditional way wore Mama and Dad down. They decided to move to Miami. By this time, Mickey and I were about to go to college, and so they thought it was the right time to make the move.

With my degree in business administration, Dad started me in Meat & Fish so I could understand the grocery business. This should have been the most profitable cost center, but it was doing poorly. Dad had hired several different butchers over the years, but none stayed very long. When he opened the market, he hired the singing butcher, Renaldo. He would serenade the female customers with opera or Sinatra tunes, but he had a terrible voice. He’d start croaking a tune:

Come fly with me, let’s fly let’s fly away

If you can use some exotic booze

There’s a bar in far Bombay

Come fly with me, let’s fly let’s fly away…

The ladies would run away thinking he was mad. Dad finally let him go because he was disrupting the store, or as Dad said, He wasn’t cutting it.

He hired Leopold, a tall Cuban who had come over on a raft with his buddies. He would regale anyone with his exploits on the high seas, how the waves had buffeted his makeshift vessel of inner tubes, wood, and rope. He navigated the raft by the stars and spent seven days at sea until they reached the shore of what they thought was Florida. It turned out that they had landed Panama. The group found themselves without money, without work, and homeless. After months of waiting, they heard that the Good Hope, a Panamanian ship, was preparing to set sail to the States. They decided to follow it on their raft, hoping to be brought aboard and finish the trip with them. By the time they reached international waters, the raft was falling apart. The freighter picked them up and brought them to Miami.

Leopold was good with customers. He always had a smile and a joke.

Did you read in the paper about a midget convict that was found climbing down the wall at Krome Prison?

Really? a customer would ask.

They found him con-descending.

The customer would laugh out loud and buy a pound or two of Grade A sirloin. Leopold was great with customers and a good butcher, but he was a drunk. His routine involved buying cheap wine, going to the back, and guzzling it, and then disappearing in the meat locker with two blankets, and sleeping.

Where is Leopold? customers asked.

The others who worked the counter didn’t want to say he was sleeping. When he finally came out of the meat locker, still half sauced, he would argue with the customers. That’s a no-no, especially in South Beach.

One time, Leopold emerged from the meat locker, half-sauced and extremely grumpy. That’s when he crossed swords with Miss Florence, an octogenarian Jew who dispensed one-liners from her favorite Jewish jokesters. Once, I overheard another customer ask her why her daughter was so fat. Florence replied, Her favorite food is seconds. She paused and then started a new one, My favorite is the one about broccoli…

Her daughter quickly interrupted her, Mother, please! We’re not in Produce. We’re in the meat department.

Every day at noon, Florence came to buy exactly one pound of ground sirloin for her toy poodle, Max. Florence brought Max in a stroller as if he were a child, covering his face so the sun wouldn’t bother him.

The store had a pet friendly policy. As long as the customer picked up after the animal, it was all right.

Once Leopold, in his half-drunken state, said, What an ugly infant!

This isn’t an infant. This is my dog.

Are your insane, lady? Dogs belong on the floor, not in strollers like children.

I’m here to buy meat, sir, and not listen to your foolish comments.

Foolish? You’re the shmuck who takes a dog around in a stroller.

I would like to get a pound of ground sirloin for Max, please. The dog yelped, as he tried to get out of the stroller.

There are children all over the world who’d kill for half a pound of meat, any kind of meat, and you’re wasting it on an animal.

I’m going to the manager and report you.

Leopold promptly scooped up a pound of the ground sirloin without using his gloves. He wrapped it up and gave it to her.

You don’t expect Max to eat that, do you? Your filthy hands have been all over it.

I don’t think he’ll mind. Anyway, he smells other animals’ assholes all day long.

The animal started to lick himself at that moment. Mammy, look. The doggy is licking his dick, Leopold pointed and shouted.

Dad regularly listened to Miss Florence expound. She made her major purchases at Publix because their prices were more reasonable than ours, but he put up with her foolishness.

After her latest rant, Dad led her to the meat counter, put on a pair of gloves, and scooped up a pound of ground sirloin. He wrapped it for her and gave it to her, without charge. He then turned on Leopold and told him he was fired, all because of a pound of sirloin.

At the time, I was working the counter in Meat & Fish. We had everything from veal and Italian sausage to clams and escargot. During the day, four people manned the counter, and at night, only two. The morning crew had to be there at 7:00 to set up the counter display before 9:00 when the store opened.

At night, the cleanup started around 9:30, putting the leftovers in the refrigerators, making dishes for the morning crew, breaking down the case, and cleaning it with disinfectant and hot water. I also had to walk into the cold room to clean up after the morning crew that had left the place dirty. That was my life for the time being, and what a life it was.

I unloaded delivery trucks and made sure the meat and fish were properly stored. I put the older stock on top to make sure we sold it first. We checked shipping orders with the tags on the beef before accepting the shipment; that way, we knew we hadn’t received short dates. Short dates meant a shipment of perishable goods had an expiration date of one or two days from the time of receipt.

One day, I checked and found short dates on a shipment. I went to the office and showed Dad the receipt.

Stay here, son. I’m going to show you how we deal with these assholes.

The distributors always wanted to get rid of stock that was about to go bad. They hoped that we were so overwhelmed that we wouldn’t see that the bison meat would be out of date in two days, and if we didn’t sell it, we would have to get rid of it.

Dad got on the phone, Alfredo, why are you trying to screw me?

Pardo, what do you mean?

How long have we been doing business? Two of the sirloin packages you sent us today will expire tomorrow, and I’ll be out almost $200.

Make them into burgers and put them on sale.

I’m still screwed because I’ll barely break even with that suggestion.

Okay, the meat is at cost. Subtract $300 from your bill, and we’ll call it even.

Alfredo, don’t make this a habit. If it happens one more time, I’m going to switch distributors.

Alfredo would send Dad two bottles of expensive wine to cheer him up, and Dad would forget until the next time it happened. The drama repeated, but we always found a solution.

I went back to the meat counter and told Jim, the head butcher, to grind up the sirloin and sell it at a discounted price.

Pardo did it again?

Yes, and that was his solution.

Let’s do this: half we’ll grind, and the other, we’ll put the steaks on sale. We’ll cook two or three of them for the folks who work hard for your dad.

That sounds like a good idea.

We did that, and the steaks flew off the shelf, and the ground sirloin was gone by 3:00.

I mostly took care of the fish section, keeping the display neat and taking care of customers. School never really prepared me for customers. I know that without them, we had no business, but, boy, we had to have a thick skin to deal with them. It takes a very special person to wait on customers.

Some stand in front of the display, and when you ask them what they want, they say, Oh, I’m just looking.

These are the ones with fat backsides who block the view of the real customers. Really, just looking? To me, you look hungry, but the prices are too steep for you. You’ll stroll around the store, and when no one is looking, you grab grapes, pocket a wrapped peppermint candy, or, worst of all, you hover over the free samples.

Dad had a policy that people could get free samples. In Fish, they could try the smoked salmon or smoked whitefish. Many of the street people knew this, and so we’d get a few of them around lunch or dinnertime to request samples. One thin, elderly, hunchbacked woman came in every day wearing the same clothes. She walked up to the counter and, with a beautiful smile that wrinkled her tanned face, she asked, Could I try the smoked salmon, please?

I felt sorry for this street urchin in her dirty white miniskirt. Of course, ma’am. I handed her a slice and watched her gobble it down. Her expression made it look like she relished each bite.

How was it, ma’am? I asked. Would you like to take some home?

Oh, yes, but let me get my other groceries first. I don’t want it to spoil.

She lingered in the store for a while, circling the aisles, and, without buying a thing, she left. That piece of salmon was all the lunch or dinner she had that day. She was always polite, never rude or obnoxious like some of the paying customers.

I remember a mother-daughter combination who also visited the store every day. I could hear them entering the store, screaming at one another.

Is today Chicken Day? If it isn’t Chicken Day, I don’t want to be here, yelled the older one hobbling with a cane.

Ma, today ain’t Chicken Day. I’ve told you twenty times already it ain’t Chicken Day.

Bitch, you don’t have to be nasty to me.

It’s because you don’t listen to me, Ma.

Well, I don’t like this store. The people here are rude.

It’s because you yell at them.

I don’t yell, she said in a shrill voice, as they walked up to the fish counter.

Each time, I put on a fake smile and said, Yes, ladies, how can I help you?

I don’t think you can help. My daughter has a pickle up her ass and needs someone to pull it out.

Mother, maybe it’s you who has something up her ass, her daughter snapped.

I haven’t had anything up my ass for years, dear. I think there are cobwebs down there.

The younger woman turned red. Mother, this is the fish counter.

Fish? I haven’t had a fish smell down there since 1978, dear.

Mother, you’re embarrassing yourself in front of this young man.

He’s not embarrassed. He’s probably never had a whiff of older cootchie.

Mother, please!

Oh, I see you’d rather have him smell you. All right, honey, I’ll share him with you.

Mother, you said you wanted to buy tilapia, and that is why we are here at the fish counter.

Okay, if that’s what you want, tell the young man.

Sir, may we have four tilapia fillets, individually wrapped and flat? I want to put them in the freezer flat so they won’t take up too much space.

I took each pale pink fillet, weighed each one individually, and then wrapped them separately in butcher paper. I placed each one in the bony, wrinkled hand dotted with liver spots. When I handed her the last fish, she slipped me a piece of paper with a phone number and squeezed my hand. She whispered, It’s for my daughter. She needs a good fu…

The daughter grabbed her mother’s hand and yelled, Come along, old bat. This young man has a lot to do without having to hear your shit.

I was just trying to get your pipes cleaned. You haven’t had a good one since Marvin left you for that twenty-four-year-old.

The people in the store don’t need to know about Marvin’s whore and why he left me.

He left you because of your sunny disposition and beer belly, you worthless excuse for a daughter.

She pulled her away from the counter, and they continued arguing, as they walked around the store. The old woman would leave the daughter’s phone number with every male employee in the store, hoping that someone would sleep with her daughter. The fighting between them went on and on, until they left the store with their bags of groceries, bickering every step of the way to their car.

There were many different types of people, but many came on Chicken Day, when the boneless, skinless chicken was on sale. This was on Wednesdays. All the crazies came out that day, and I had to help deal with this mass of humanity.

The weightlifters came from the gym next door after their workout. They stepped up to the counter, their bodies glistening with sweat, their hairy armpits exposed in their muscle shirts, reeking of spoiled onions. I want 10 pounds of chicken breast, individually wrapped, please.

We had individually wrapped chicken breasts in the cooler next to the counter. This was to make it easier for customers who didn’t want to wait for the employee to wrap as many as they wanted. That was also why we spent most of Tuesday evenings wrapping chicken breasts. Most of the customers didn’t want the pre-wrapped chicken, however. They wanted to see the chicken in the display case.

I told them, But that’s the chicken in the cooler, individually wrapped and ready to go.

The bodybuilders said, Ah, no, I want to see the chicken before I pay for it. Please, 10 pounds individually wrapped.

The customer is always right, even if they are brain dead. We didn’t argue. We called for help from the back with the ever-growing line of people that wanted their chicken now. But too often, the people in the back were busy grinding chuck that was also on sale. We called for one of the assistant managers, but they were busy dealing with complaints about how slow the service was. We got through the weightlifters’ 10 pounds of chicken, only for the next customer to request 12 pounds of chicken individually wrapped.

By 9:30 p.m., the store was clearing out, but we still had people wanting chicken. The last couple of chicken breasts were on display, but the cooler had more chicken. Invariably, another weightlifter would come in and ask for 10 pounds.

Sir, that’s all the chicken breasts we have, and I’m not sure we have more in the back.

I need 10 pounds.

I’m sure the cooler has 10 pounds individually wrapped for you, I said.

I want to see the chicken breasts before I buy them. I want to make sure they’re all right.

If you let me get some from the cooler, I’ll unwrap them for you and show you, I offered.

I unwrapped them and showed the customer that each breast was as fresh as the ones in the case. Then I rewrapped them. By then, it was almost closing time. The muscle-bound Neanderthal happily went to the checkout as management was about to lock the front door.

Wednesday was also deep-cleaning day, when we took apart all the coolers and freezers and cleaned them thoroughly with disinfectant and hot water. This took hours to accomplish. I dismantled the display case including the pieces of fish, shrimp, breading, and other debris swimming underneath the floorboards that supported the seafood we sold.

By the end of the night, I was drenched in sweat and cold water. I stumbled to my car where Dad waited.

I’m not going to pay you overtime, he said. It’s 12:30 in the morning. Your mother, bless her heart, will be furious with me for bringing you home so late.

Chapter Two

My Co-workers in the Meat Department

We are only as good as the people around us. Those that work with us are the lifeblood of the organization. Dad put me in the organization as one of the people on the line doing what a low-level employee does. Only a few people knew who I really was. There had been a lot of turnover in personnel since I was there last, especially in Meat & Fish, but some things never change.

Maurice, the morning supervisor, was a young, light-skinned man who always came in late and left early. His reason was that he had to be at home for his woman and his boy, although every woman in the place was fair game. He tried the girl in the bakery without much luck.

Keep your skinny self over in your department, Maurice. I know your woman, and she’d cut off that little pecker of yours if she found out what you were trying.

I ain’t married. Besides, I really think that you and I belong together, he said.

Belong? The only thing you want is between my legs, and you ain’t getting any from me. Get your skinny black ass away from me.

Ah, Mona, don’t be that way. The only woman I think about is you.

When you’re not thinking of Judy, Betty, and Dora. I know what you do. You try each one of us to see which one will have sex with you, so you can put a notch on your belt. I’m a church-going girl, not some whore you’d pick up at the club, you skinny ass nigger. With that she’d turn on her heels and walk away.

Maurice would take his act up to the check-out counter and try Judy or Betty in Deli or Dora in Produce. Each of them would tell him to keep his dick in his pants. I guess the refrigerated room of the fish department makes one want warmth, no matter what.

He showed me how to prepare specialty items, how to remove the skin from salmon, and make marinades for tilapia, cod, and salmon. He showed me how to arrange the display case so people would want to buy the products. Presentation is the key to marketing: making sure there was plenty of fresh ice under the fish on display, always having enough stock in the case, and, if we ran out of a product, filling the case with another item.

Never leave a space empty, he cautioned. If the customer wants an item, and we don’t have it, give them the department number to call in the morning because new items come in daily.

It wasn’t necessarily the truth. The meat trucks came twice a week, and during peak seasons, fish came every other day.

Since Maurice now had an assistant, me, he had more free time. When he wasn’t hunting for new bed partners, he would find a quiet place to drink. His beverage of choice was Old Crow or Hennessy.

He’d say to me, Man the counter, sport. I need to fill out a report.

There was a computer in the back for filing reports, but when Maurice said he was going to do that, he really was outside behind the dumpster, hitting his bottle. Sometimes, he went to his car in the parking lot and slept after he finished his quart.

Dad would find him in the parking lot, asleep, and bang on the window. Maurice! Maurice! Are you all right?

When Maurice opened the door, the odor of alcohol and stale vomit overwhelmed Dad. He said, Shit, Maurice, you’re drunk.

Maurice smiled, as he stumbled out of the car. I’m okay, chief, just a little out of sorts.

Out of sorts! Your stinking drunk. How can you do your job when you’re drunk?

Boss, don’t worry. I’ll just pop a Mentos, have minty fresh breath, and the customers won’t know.

He wobbled to the door, but before reaching it, he tripped and fell, tearing his denim pants below the knee. Dad helped him up. Maurice, do you have someone who can take you home?

I’m okay, boss.

No, Maurice, you’re not.

Dad took him to the break room and made him sit down. There was always coffee in the breakroom, and Dad poured him a cup, black. Dad then came to the fish counter where I was working. Maurice won’t be in for the rest of the day, he announced. You think you can handle it?

I’ve been here only a week, but I’ll manage.

I’ll call Sal and have him get here a little earlier than usual, Dad said.

Sal was an older man who worked nights in the fish department. Dad found someone to take Maurice home, and I managed to get through the day.

I bounced between Meat & Fish, taking care of customers the best way I could until Sal arrived.

How’d you do, boy? he asked.

All right. No complaints today.

Good. They catch him drunk again?

Again? I asked.

Yeah, this isn’t the first time your dad has had to get him out of his car.

Sal had been one of the few people who knew who I was. He was in his sixties with a shaved head and a full gray beard. He was a kind man who had lost his wife in a car accident many years ago. He lived in an efficiency in Hialeah, a community northeast of Miami. Let me explain what that means. It is completely different from most places. During economic downturns, when people can’t meet their mortgage, they close off their garage, put in a small kitchen, and rent that space out. Some of these places were nothing more than an 8x10 cell with a toilet and no windows. These places rented with electricity, cable, and internet from $850 to $1250, cheaper than apartments that