Once life had stormed all its black clouds it could gather above my head seriously challenging my world with a monster-tempest of cosmic proportions I got caught by the event completely unprepared. Sadly, when all hell broke loose I acted like a headless chicken. Not my finest hour, I reckon, and I’m not exactly proud of my myself. But, rather fast, something happened, my instincts kicked in, and I sought for immediate shelter inside a kitchen. Why becoming a Chef? Why not any other occupation? I had numerous technical qualifications, I had plenty of other options to choose from, but in my views only one of them was powerful enough to put an end to my misery and it had to be related to my passion for food. For really good food. It came natural to me. Since I can remember, almost all my happiest childhood memories originated inside my home’s kitchen… every single morning my grandmother cooking semolina or rice with milk for us, her kids, my father teamed up with my mother rubbing their elbows in complicity while preparing lavish Middle Eastern delicious meals, the countless summer garden parties held by my parents for their friends and for our closest relatives… all my happy memories, which I’m very fond of, somehow orbited around food so, bottom line, midst the shitstorm I was now dealing with choosing a career with food in its core made absolute sense to me. I was desperately trying to beat the odds, to keep my head above the waters, to outsmart the ugly. Yousee, to me food always equated with love, with care, with laughter, with colours, with textures, with satisfaction, exclusively with positive things which at that particular point in my life were in complete opposition with the reality I was confronted with. I knew I had to act fast so choosing to become a Chef wasn’t a capricious option, it wasn’t the fashionable thing to do nor I was seeking for the glitter of a career in showbiz, my very survival as an individual was at stakes. Literally.
I confess that I regret plenty of my former life choices… fuck it, I can easily write a Russian-like river-novel with all my former bad choices but, trust me, opting to become a chef will never make that list. Never. Becoming a chef was liberating, it freed my spirit and, even better, becoming a Chef de Cocina Espanola rewarded me with a self respect which had exceeded all my wildest expectations. I grew up with Middle Eastern food, I was already familiar with the French Cuisine (I wasn’t a novice before) but only when I discovered the Spanish cooking I clicked. It’s my own ground zero, the moment I finally managed to close my circle of knowledge and only then I was able to hear my so-called “inner voice”. Irreverent to rules, as I see it, Spanish cooking is (somehow) like me: liberated, brazen, naughty, sassy, spirited, rebellious, unpretentious, focused on one thing which is bringing the “sabores” to life.
OK, I won’t fall into the trap of comparing my before and after lives; shit, both of them are as comparable as the moon and earth, but I can openly admit that today I feel a certain joy which in my before life was unknown to me. Is it better? Is it worst? My answer will be this: it’s simply different. Am I happy? Only when I cook. Am I sad? Exclusively in between my dishes. Is it good? Is it bad? Was I dead before? Was I alive? Am I a shadow? Am I flesh and bones? Am I a spectrum? Am I material? Are the things in my life as they supposed to be? Am I opening the right door? Should I move on to the next one? Whatever is behind this door will chew my ass off? Who can tell? Not me, oh, I know that much. To each question you might have you’ll discover two possible answers and what you’ll find out seconds after (which is also truly confusing) is that both of them are equally true. It’s up to you which one you favor. My personal life has turned to shits and I am numb. Thanks, Covid and its parents; Muchas Fuck You Gracias. It’s really fucked up so, instead of addressing this infinite string of metaphysical bullshit questions I honestly prefer to cook. Holding a pan in my hand and stressing the shit out of the ingredients is by far more rewarding than immersing myself deep into that septic tank of mine in which I store my feelings. That’s what I do. Every single day, two or three times a day. In full disclosure, whenever I’m not cooking I’m bloody suicidal and every single day I make it, oh, wow, it is regarded by me as like this huge personal victory. That’s my ugly truth and I learned to live with it.
“Food is an emotion” always is my answer to whoever asks for it, poor sap, and I believe in this tiny sentence with all my heart because, to me, it is as true as day and night to you. All my food has this certain “je ne sais quoi” for a reason, go ahead, taste it and, rest assured, it’ll stand out in a crowd. Its particularity springs from within my world: I never cook just for the sake of it; I always cook with somebody’s image in my head and in each and every single one of my dishes I strive to imprint at least one of their many splendid attributes. My food is an emotion because, in reality, every dish of mine is always a portrait of a real person very dear to me. That’s my food. As for me… well, I haven’t decided yet if I’m a just yesterlife’s shadow following today’s flesh or all the way around, the today’s flesh walking on the footsteps of my yesterlife’s shadow. I repeat, my answer is this: “it’s simply different”. I hope to catch the day when my food (maybe, or if ever) will reveal the truth.
February
Republic of Floreasca
