2
Estela had watched the Americans stroll past the front of her restaurant without thinking anything of it. But when news had spread—as quickly as everything in the barrio did—of a noisy two-person game of Truco in Ramiro’s Restaurante de Medellín, she had her suspicions. When Marla came in for an order of chicharrón with a side of beans and rice to take to her ailing father—who had made a profession of ailing ever since his daughter had married well enough to support him—and asked how it was possible for hair to be so close to white on a young and handsome man, it only confirmed what Estela already knew.
The Americans wanted to eat at Ramiro’s? It was their loss. It wasn’t authentic Colombian food. It was barely food according to some of her customers. She didn’t need more customers. Ev
