Luis Valeriano

La Candela II

205 Hempstead Turnpike

West Hempstead, NY 11552

Alright, so the reason I brought you here was because it brings back memories of my dad. He had terminal cancer and was so weak he couldn't do certain things. My main focus was making him feel better. He had pretty severe dietary restrictions so he couldn’t eat the food he grew accustomed to eating, which was incredibly hard for him – he missed the flavors.

After I’d take him to his chemo sessions, he would often lie to my mom and say, “Hey, we’re stuck in traffic,” and we’d come here and spend time together. It was incredibly convenient since it’s only a 15-minute drive from the chemo center. So, every two weeks, I would bring him here, we’d have lunch, and just talk. It was the one time that he didn't have to “be sick.”

At the time, La Candela II was much smaller. After his chemo sessions, we would come for lunch at around 1 PM. There was never anyone here.

The chemo left him with a chronic sour taste in his mouth. La Candela’s ceviche was one of the few things that would get rid of the sourness, interestingly. It was like a craving for him. He described the ceviche as “rich.” I remember him saying they couldn’t make it any better.

Our lunches became our personal little escape.

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My mom eventually found out about our lunches and she would yell at me. She’d say, “Why are you taking your dad to eat there? You know he's not supposed to eat that. I have food waiting for him at home.” But it was bland, and it wasn't seasoned well because he couldn't eat certain spices.

I don't blame her because I get it. She was trying to conserve my dad in the best possible way. We had to have him on this super healthy diet. But it made him less human. 

La Candela was an escape from his sickness. This was one of the little escapes that he had where he said, “Hey, I can go there for an hour and not be a patient. And not have everyone look at me like I'm dying or I'm sick. I could just be myself; you know?”

So that's why I ordered these dishes in front of us, tallarines verdes, ceviche, and pescado a lo macho, here now for us to share. Because I wanted us to... I wanted to have that experience again.

I haven’t had these meals together since his passing. Monday will be the sixth anniversary of his passing. So, this experience is a little nostalgic for me and brings back so many memories.

 I can go to the most expensive restaurants in the world. I can go to Michelin star restaurants. BUT they just don’t have the same meaning. This is the only place I know of that feels like my dad, that reminds me of him.

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One of the reasons why I miss him so much is because he was the only positive male presence I had in my life. He was my confidant. He was my best friend. He was my first friend. He was the first person I could go to with whatever I had going on at the time. He was a guy that if I had him in my corner, everything was always fine. Nothing could hurt me; nothing could defeat me. He was my safe space, he was my protector, he was my everything. I haven't had that since I was 24 years old. I don't really have a lot of things I can hold on to now that he's not here anymore.

So its places like this and music like they’re playing that help me live with him through memories and feelings. These experiences keep him alive. 

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The Peruvian music here instantly brings back so many memories.

Growing up, we would go to a bunch of Peruvian shows with live music. Everyone knew my dad, so they would often shout us out to the crowd. They'd say, “Have your kids stand up and say hi to everybody!”

I had huge social anxiety as a kid and definitely did not want to do it. I didn't want to be in that environment, and I grew up shunning away from my culture because of it. But now that he's no longer here, it's all I have.

 When I hear Peruvian music, I think of being in the car with my dad. He would let my sister and I put on a song here and there, but would always say, “My car, my music.” So, we heard music like they’re playing here over and over again.

 In a weird way, the thing that I ran from as a kid, the music my dad would play in the car that my sister and I found “annoying,” is what I now embrace and love as an adult.

 …

 My dad lost his dad when he was young, 15 or so, and he lost his grandmother when he was about 16. Those were the two people that raised him, and he didn't have anybody, he didn't have a relationship with his mother. So, for him, at an even younger age than I did, he felt the same way I felt when I was 24. The way he connected with them after their passing was through music.

 It's incredible in a way.  I understand him more now that he's gone than ever.

 When he was sick if he would hear the songs, he would get emotional. He was always the most emotional person in the family. We always mocked him a little bit, like “Why are you crying? … Oh my god, this music again?” But now I understand why. It made him reminisce over a life that he had. Now that it's happened to me where I lost him, even though I still have my mom and my sister with me, I lost probably the most influential person in my early life.

 I wish I would have understood him more when he was here. But now I get to experience what he experienced through music and through food. It makes me appreciate it way more.

 I'm thinking maybe when I have kids, they'll go through the same thing. They’re not going to understand my music, they’re not going to understand my food preferences, they're not going to understand why I am the way that I am. So maybe the day that I'm no longer here, they’ll experience me in a different way, like I experienced my dad.

That’s the beauty of losing someone important. There’s good that comes from reflecting on everything that person brought that's no longer here.

You begin thinking about, “Well, now I get a better, greater sense of music.” I know now when I'm at a restaurant and hear this music, it feels like home. It's not necessarily the music; it’s the memories. You get to live through them.