Nomad Chef Secret Restaurant

The Nomad Chef road show, road movie prep continues. On Tuesday I flew with a cameraman and all of his beautiful equipment, to capture some footage of Susana, my beautiful fellow traveler on this journey. Tools are a very important part of the trade – whether cooking or shooting a film. In a screenplay, this part of the film is called the set up. It is where we see the characters in the world where the story takes place. It is how we, the audience, get to know the characters. And for the first 10 minutes of a film we get an idea of what the theme of the film is about. Sometimes there is a slow start. Life is in balance. But we know that something is coming. The rug is pulled out from under the protagonist. That’s me. Not even a week into filming and a rug was pulled out.

Some films start with a big action scene, like in James Bond movies. But how dramatic can a documentary about two women of a certain age trying to re-invent themselves on a road trip be? We’re not talking about Thelma and Louise here. Susana is rebounding from a relationship where she put her singing career on hold for 5 years, and I’m trying to find a way to fill the hole that was created with the loss of my son. I thought I’d document our journey to New York, Los Angeles and Silicon Valley – the destinations providing wonderful backdrops for what is really an inner journey that sometimes for one, and often for the other, is a bleak and lonely trek. The trip is supposed to be fun, a reward for having survived difficult things. We’ve gathered a few minor characters into the mix, a couple of people who heard about the adventure and wanted to visit these iconic locations. I am, by default, the tour guide.

After Berlin, where Susana is hoping to live at least half time and where she has found a new manager, our plan was to meet again in Madrid, her birth home. I’ve never been there and neither had the cameraman. Susana was our host. Day 1 of the 3 of us being together. The first day of a 2 ½ day trip – simple prep (in food speak, but translate to flim speak, i.e., cutaway shots)… a little background. Two hours after we’d arrived and had eaten at a little restaurant on a beautiful square where I was assured that I could find something vegetarian (a much bigger challenge in Spain than in most other southern European countries), we jumped into the cab. Next stop, Susana’s recording studio.

The cameraman leaps out of the cab to run into a little shop for batteries for the microphones. Susana pays the taxi driver and she and I leisurely get out. Just as it was driving away the cameraman shouts, “Hey, where’s my equipment?” We thought he had it with him. He assumed we were guarding it. The taxi thinks (perhaps) he might have found a hidden treasure in the trunk of his car. Cut to CHASE SCENE: The cameraman runs down the street screaming after a white taxi (they are all white in Madrid). Susana jumps into another taxi to take chase. And I am left standing on a street corner in a city I’ve never even visited before.

Two days later, after a visit to the police station, 50 calls to taxi companies and the lost objects number, there is still no sign of the equipment. It is all insured, but not likely to be replaced by Monday when leg two of our journey begins. I have a plan B and a plan C, but no one likes to lose their stuff even when it is insured. We lost about 24 hours of what was meant to be a lovely tour of Madrid, good restaurants and a chance to see how well we hang out together. I know about loss. There is no insurance for what I’ve lost. But that doesn’t make anyone else feel any better.

The only short-term solution I can think of to lighten the mood is a good meal. It always works for me. Food is love and comfort. I needed both. We ate at ESTADO PURO, “pure state” where  Paco Roncero is the chef. He is a former student and business partner of the famed El Bulli’s Ferran Adria. Great food is my secret remedy. These nuevas tapas (nouvelle cuisine in tapas) righted for me most of what was wrong. My cameraman was still feeling the loss of his stuff, but even he laughed and smiled while we ate. I’m sure it helped a ton that we sat at the bar next to a beautiful young French actress sitting all by herself. She’d just finished a day of shooting for a TV commercial. We lost some tools but found new friends – nuevos amigos. And she wants to find a house in Paris for the traveling Nomad Chef to do one of our traveling dinners. It is true that some losses are irreplaceable. But there are others that are not as serious and can lead to surprising encounters and lovely new friends. All good films, like lives, include losses. We just started having them at the very beginning of the journey. I guess it is all about how we tell our stories that is important, how we find something to hold onto. Maybe the rug was pulled out from under us, but we’re on a magic carpet ride and… we’re flying.

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Perhaps I should start at the beginning of the end of the last blog post? So much has happened since then I can hardly catch my breath. The Nomad Chef celebrated its one year birthday on the 14^th of February. But instead of having a dinner on Valentine’s Day as we did for our very first dinner as the Nomad Chef, I organized the celebration dinner around 2 friends who flew into town for the weekend from California. They deserved a great party, and that is exactly what we had! The Nomad Chef: no-Mad Men (and crazy women) themed dinner was amazing. Everyone came dressed in their beautiful 60s personas. Beautiful women and gorgeous men sipped whiskey sours and raspberry Soho Mojitos. I’m told the highlight of the evening was the steak au poivre (incredible marbled filet mignon from Jack O’Shea’s butcher at Selfridges), that we nearly burned down the house with as we ignited the brandy! The evening ended at around 1 am, when those of us remaining shot over to Camden where we danced into the wee hours of the night. February 14^th was also Alex Berger’s (our wonderful entertainment for the night) album’s (Snow Globe) 1 year birthday as well. What a great night of celebrating both of our birthdays!

We had our Chinese New Year’s dinner on the 2^nd of February. At the dinner I met Daniel Bucher. I had no idea he was a professional chef, a molecular chef no less! Glad he didn’t tell me until after the dinner, at which point he mentioned that he was having a pop up dinner in Berlin on the 25^th of February. Would I like to come? Hell yeah I wanted to come. A complete stranger invites me to a dinner in an unknown location in Berlin… that epitomizes the fun and spirit of this secret dining experience. Lucky for me a Spanish friend of mine was moving to Berlin 2 days before, so I’d have someone to go with. I got the date wrong and ended up flying in just in time for the dinner… or so that was the plan. But in my excitement I left my passport at home and my boyfriend had to drive it to me in my Smart car, a little putt putt that didn’t putt nearly fast enough for me to catch my plane. So I took a 2 hour train ride to another airport, and finally arrived at the dinner at 10 pm. Perfect timing – the only thing I’d missed were the meat appetizers, and everything after that point was vegetarian. Perfect timing!

I love Berlin. It represents so many things, only some of which are visible whenever you see that amazing wall. Old world and modern fuse so seamlessly in this city brimming with creativity but minus all of the noise and traffic of London. Daniel’s pop up was difficult to find. After a few false starts, I found it through a courtyard on a street filled with galleries and up a glass lift. There was sign whatsoever of what I might be walking into. Daniel took the modern open plan office to a whole other level by building a movie studio like set filled with bistro tables and self made lamps, making this incredibly modern space feel cozy and intimate for the 40 of us who were there. The food is impossible to describe but mouth wateringly delicious. According to the chef, “The emphasis is not on the menus, but on the guests.” The guests were great and the experience was wonderful. I have now dubbed Berlin the California of Germany. There were so many hugs, and I was astonished to learn that Daniel had told people the Nomad Chef was coming all the way from London to dinner. I felt like a celebrity, but the honor was 100% all mine! He is a freelance chef and has very big plans for Pangram’s Kitchen. What is a pangram, you might ask? I had to look it up myself: it is a piece of text which uses every letter of the alphabet, usually in one sentence. Like this one: “Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs.” Daniel is my new friend, as are so many I have met in my Nomad Chef adventures.

Another adventure began in Berlin as well. I will tell you more about it as it unfolds. But here is the teaser – the Nomad Chef is on the road. I will be cooking Madrid, Los Angeles and New York. I am traveling with my friend Susana as I attempt to re-invent my life. Again. The Nomad Chef was the first step. The next will include a documentary I am making about how I survive the most difficult challenge in my life, my new life without my son, and how others bounce back from difficulty and achieve their dreams.Cooking has been my great escape and at the same time a healing potion.  My son had a similar, but maybe even more intense relationship with food. And we both had travel in our blood. So what could be better than combining food and travel? On my trip I will be retracing some of the adventures of the original Nomad Chef, my son, while creating some of my own. And in so doing, I am sure my little buddy will be whispering recipes and encouragement in my ear. The Nomad Chef, my life and travels and this documentary are my hommage to him.

I look forward to posting little video clips here so you can follow our adventure. Next stop – Madrid. My road trip, road movie has begun. If you are in LA on the 26^th of March, then join us!

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Last week I cooked for our Nomad Chef: Sensuous, Sexy, South Beach dinner… drawing on my old Latin lovers … Cuban, Mexican and a new one, brought along by a new friend (Jaime, a Peruvian, who came with a dish that had a Portuguese and Brazilian twist). It was hot, hot, hot and spicy… and very warm – these strangers who are my new friends.

And the next day the Nomad Chef catered for 200 people who attended the book launch of a woman who I met for the first time two months after my son died. Looking for something that would really feed my actor/writer/chef’s creativity (though at the time he was disguised temporarily as an internet evangelist working for my company), I found a 2 week writing workshop in Croatia and gave him that for his birthday present. His last birthday.  He was thrilled at the chance to travel to Eastern Europe again, where he was convinced lived the prettiest girls in all of Europe. I wanted to support  his talent… It was a chance for him to re-ignite his writing passion. Anne Aylor was the writing coach for this two-week sojourn. I remember hearing she and her husband tell me about how he turned up at the boat that would ferry the writers to their little island tranquility at the very moment the boat was about to pull away. He’d fallen asleep on the beach. They told me stories about how he was the highlight (I think they used a word like sunshine) of the writing group that was dominated by women of a certain age and a couple of misfits like my tall, gorgeous son and a young man just a little more than half his age. I didn’t know his bonds with these strangers were so strong – not until they reached me at my office 2 months after he’d died. He hadn’t answered their email. How could he? He was gone by then.

So I adopted this lovely couple that were much closer to my own age. They came to visit me in my empty office, filled with 20 or so beings – but missing the sunlight of my son – bearing poetry and tears. What do you call the borrowing of the almost friends of someone who is already gone? Adoption doesn’t quite capture it. Maybe a better word is “appropriated.” Yes. I took them as I did a few of my son’s other artifacts: his ipod and iphone and box of writings, along with the hat he left on the coat rack when he last left the house. This couple were now mine, part of my inheritance. I slowly got to know them, inviting them to big and small dinners. They remind me of the self I am working on, the inner, hidden creative. And they remind me of how great and loved my son was. I’m the writer now in my family of one. Did I inherit that too? Or did I give it to him only to have it given back to me? Anyway… Anne and her husband wanted the Nomad Chef (moi!) to cater for Ann’s book launch. And I did it with so much pleasure, realizing that I had succeeded in working my way into their lives as my son had done, although he had done it instantly with his sunny smile and warm heart. It was a family affair. I felt him there with me in the menu planning, the two days of cooking and then the 5 hours of serving.  I follow in his footsteps even though my path is in a different world.

One of the things I cooked for both of the dinners last week included cinnamon. I didn’t even think to check whether I had enough of it. Ground cinnamon was one of 17 spices that were to go into the stuff I rubbed on the chicken before grilling it on skewers; 250 skewers. But the jar was almost empty. This was a jar, one of many, that I’d inherited from my son’s spice cabinet. I count on these spices to help me feel connected to him when I cook. His fingers have touched these spices. But the jar of memory had run out. It was a little death, a jolt. I couldn’t face going to the spice shop on Portobello Road to replace something so full of memory, something that, when missing, had nearly emptied me out. It was then he came to me. Yes, “he.” I’m sure of it now. I’d purchased some cinnamon sticks a few weeks before. And it suddenly hit me that I could take them and grind them into powder. Relief.  Though there were little bits of imperfection in my freshly ground cinnamon powder, it blended perfectly with its new friends – just as I try to do with the strangers who are becoming my new friends. Unrefined ingredients are somehow so much more intense. And maybe a little difficult. Yet they can leave a strong and lasting impression… like my son. I may be a pale reflection of him as the second Nomad Chef, but he has passed on his legacy to me in the form of spices. And I pass them on, like a Nomad who finds great stuff and passes it on.

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Our next three dinners will be:
26 January (Sensuous, Sexy South Beach)

2 February (Year of the Rabbit Dinner)

19 February (noMAD MEN & Women).

Driving through London today I couldn’t help but notice all of the museums. This got me thinking about this idea of curation. In a museum or gallery a curator is responsible for the study, acquisition and care of objects, these works of art being presented to the public. The history and cultural heritage of the pieces created by the artists are important in the communication of their work, the pleasure given to the observers of their work. While I am not responsible for the design and placement of of great works of art in museums, I recognize the importance of the knowledge that goes into their selection and am happy that there are those more suited than I to present them in ways that allow me to get a glimpse of what the artist had in mind, where he or she was living at the time and the cultural context or their work.

It doesn’t take much to realize that the images carefully inserted above have nothing to do with each other. It would make more sense that the curator has a funny sense of post-modern humor. But in fact, while the themes of our dinners here at the Nomad Chef seem to have little to do with each other, the dinners themselves are carefully curated. Tomorrow’s dinner, for example is called Nomad Chef: Anti-antebellum, a lovely play on words to evoke a sense of rebellion (the root of the word ‘bellum’) and rebellion against the plantation culture of the South (in the US) during slavery. But for all of our horror at the thought of slavery, we cannot help but celebrate the food that came out of the South during that time, with its many cultural influences (French, English, Caribbean, African and more). So while we will be serving some traditional fare (gumbo with crab, shrimp, oysters and squid), we will spice it up with some totally unexpected treats from France and Southeast Asia.

The attention to detail paid to our seemingly random fusing of cultures and cuisines is just as important when curating the ambiance. The strangers who come are as important as our frequent visitors, and the conversational lubricant is the carefully cultivated aperitif where people and the fragrance of food mingle. We are lucky to have amazing musicians who sing for their supper, singer songwriters who try out their new material on us in exchange for the opportunity to eat and talk with the self selecting adventurers who choose to travel the world while sitting at a table at the Nomad Chef.

Museum curators may be partial to particular artists or particular works, but I am as passionate about each dinner theme as I am about each dinner and dish. But I am even more passionate about those who join us in our culinary adventures. I am not sure we have something for everyone but for everyone who comes through our doors we have a tremendous appreciation and delight. The stories they tell and the lives they lead are the artifacts they leave behind. And as urban nomads, we find the best stuff and pass it on. Our pleasure comes from finding the culture and cuisine that we love and passing it on to you with love, giving you a greater appreciation of the art of food.

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What was the tallest tree in Palo Alto

There is something so insatiable about the holidays, all the waiting and wanting. Maybe it comes from our childhood wishes and dreams, and the disappointments when we didn’t get what we wanted – materially or emotionally. Our amped up expectations fueled by family and fantasy. And so many of us wobble into the holidays not at all sure of what to expect, missing those who left us way too soon, and missing our families. We enter the season hungry for something.

Mine was not a traditional family, so Christmas was as unconventional at my childhood home as was Thanksgiving. My mom brought home all the strays she could for any of our many Christmas meals. Most of all thought, I remember that we made all of our presents. I honestly can’t remember any store bought gifts. Some of the stocking stuffers might have been purchased; I remember little things like toothbrushes, small games, and packs of cards. But the presents that went under the tree were few and were all made with love by us for each other. We did have a father and grandparents, but they lived far away and we rarely, if ever, saw them and never for Christmas. We were a little family and grew it around the holidays by adding strangers and friends.

A few days before Christmas my mom always organized Christmas caroling in the neighborhood. This might have been before photocopying worked the way it does today because I remember the worn carbon copy looking carols we’d typed up and distributed to those few carolers who didn’t remember the words. Our neighborhood was 2 blocks wide and about 8 or 10 blocks long – College Terrace in Palo Alto – we covered most of it. All of the streets there were named after universities in the US. We’d go out in groups but there must always have been someone tending the stove at our house because the mulled wine and mulled non-alcoholic cider were always hot when we came back.

And then there was the food. It might just be my aging memory, but it seems as if Thanksgiving kicked off an entire month of cooking lots every day for a month, and Christmas was just the culmination. We had Mexican food, especially enchiladas, Chinese food, borscht with potato pancakes and all manner of other wintry food… plus the traditional turkeys, cranberry relishes, biscuits and more. But as much as I loved our food, I loved this funny little tradition our family had – pop-calling! It must come from the expressions “to pop in” or “to call on” people. I will never know the roots of our expression since all of my ancestors are gone, but on Christmas Eve or even Christmas night (after we’d done all of the presents and cooking at our own home) we’d get in the car and just pop in on people. I’m not sure who started this in our family, but we certainly programmed our friends and neighbors to expect these surprise visits from us. We didn’t usually stay long, or not at the first houses we visited in the evenings, but we were offered egg nog and whatever was left of their desserts. This was the best part of Christmas for me, another way to extend our family – being welcomed even when we weren’t expected.

I hope the holidays for you bring you the joy you deserve and the comfort you need. If you are in the neighborhood between Christmas and New Year’s pop into the Nomad Chef. We are waiting to welcome you the 27^th, 28^th, 30^th or 31^st of December (yeah, New Year’s Eve!) with a cozy, warm drink of something warm and a lotta love. Seriously! We don’t want you to be hungry for anything (just email if you plan to stop by one of those evenings). And if you want to sit down to our holiday anti-holiday dinner, come to dinner on the 29^th for a more traditional unconventional Nomad Chef dinner! Hope to see you soon!

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Yesterday I wanted to write about Thanksgiving and what it means to me. But I was too busy cooking for the 25 adults and 6 kids who came to dinner last night at the Nomad Chef. This was the first time I’d spent it with as many complete strangers. It is usually a day spent with family and extended family. I imagine there are many Thanksgiving traditions in the US, but in my childhood there were three of us: my mom, my sister and me. It was a day where we did whatever we could to expand our little universe. My mom would typically invite everyone she knew who had few if any local family members. It could be neighbors or her work colleagues, and yes, even complete strangers. I remember one in particular where she was doing last minute shopping on the morning of Thanksgiving and met a young man in the grocery store. He was one of many who turned up later for our afternoon meal that lasted well into the small hours of the morning.

This particular stranger had a big afro, which was the fashion in those days. “Why,” I asked her, “did you invite him?” My mom was known for her honesty and directness. “Well, because he looked nice and he was all alone on Thanksgiving.” She later told me (a few years later, when this young man had finished Stanford University) she wanted to make sure my sister and I had some exposure to black American culture. She was a single mom, white American, and our father was black; he lived far away and we rarely saw him. She thought it was really important that we mixed race kids see the world beyond our little ivory towered life in Palo Alto, 200 meters from Stanford University. So the strangers she brought home for Thanksgiving, and even week day dinners, were carefully curated by her to give us to the whole world, right in our living room. Life was always filled with surprises when my mother was alive. And these strangers became our extended family.

When I grew up, or barely, I had my own child, my son. I was 19 years old when he was born. My mom died two years later, so I carried on the tradition of creating a big “family” for every Thanksgiving. We both needed family. It is no surprise that this holiday was my son’s favorite. Food and family, even though the family members were constantly changing, are all we need to be happy.

I was worried about this Thanksgiving. My first Thanksgiving in a world that no longer included my son, two years ago, was only a few weeks after he died. I was there, but not really there. I cooked for 35 people that day, mostly his friends. It was kind of an extended memorial service. We danced and danced, and some of us cried. I have good memories of this sad day. Then last year, many of the same people, many of his friends, and some of my new friends – the ones who know me as a family of one – came for dinner. Loads of little kids, some of whom were, or were to be my son’s godchildren. I felt so surrounded by love. And I always feel his presence when I’m cooking on his favorite day.

But last night was different. In my secret restaurant, founded in his honor, I open my doors to anyone who wants to share in the nomad experience. Last night there were people from many countries, speaking many languages, and even a few Americans. There were a few people who’ve come here before, a couple of my newest friends, but the majority I’d never met before. I was so happy to share my family tradition of inviting complete strangers into my home, feeding them and enjoying their pleasure as they discover some of the artifacts of my past: my son (through his love of this day, and his presence in my heart as I cooked and served), a room filled with strangers, a meal curated to share my whole world with my guests, and the oyster pie that my grandmother taught me how to make as a child. I no longer have a legacy to share with my son, but he has left his with me. These two photos are of one of our last Thanksgivings together. In one, I was his sous chef. And in the other, his friend and partner in the original Nomad Chef.

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Dancing away the dark

Today is Dio de los Muertos, the holiday celebrated in Mexico to honor the dead. Although I’ve never celebrated it before, I will do so today as I cook and prepare for the Nomad Chef: Day of the Dead dinner that I am hosting tomorrow. This holiday now has special meaning for me. My son, the original Nomad Chef, died just over two years ago, and I am thinking of him today. The wound is as fresh as if it were yesterday and yet I feel his presence and his arms around me when I cook. I am still using many of the spices he left behind and feel his soul, the spice of my life, when I smell coriander, cardamon, ginger or any of the hundreds of spices that fill my cupboards.

We both grew up in California; and my son was born there in my adopted home. I was 19 years old when he entered my life. I don’t have any adult memories without him until now, the two years since he left on a grander voyage than either of us could have imagined. We grew up together. We moved countries together. We cooked together. Once we were nomads and cooking warriors but now there is only me.

In California Mexican food is the equivalent of fish and chips in the UK, although much more diverse. Instead of sandwiches, we Californians eat quesadillas (grilled flour tortillas with cheese, avocados, salsa and many other combination) as a snack at home when we don’t have time to prepare a whole meal. When running out from the office for a quick lunch we pick up burritos sold off the backs of trucks in almost any urban neighborhood. Not all Mexican food is either quick or easy. Each year my son and I would spend a day making Oaxacan mole sauce – it takes an entire day to create the delicious layers of sophisticated flavors in this sauce that can be served on meat (or in my case tofu). Our mom and son activities all revolved around food.

Also inked to the Aztec festival is the Braziilan Dia de Finados. My son loved Brazil. He went there with his friends who were producing, filming and recording Giant Leap. He wrote beautiful essays while he was there. I have them all, and many others;  they make up part of his legacy. In Spain they have similar festivals for the Catholic All Saints and All Souls days. My son spent one of the best years in his life living in Deia (Mallorca, Spain) where he was the chef and creator of a lovely fusion menu in this tiny little village filled with a mix of English and Mallorquin speakers. My nomad son fit so much into his short life as actor, writer and chef.

So today and tomorrow I will think of my son and all that we did together and all that he left behind. In opening the Nomad Chef I have opened a channel to my son, through which I’ve had the great fortune to meet the most wonderful strangers. One lovely Italian woman who came to eat here a few months ago (when I served the last of the mole sauce my son and I made together the year before) sent me the most beautiful note today and a quote from Sant’Agostino:

“The dead are not absent, they are the invisible who keep their eyes full of light, in our eyes full of tears.”

Yes, my eyes are full of tears thinking of my invisible son. But his light is ever present here at the Nomad Chef and for that I am grateful. Tomorrow we will drink, eat and dance to those who have left us behind.

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Taking it all off!

What do a nudist colony, masked ball and a secret restaurant have in common? I’d never considered this question before last night, when I sat down at one of the tables with our diners. I was wondering what made this table so special; they guests were laughing much louder than those at the other tables. And then I overheard a few words that piqued my interest. “Fetish” and “shopping for groceries completely nude.” I turned to the guest on my right and he understood the blank look on my face. He said, “You should hear what she’s been telling us about! It’s hysterical.” After a few minutes I managed to catch up. The dinner guest to my left, a blond, sophisticated, 40-something, New Yorker who’d been living in London since the 70s, was regaling the table with stories of her dating exploits, sex clubs and nudist resorts.

“It’s really extraordinary,” continued the dapper looking gentleman on my right, who’d come with a ravishing young woman, possibly Russian or Eastern European. He went on to say that you could never have a conversation like this at a “normal” dinner party, or in a “normal” restaurant.

This is what is so great about secret restaurants and eating dinner with a bunch of strangers who have purposely come to meet strangers themselves. Last night there were at least six single people, eight if you count the couple that consider themselves singles because they swing. Many people come alone, knowing that they will be warmly welcomed by everyone. “The conversations are so authentic,” he went on to say. And it’s true. It is really extraordinary. I used to host costume parties when I was in my 20s and remember loving them so much, realizing that I liked people much better when they were wearing masks. Or weren’t wearing the masks of their daily routines: banker, tailor, housewife or diplomat. The costumes gave them permission to be more of themselves. It made them so much more honest.

I moved between the two conversations, one an observation of the other and  one an account of all the things you do in the nude in a nudist resort. Her partner, or sometimes partner, recounted their recent trip to Cap D’agde in France. “She turned up with a suitcase smaller than her hand bag!” “Well,” she said, “I only really needed my toothbrush and toiletries as there is nowhere you are even allowed to wear clothes once you’ve check in. “Oh my God,” he said. “It was the first time I packed more than a woman. I thought I’d get away with a swimming suit and some shorts, but no way.”

I haven’t been to a nude beach since I was a kid, and I don’t remember liking it all that much. I was with my hippie mom, in California. But I suspect there is something quite liberating about it. Leave your façade at home and turn up just as you were born, fresh and innocent. Well, maybe that is going a little too far as it doesn’t sound like our swinging singles are all that innocent. Anyway, I can see the attraction to the authenticity and lack of pretensions. Our clothes speak volumes about us. Maybe too much. They also give us something to hide behind. And in a way our friends are like our clothes in that they too tend to be a reflection of our social and economic status. Escaping the predictable conversations that come from being with others like you is refreshing. Seeing yourself reflected in the eyes of strangers is like looking into a sparkling new mirror or suddenly being able to see.

Eating in a secret restaurant is like taking your clothes off in front of strangers, or hiding behind a plumed principessa mask. In taking it all off you’re able to put on your childlike enthusiasm for everything new and different.

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Today I spent the day cooking. The theme is Viva Cubana! I’ve never even been to Cuba because as an American I’ve never had the right to travel there, or at least not directly. I almost went one time when I was having a little vacation in Jamaica. Apparently they look the other way and don’t stamp your American passport if you fly in from somewhere like Mexico or Jamaica. But I didn’t go. None of my group seemed at all interested .  They were Americans. Here in Europe everyone is curious about Cuba, and many of my friends have been.

I feel like I must have lived there in another life, maybe in the beautiful 40s. There is something in my blood… or at least I wish for there to be! The closest I’ve  been to Cuba is having had a Cuban boyfriend; his parents were  immigrants to New York. They left there with so many others. I remember saying “estoy enamorado con tigo” to him and loving the way it sounded. I loved that he spoke Spanish. I guess we weren’t meant to stay together, but it was so romantic. He was chocolate colored like me, a mix of every race and culture that passed through his parent’s little island. I loved his family too, and he loved mine – me and my little boy. He’d wake up early in the morning to go buy us savory breakfast treats like whitefish and bagels and cream cheese. We ate so well together. And sometimes when I’d come home from work he’d have a lovely meal waiting for me. Bacalao. Platanos. Frijoles negro. This must have been during my last fish phase because I remember the taste of the bacalao like it was yesterday. It has been more than 30 years since then, but today when cooking the bacalao fritters I didn’t need to taste the salt cod to remember what it tastes like.

So as I prepared the food that remembers me from long ago, I remembered an old love from long ago. I thought that it was me that was doing the remembering but then I realized that I’d made the acquaintance of the members of my menu before. We hadn’t seen each other in a very long time, but they remembered me. And in their kindness, reminding me of who they were and how we met, I was able to recall someone I’d long forgotten. I love how food remembers me.

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Last night I was describing my meal in great detail to my boyfriend who is in France on holiday. We’ve been together for 6 years so our conversations aren’t filled with romantic murmurings. In fact, we’ve never been very romantic. We have a relationship built on doing things together – cycling, swimming in the sea, boxing and now, cooking … He wasn’t a foodie when we first met. He was simply a French man who’d eaten normal French food prepared by his mom and then later, his girlfriends. But I realized last night as I described my dinner, ingredient by ingredient, that he hung on every word.

A couple of days ago a girlfriend came to stay. She arrived with suitcases and bags filled with artifacts of the life she shared with her now ex-boyfriend. I was delighted to have a girlfriend visit me while my boyfriend was away; trying on each other’s clothes and shoes! It took the taxi drive 3 trips from the cab to my hallway to unload. She handed me a bag filled with chocolate and champagne. A little later, after we’d scrunched all of her things into the tiny guest room, I looked into the bag and found, to my delight, something I’d never seen before. Chocolate pasta! Three bags of chocolate penne! She came to my house with a broken heart and some of the ingredients required for mending it.

We drank wine and I cooked. She, like my boyfriend, isn’t a foodie either. But from the coffee and toast to the simple rustic soup (artichoke heart, potato and chick peas) and tortilla chips, she raved over every bite! Then last night, her second night here, I got up my courage to cook the chocolate pasta. There was a proposed recipe on the package, which inspired me to improvise. I don’t eat salmon, one of the suggested ingredients, so I used capers. The sauce included a couple of tablespoons of marscapone, fresh basil from my garden, grated pecorino cheese and capers. The pasta tasted of chocolate, but in such an earthy way, and the creamy cheese pulled it all together. It reminded me of the tiny layer of chocolate in my favorite Oaxacan mole sauce.

So, this morning I realized that even though haven’t been cooking for my boyfriend lately, I was still speaking to him with love as I shared stories of my meals. And even though my visitor doesn’t know how to cook (not even a cup of coffee, she admitted) and doesn’t spend any time thinking about food, she felt bathed in love as I told her my plans for our upcoming meals together. I’ve always known that cooking for others is a way to express my love for them, but I am delighted to find that talking about food has the same effect.

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