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Authors: Michael Paterniti
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and then seven spice holders (marked MEXICO , INDIA , JAPAN , MOROCCO , et cetera). “With this dish, you decide the end of the film,” he said. “We give you the chicken, and you decide the spice.” Oriol and Albert had already spent much time trying to refine each of the spice mixtures, making sure that a full octave of taste was present in each, the best curry from India or wasabi from Japan, and that each complemented the rest.
Now it was time for Ferran to try. Oriol and Albert crowded around him as he approached the plate, staring solemnly at the nugget of chicken. He picked up the container marked MEXICO and shook a bit on his finger, then sampled it. He said nothing. Then he shook it over the chicken, the specks raining down in a red shower, and then he grabbed another shaker and shook it, too.
“Look out, uncle, that’s salt!” said Albert, appearing stricken.
“Don’t get dizzy here, I know,” said Ferran, concentrating. He popped the chicken into his mouth and chewed. He staredinto the middle distance. His eyebrows rose and fell as if registering a series of gustatory sensations. He considered it for a long time, then after a while longer, he shook his head emphatically … No. “It’s not Mexico,” he said.
Albert looked flabbergasted. “For me, it is!”
“It’s not. You taste tomato, cilantro, but it’s not Mexico.”
“It’s my Mexico,” said his brother.
“It needs more, but I won’t call that Mexico.”
Both brothers glared at the plate, at the specks of red spice left on the white porcelain. Disappointment lingered for a moment, then suddenly it was converted to forward motion again. Ferran cocked his head, then Albert did, too, noticing his brother’s shifting mood.
“That would taste good on clouds,” Ferran said. “You’d taste the spices individually, eating it off a cloud. Try India on that. Let’s try it!”
Albert pushed Oriol toward the refrigerator, Oriol produced a bowl of apple foam that he’d made for the foie soup and dolloped some into a bowl, Albert shook India onto the highest peaks of the lather, and Ferran spooned it up. Though there was nothing solid in that spoonful, his mouth moved as if he were chewing. His eyes began to light, but still he didn’t speak. His eyebrows followed the taste and texture up and down, and when it was over, he looked up. “That’s beautiful,” he said reverently. “That’s really beautiful.”
Albert took a spoonful, and then Oriol. And each had the same reaction, the same facade of skepticism giving way to some new quizzical appreciation for the taste in his mouth, and then a grin. “Uncle, that’s good,” said Albert. Oriol just nodded his approval vigorously. Now Ferran handed me a spoon, and I tried, too. Each spice of India (the cocoa and lemongrass, the lime and curry) seemed to burn down individually, while the cool applespread out beneath it, lifting it from the tongue. It felt like the Fourth of July in your mouth.
Before I could say anything, though, we’d moved on. To a quail egg. And now we were crowded around a pot of boiling water. The quail egg, which was the size of a small Superball, had been Oriol’s obsession throughout the morning. I’d watched him crack egg after egg, strain them between brown-speckled shells until he was left with only the miniature yolks, and then boil them for five, ten, twenty, thirty, sixty seconds, removing the golden globe of yolk with a metal catcher, cooling it for a moment, and then tasting it—just to see what he got each time. After some consultation, it was agreed that the ten-second yolk was the best, sublime even, somewhere between raw and cooked but tasting like neither, the liquid inside warm and already swarming down the back of the throat by the time it touched the tongue. In fact, Ferran was afraid to do more to it. Oriol suggested covering the yolk in baked Parmesan, and he crumbled some over it. Ferran let a drop of olive oil fall on it, then
Now it was time for Ferran to try. Oriol and Albert crowded around him as he approached the plate, staring solemnly at the nugget of chicken. He picked up the container marked MEXICO and shook a bit on his finger, then sampled it. He said nothing. Then he shook it over the chicken, the specks raining down in a red shower, and then he grabbed another shaker and shook it, too.
“Look out, uncle, that’s salt!” said Albert, appearing stricken.
“Don’t get dizzy here, I know,” said Ferran, concentrating. He popped the chicken into his mouth and chewed. He staredinto the middle distance. His eyebrows rose and fell as if registering a series of gustatory sensations. He considered it for a long time, then after a while longer, he shook his head emphatically … No. “It’s not Mexico,” he said.
Albert looked flabbergasted. “For me, it is!”
“It’s not. You taste tomato, cilantro, but it’s not Mexico.”
“It’s my Mexico,” said his brother.
“It needs more, but I won’t call that Mexico.”
Both brothers glared at the plate, at the specks of red spice left on the white porcelain. Disappointment lingered for a moment, then suddenly it was converted to forward motion again. Ferran cocked his head, then Albert did, too, noticing his brother’s shifting mood.
“That would taste good on clouds,” Ferran said. “You’d taste the spices individually, eating it off a cloud. Try India on that. Let’s try it!”
Albert pushed Oriol toward the refrigerator, Oriol produced a bowl of apple foam that he’d made for the foie soup and dolloped some into a bowl, Albert shook India onto the highest peaks of the lather, and Ferran spooned it up. Though there was nothing solid in that spoonful, his mouth moved as if he were chewing. His eyes began to light, but still he didn’t speak. His eyebrows followed the taste and texture up and down, and when it was over, he looked up. “That’s beautiful,” he said reverently. “That’s really beautiful.”
Albert took a spoonful, and then Oriol. And each had the same reaction, the same facade of skepticism giving way to some new quizzical appreciation for the taste in his mouth, and then a grin. “Uncle, that’s good,” said Albert. Oriol just nodded his approval vigorously. Now Ferran handed me a spoon, and I tried, too. Each spice of India (the cocoa and lemongrass, the lime and curry) seemed to burn down individually, while the cool applespread out beneath it, lifting it from the tongue. It felt like the Fourth of July in your mouth.
Before I could say anything, though, we’d moved on. To a quail egg. And now we were crowded around a pot of boiling water. The quail egg, which was the size of a small Superball, had been Oriol’s obsession throughout the morning. I’d watched him crack egg after egg, strain them between brown-speckled shells until he was left with only the miniature yolks, and then boil them for five, ten, twenty, thirty, sixty seconds, removing the golden globe of yolk with a metal catcher, cooling it for a moment, and then tasting it—just to see what he got each time. After some consultation, it was agreed that the ten-second yolk was the best, sublime even, somewhere between raw and cooked but tasting like neither, the liquid inside warm and already swarming down the back of the throat by the time it touched the tongue. In fact, Ferran was afraid to do more to it. Oriol suggested covering the yolk in baked Parmesan, and he crumbled some over it. Ferran let a drop of olive oil fall on it, then
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