El seco de chivo y la insoportable levedad del ser

Se presenta una oportunidad de cocinar para mi “ña” Alondra y su esposo Marcus, y en mí se enciende el espíritu de Gino Molinari. Le pregunto a Dennis y Sam si quieren venir. Me preguntan que qué hay. Les digo ceviche de camarón. Me dicen que para ayer. Elena confirma con tres dedos. Entendido.

Amanece el domingo, y la sorpresa del finde: no hay chuchaqui. Este cuerpo se regocija y decide premiarse con una cerveza de desayuno. El pez mordió el anzuelo y el remedio se convirtió en la enfermedad. Se viene el estallido. Bersuit. 

“Barajar y dar de nuevo

Si hay que volver a empezar

Ser lo que nos pertenece

Cambiando siempre para seguir siendo igual”

La Revuelta

Pero, detente un segundo. ¿Y el seco? Tranquilos. El seco vuelve como volverán las oscuras golondrinas. Con un poco de arroz amarillo, cortesía de un achiote heredado, y un aguacate con más heridas que historias. Un plátano maduro con la madurez del hombre inmaduro de Luis Landero. 

Llegan Marcus, Alondra y Mia. Ya se está cocinando en cerveza, a falta de chicha, costillas, hombros, lomo pegado a las vértebras, canillas y fémures. Que sin hueso no hay sabor, diría la abuela. Mi comadre aprueba el dicho, lo confirman esos labios manabas mientras besan las mejillas de Mia. 

La tarde pasa desapercibida, como ausente, como si fuese otra y no la última que nos reunimos alrededor de un ceviche y un seco, únicos testigos de ese amor tácito de los panas. Bielas van y bielas vienen. Marcus me habla sobre lo que pasa que no entendemos y que no importa porque no podemos controlarlo. Dennis me habla de lo que importa y controlamos, aunque no lo entendemos. Yo les hablo de Diego y de Koya, y me tomo un shot de "cantaclaro" al clima, porque es corto el amor y largo el olvido.

¿Cuántos personajes se habrán reunido a su última cena sin saber que era su última cena? ¿Cuántas últimas palabras sin saberlo? ¿Cuántos últimos abrazos? Cuántos últimos “nos vemos”? ¿Cuánta repetición de instantes infinitos que nunca volverán? ¿Cuánta contradicción?

Mientras Sam conversa con Elena de lo importante que es la rutina, los camarones caen en caldo de verduras. 15 segundos. 30 segundos. 45 segundos. Listo, de vuelta al agua con hielo. O sea, es muy importante, en nuestras vidas, una repetición planeada de actividades que le den orden al caos de la existencia. ¿Estamos luchando a diario contra el orden natural de la vida con el desorden de la organización? Se reduce ese caldo con las cabezas de los camarones y me da por pensar que en un universo alterno, los camarones hacen sopa de humanos, con cilantro, tomates y cebollas. Con los huesos, porque sino, no hay sabor. Mi culpa se expía y le lanzo laurel al caldo porque así se le va el “tufo”. ¿Nos lanzarán comino a nosotros?

Recuerdo que tengo un tomate de árbol en el congelador. Es de procedencia Colombiana, por ende es un tamarillo. Vino con poco acento y sin aguardiente, por lo que entiendo que es Bogotano. A la licuadora con ají plantado y cosechado por Elena, cilantro, sal, aceite, cebolla, jugo de limón y la bendición. Estamos asegurados contra el futuro.

Salen los primeros ceviche, con jugo de naranja, limón, mostaza y salsa de tomate, como buen serrano. Son devorados por todos. 2 horas en 3 minutos. La relatividad me quiere gambetear, pero la gravedad no me afecta, a fin de cuentas, nuestro reino nunca será de este mundo. Se viene el plato fuerte, la gente anda contenta, Kundera pulula el espacio.

Dennis los prueba por primera vez, me deja limpio el plato. Sam no es muy fanática del cordero, pero el ají colabora. Alondra termina antes de empezar y Marcus sonríe. Finalmente estas 7 personas y 2 perros se sincronizan gracias a sus papilas gustativas y elevado nivel de alcohol en la venas. Conectados por el cadáver de un cordero. Juntos, ceviche mediante, felices de la compañía que provee un humano tan distinto y tan igual al tiempo. Somos tan fáciles de complacer momentáneamente y tan complicados al encontrar felicidad permanente. Tan profundos en nuestras convicciones, que se derrumban a diario. 

Tal vez el secreto se encuentre al final del arcoíris. Donde venden seco de chivo.

A ramble about influencers

Yes, everybody is entitled to an opinion. And yes, food has never been closer to people in lots of ways. Now ingredients that needed to be purchase from specific hidden stores or imported overseas are now in your local supermarket. You can go on Zomato and check what your local diner is serving or instagram to check what your favorite chefs are doing currently. 

So now days the world has a bigger understanding of food than it did 10 years ago.

Here is where the issue starts for me.

My name is Alejandro and I’m a cook. I’m being judged on a daily basis by people who have less food knowledge than me. And apparently I need them. Let me explain.

Long gone are the days when a restaurant would advertise through written press, tv, flyers. Now days the promotion goes on IG, Youtube, and reviews.

Since digital media promotion is directed by the restaurant, it’s literally a commercial for the social media. The reviews however, have gained a lot of traction in past years.

“If you don’t take this off the bill, I’ll leave a bad review”. “Do you know how many followers I have? You don’t want to mess with me”. Sounds familiar? If it does, then you probably work in a restaurant.

For some reason we’re letting people getting away with murder. The rules have changed and if you don’t adapt to this new way of playing the game, then you’ll be left behind. But some rules are meant to be broken, as some faces need to be slapped. With a chair. Several times.

I never thought I’d be in a managerial meeting seriously discussing PR events involving 20 something year olds with a terrible fashion sense and a truckload of instagram followers. Role models that have read too much Paulo Coehlo giving advice to people who haven’t read Fahrenheit 451. Sheep leading the sheep.

What exactly are they influencing? In a world of blind people, the one-eyed is king. Living through a 6” screen is not living at all. This self called “foodies”, a bunch of wishy-washy fucks who have mastered the complicated art of chewing and swallowing while filming themselves. Bastards who at their best could probably microwave a pizza, are leaving 1 star reviews because their 300 gr well-done steak wasn’t juicy.

Most of the reviews I get are 5 and 4 stars. At the restaurant, we work hard to meet peoples expectations, and half of the time we surpass them. We have the place booked constantly and leading the BOH of a regularly busy restaurant is it’s own reward. Something we sometimes have to repeat to ourselves to get through the 13-14 hour Friday shift.

Sure, there are easier ways of making money. And influencers have found the key to those doors. Yearly earnings in the 6 figure range are no joke. Obviously we gotta separate the wheat from the chaff. The issue is that the chaff is enormously bigger than the wheat. But the chaff doesn’t receive the flak it deserves.

I chose cooking as my career (or it chose me, who’s to say) and hated it at the beginning. Saw no glamour on cleaning kilos of prawn, getting my hands stabbed by the shellfish, not being able to get that smell off, the pain in the lower back from bending over stainless steel benches, etc. Now days my profession fits my lifestyle. Damn, it is my lifestyle. Yes it’s demanding and not everybody can do it, but it’s honest hard work and we are telling a story through food, which has a bigger meaning in a universal context of nurturing a town by feeding them a good meal. We may not be changing the world, but through food we are changing ours. Something that the unproductive can’t (because you need knowledge for that) and won’t (because you need will for that too) do.

So dear “influencers”, enjoy your lunch (which was probably free), post your story (which won’t change the world) and move on with your life (which at this point is not yours anymore).

With love

Another cook who’s tired of your shit.

Dear Diary

“Dear Diary

I almost ate alive one of my cooks. Yeah the one that wanted to leave a couple of weeks ago. Today he decided that 5kgs of basmati with 2 carrots a bit of oil and some soy sauce was good enough to be camouflaged as fried rice. You would understand that rage that comes from witnessing a half-assed job being done and then having the whole staff meal of the restaurant ruined by his lack of, how do I say it elegantly, giving a fuck. His answer: “chef the chicken was frozen”. Fuck you.

How did I solved the issue you asked? 

Oh well dear diary, first I wanted to give my old chap a lesson in cooking guerrilla, ‘cause we’ve all forgotten a time or two to defrost something on time. And then getting shit given at us.

Second, it needed to be something fast and tasty. Fast cause people were hungry, and tasty because there is only 1 way to cook.

47 minutes, 5 chickens, 1kg of potatoes, 1kg of carrots, 2kg of onions, a bunch of garlic, soy sauce, ketchup, salt, pepper and 1lt orange juice later, we were ready to eat.

I was swearing and sweating while abusing my cook and making the meal, which proves that you don’t need to be in the right mood to cook a good meal. But I was motivated to show him and my team that a good meal doesn’t require hours of prep, or expensive shit, just a lot of reading and daily practice. Those 2 will get you far in the chef-ing lines even if you are an average Joe. You get those two and add talent, and you get the MPWs, the Blumenthals, the Botturas, the Ramsays, the Redzepis, the José Andrés of the world.

After the level 8 reactor melt regarding the evening frivolities, I took him to the prep room. My boys know what I mean when I say “Everybody out”. I wanted to scare the fuck out of that child but also wanted him to understand why mediocrity is not a regarding way of life. If you are mediocre at something because of actual real limitations, I’m sorry mate, my bad. But if it was that you, a professional cook, didn’t care about the meal that the whole FOH and BOH were gonna have, then mate, it’s been a pleasure, you are free to find a place where that kind of behavior is tolerated.”

That happened around 4 weeks ago. If he performs well during December madness, I’m thinking about promoting him to Demi CDP by January.

About yesterday...

Fuck me.

Knees hurt from last night 12 hour shift. Throat is dry and craving a drink. Anything but water. I fucking hate water. People say it’s flavorless and odorless. That shit doesn’t taste right and I won’t let nobody tell me the contrary. Coconut water is my new favorite thing. And Ibuprofen.

Emails start arriving. Order cost from yesterday. HR asking me about missing documents from a couple of cooks. Purchase confirming my 9k order from yesterday. Marketing wanting to review the new menu promotion. Finance reviewing my food cost. I’m still in bed and haven’t open my second eye yet.

The alarm pounds like a maul tenderizing schnitzels. I try not to wake Elena, and go to the bathroom. Pee burns from the excess of alcohol from last night, and the strong yellow color tells me what my doctor will be saying about my kidneys in a couple of months. Some teeth brushing, some face washing, some coffee making. Uniform in and I feel Bourdain would be proud of me.

Check list. Wallet, phone, keys, cigarettes, ipod, knives. Kiss Elena goodbye with a promise of coming home early today. Me and her already know I won’t. Breaking promises before they are made.

Get into the car. Door closes. What am I craving today? I need an extra boost of energy, so Kasabian it is. Club Foot? No, I don’t deserve it yet. Underdog? No, I’ll need it to deal with the fucktards on SZR. Bumblebee? Perfect. Tom Meighan screams through the speakers and I hit the gas.

Going under 120 kph to avoid that sweet 600 aed fine. My receiver texts me he rejected the order of Uzbek tomatoes because some of them were bruised, and that the meat delivery came incomplete. Tomorrow is Friday, and deliveries don’t work on the weekend. Fuck me. Will deal with it later, maybe a transfer from a sister property will save my ass. Gotta cost those new recipes my exec just did. I hope nothing is 86. The traffic goes easy and I take it as a good sign of the rest of the day. Too many Patrols and not enough Beatles.

I park nearby and light the first of the day. It hurts. Pass by my prep section. Everyone is either doing staff meal, cleaning tenderloin or defrosting prawns. Some Nepali music comes from the speaker and I know my Ugandan commis is hating his morning. I ask them to change it, and some reggaeton starts playing. They all know the lyrics, but no clue what they mean. At least now they look like an ugly weird happy family.

Next stop is Pastry, I know Nurzada will be doing honey cake and baking some puff pastry for the Napoleon. She offers me a spoonful and a smile. I take both, love my pastry girls, drama free zone. My 6 square meters of peace whenever the walk ins are crowded with crying staff.

Cold section, hot section, grill and dough. Everyone is there already and a coffee is waiting for me by the pass. 

• “Morning boys”
• “Morning chef”. “Salam Aleikum”. “Zdrastvooyte”.

Make sure my stewards received their coffees. Their smile and head shaking shows me they had. Now to my receiver to update me on the frivolities of the morning. The meat supplier will come back in the afternoon with the rest of the order, but no tomatoes till Saturday. Now I need to change the promo menu that I’ve prepared for the next 2 days. Maybe local tomato, maybe beef tomato. Maybe datterinos, maybe heirlooms. Fuck it, I don’t have time for this shit. Cherry tomatoes will have to do the trick for now.

Still hangover, but overloaded on caffeine I feel like doing a lot of nothing. No time, gotta do a bit of everything. First let’s get the production of the day going on. Distribute directions to all sections. Head to the bar and ask for a Bloody Mary.  “Sunglasses and Advil, last night was bad real” as Kanye said. “Make it Virgin” I tell my barman while I wink him an eye. “Suuuure chef” he replies as he winks me one back. God bless his soul.

There is a storm in Dubai, and it looks in between the apocalypse and just another Tuesday. Nobody spoke about no storm shit before I came here 5 years ago. The people flow will be low, that’ll give me time to get ready before tonights 100 pax 5 course meal sharing style. 

My prep cook tells me he doesn’t feel comfortable doing the staff meal. The fuck you think you are? We all do shit we’re not comfortable with. It’s in here the territory for growth son. Nothing will prepare you more for being a cook, than making big amounts of delicious meals every day on a short notice and with limited help. Equipment? I made sure that you got every toy in the store. That smoker is expensive and you are just saving them for special things. Throw those semi bbq chicken wings in the 1/1 and add some salt for the love of god. A little more honey and breading them before is not a terrible idea either. They grab more sauce that way. You learn this shit by eating, by cooking, by pushing, by respecting your product which died not for you to make it at least, very delicious. 

Hope he gets inspired or threatened whichever he chooses, because here we are all wearing the same t-shirt, no name tags. Because here nobody plays less than the one next to him or her. So you show your good game or you don’t show up, you feel me?

Back to the line, lunch starts slow with tables of 3, of 4 and 5 pax. I got my favorite runner on the pass, so I know orders won’t get confused in the way to the customers. He’s a mix of drug dealer, low-key singer and military courier. Absolutely dependable, a key and under appreciated position in today’s restaurant. Hope he doesn’t realize how good he is, at least, till I make my move in a year or so.

My Sous arrives. When he is in the pass, I have more peace of mind than a teenager with a negative pregnancy test. I give him directions for the 100pax function and he distributes the work through the kitchen.

The hours go by while the coffee goes down. Promotional menu? Done. Costing? 28%. Passports? Sent. Roster? Printed. And it’s suddenly 5 pm.

Back to the kitchen to check on how the prep is going for the big group. Everyone is on it, and with a very good attitude. Nothing like a busy night to ignite adrenaline in the hearts of the true cooks. Nobody more excited than my Sous, he loves that shit. I approach a busy service with a mix of caution and anticipation. I keep approaching the young members of the team to recite the words of Matt, an ex head chef: “Do you smell that? That’s fear.” Works every time. I wonder what that angry young man is up to today. Can’t thank him enough.

The printer starts singing to us the song of his people. It’s show time.

Un velorio en Quito

De todos los eventos sociales, quizás los velorios sean los más extraños. Y no es poco decir que mojar la cabeza de un bebé impide que este arda en las llamas del infierno, o que la aplicación de un poco de aceite especiado sobre un enfermo le ahorrara la fila de entrada al cielo. 

Muchos devotos no sabrán que la receta para tal aceite (de santa unción) sean perfumes de gran precio, cinco kilos de mirra en grano, dos kilos y medio de canela, dos kilos y medio de clavo de olor, cinco kilos de acacia y tres litros y medio de aceite de oliva. Básicamente una colada morada con aceite en lugar de mortiño. 

De qué perfumes nos habla el Exodo? Pues de gran precio como señala el texto sagrado. Esperemos que sus diezmos sean invertidos en su buena onza de CHANEL No. 5 o sino esperen encontrar tráfico en su stairway to heaven.

La ropa negra es un ícono de tal ceremonia. Muchos les dirán que es para expresar el luto que se lleva adentro por la pérdida del ser querido, aunque es un poco más complejo. Desde el siglo II en Roma se estable el uso del color blanco como color oficial del luto y en España no es sino hasta la muerte del príncipe Juan en 1497 que se lleva a la aprobación por parte de los Reyes Católicos un conjunto de leyes en las que se recoge específicamente que el color negro debe ser el de la indumentaria. El siglo XV no solo nos deja la toma de Constantinopla por los turcos sino la “pragmática de luto y cera”, es decir el black is the new black desde 1500.

Pero tratando de la fauna quiteña, lo interesante es la acumulación de estas tradiciones milenarias aplicadas a un pueblo con herencia indígena y española. El velorio deja de ser un rito católico para volverse un trámite social. Un trámite que usualmente es diferido a n meses, dios mediante, sin intereses. Un velorio va desde los 400 usda los 3000 usd, dependiendo de si quiere vista al valle, cuarteto de cuerdas o café que no sepa a agua con barro. No hay descuento de buen cristiano, así que más le vale tener un seguro de vida para su muerte. 

Un sacerdote abrirá un libro muy similar al que tienes acumulando polvo en un estante olvidado, para repetir versos recitados por sacerdotes olvidados. No presumo saber la relación que aquel cura tuvo con el fallecido, pero asumo que no es la persona más calificada para hablar de la virtudes de quien en vida fue y no es más. ¿Qué nos reconfortemos con el milagro de la resurrección? Por qué no se va un poco para la verga.

Las desventuras del llamingo nunca son pronunciadas. ¿Por qué manchar la estirpe del hermano/a? Y bueno, porque los trapos sucios se lavan en casa. No hay mal muerto. Nadie expresará que usted se tiró a su secretaria, redujo su herencia a deliciosas lineas que se fueron por la nariz, que desfalcó las arcas del negocio por un símbolo de estatus inválido para su creador.

Es deprimente por decir lo menos, saber que el porcentaje de personas que irán a tu funeral es desproporcionadamente mayor, que el que atenderá tu último cumpleaños. Las excusas se evaporan para celebrar tu vida en el único momento en que no estás presente. Todos a quienes quisiste tener presentes para un abrazo aparecen cuando eres incapaz de hacerlo. Entonces, ¿cuál es el punto?

Los amigos llegarán como las oscuras golondrinas y los familiares como la pizza dominos. Se comentarán a los hijos de puta del gobierno y los empleados públicos sonreirán una mueca, los colegas recordarán anécdotas de viernes por la tarde, los compañeros del colegio revivirán hazañas caducas y los familiares se derramarán en las tristes baldosas de la sala de velación. Los allegados se encontrarán con potenciales oportunidades de negocios, muy posibles candidatos a sábado de joda y cenizas de extintos fuegos.

No olvide publicar sus sentimientos en facebook. De otra manera, ¿cómo se enterará del dolor que vive por su pérdida? La inexistencia del wifi en el más allá es un invento de liberales y ateos, no se deje engañar.

Un velorio en Quito es la cúspide de los eventos sociales, donde pobres se encuentran con ricos, donde no hay lista de invitados ni sección VIP. Donde la muerte reúne a quienes no lo harán bajo invitación. Donde la causa deja serlo. Donde el homenajeado es el ausente.

Vaquita

En casa no caben más animales. Conmigo, somos más que suficientes.

Hay un conejo, un borrego y una vaca. Todos llegaron con Elena, excepto Vaca. No una vaca, sino Vaca.

Su llegada es la más reciente. Cuenta la leyenda que el baby shower de mi comadre Alondra se acercaba, y con Elena estábamos invitados. No podíamos llegar aplaudiendo a tal magno evento, así que nos pusimos en camino a la juguetería más cercana.

• Qué carajo se le compra a un bebé?
• No sé. Algo que estimule su mente.
• Coca?
• No idiota, algo más puro.
• Coca importada?
• ...

Nos encontramos en la zona para bebés, y la situación no me pinta bien. Todo cuesta un huevo y parece estar diseñado para alguna especie de simio con retraso mental. Que sé yo, agarramos una casa musical que toca canciones de cuna con sonidos de 16 bits, y bota luces al techo. Al estilo de Dj de pueblo no contactado.

Camino a la caja me topo con el área donde se encuentran los peluches. Dentro del zoológico, se asoma curioso un rostro de vacuno proceder.

• Y si además del regalo principal, le llevamos también esta vaca?
• Sí está linda, llevémosla también.

Luego de pagar y envolverla en papel de regalo, miro a Elena a los ojos.

• Y si nos quedamos con la vaca?
• Estaba pensando lo mismo.

De vez en cuando recibo mensajes de Alondra.

“Sinvergüenzas, devuélvanme la vaca de mi hija!”

What the chef says vs. what the chef means

There might have been an occasion (or couple of them) when you had the privilege of listening to the almighty. And no, I'm not talking about god (or Morgan Freeman). Maybe at that point in your life you thought that what you heard was the same thing you understood. Chances are that it wasn't.

Regularly the common mortal cooks (and the service people) will listen to a chef's answer in the middle of a busy service and completely miss the intention of the message delivered. Here's a small compilation of common phrases and their real meaning.

1.- What the chef says: (to his cooks) I need table x in 5 minutes.

What the chef means: I need table x in 2 minutes.

2.- What the chef says: I need a day off.

What the chef means: I need a month away from this stupid people.

3.- What the waiter says: Table x is complaining that the chicken is taking too long.

What the chef says: The chicken needs to be well done.

What the chef means: You fucking idiot, I can't serve medium rare chicken. Wanna kill the customer? Better take a gun and pull the trigger at least he won't suffer.

4.- What the waiter says: Table x is asking where the seabass is from.

What the chef says: The seabass is from the south west pacific ocean.

What the chef means: It's from the fucking sea!

5.- What the chef says: I need a coffee, water and a panadol.

What the chef means: I got a massive hangover, give me a strong bloody mary.

6.- What the chef says: I can see that you're having issues understanding what I said.

What the chef means: You are retarded and I curse the day I let you in my kitchen.

7.- What the customer says: The welldone steak was too dry.

What the chef says: Well sir, i'm sorry you didn't fully enjoy your meal. Let me get you a complimentary dessert.

What the chef means: Next time order medium. Or medium well. Moron.

8.- What the chef says: I think I need a beer after work.

What the chef means: I'm gonna get wasted.

9.- What the chef says: Guys, clean as you go please.

What the chef means: This mess looks like a war zone.

10.- What the chef says: Has somebody seen my knife?

What the chef means: I'm gonna kill the fucker that touched my knife.

11.- What the chef says: We got a busy night. The restaurant is fully booked.

What the chef means: Do you smell that? That's fear.

12.- What the chef says: There's not a single booking tonight.

What the chef means: Deep cleaning day!