At the request of my mother I am now going to begin posting about more recent events as well as trying to continue the story of the past three years leading up to now.
Its a Monday, my day off from my new job in Ronda, and I am inside, avoiding the inferno that is southern Spain in summer. After spending part of the winter working as a chalet chef in Austria ( I’ll get to that later) I returned to Spain hoping to find work. My chances didn’t look good, as the current unemployment rate here in Andalucía is about 40%. However after a few weeks enjoying being back in the village I headed into Ronda, armed with my usual ignorance, my newly translated CV, and Edu, my personal translator. There was only one place I wanted to work. Hidden down a small side street just off the Plaza del Toros , is Tragabuches, Ronda's only Michelin starred restaurant, well known for its creative cuisine, tiny portions and high prices.
Marching towards Tragabuches , a highly amused Edu, asked me what exactly my plan was. Did I think I could just knock on the door and say
‘ Hey, I’d like a job please. I don’t have any formal qualifications, I’ve never worked in a restaurant of this standard, I can get a bit stroppy if you yell at me and my Spanish is poor to non-existent, but I don’t mind working hard’.
A plan, what novel idea. Thankfully just as we were nearing the door, one of Edus many cousins to waved us down. He works as the Maître at the restaurant next door and after hearing of my intention, told us to wait a while, while he went to talk to the owner who happened to be a friend. He came back out and told us we were to go through the back entrance where the head chef was waiting to meet us.
Walter is an Argentinian of indeterminate age and has been the head chef for a couple of years. He asked me what I was best at, I said desserts, he said good I’m looking for a girl to do desserts, you start tomorrow at 10.30. And that was it. I would like to say that he looked through my CV, asked me to demonstrate a few dishes and was so impressed that he hired me on the spot. It was all a bit strange and the nervy manner of the other three chefs was slightly off-putting. I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth though. After being there for almost a month, I now have my suspicions as to why I was literally able to walk into the job.
For my first day, Ivan a young Spanish chef who works in the meat and fish section ,showed me what I had to prepare. At the moment the amuse buche is a selection of caramelised macadamias, tiny bread sticks with a blue cheese foam and strips of Vietnamese rice paper which are fried very quickly in oil until they puff up like a prawn cracker and finally sprinkled with a wild mushroom powder. Everyone gets this once they are seated. However instead of an a la carte menu, there are tasting menus in three sizes. For desserts, there is Arroz con Leche with Crème of Arroz con Leche and a muscatel ice cream, which is on all three menus. There is also the Mousse de Chocolate with Sopa de Chocolate and Menta, chocolate ice cream and a funny chocolate sponge thing made with something called Malto , a product from Ferran Adria's Texturas range, this you get when you order the two larger menus. Basically the two desserts are rice pudding and chocolate mousse. When given a long name, plated in miniscule portions and with a few flower petals artfully placed around the plate, obviously it’s going to cost you a bit more.
Rice Pudding
While I was busy doing battle with the ice cream machine, I felt the atmosphere in the kitchen go very still. Turning to see what the cause was I saw Walter had entered the room and was standing at his little stand, running his eyes over his kingdom. The boys (did I say there were three, well there were now two) were very quietly scuttling about looking busy. Walter slowly made his way over to where Ivan was preparing a salad for staff lunch. Ivan went rigid and without warning Walter picked up a big metal pot and proceeded to smash the salad with it until all that was left was a trickle of juice running down the counter and a few bits of lettuce scattered on the floor. All the while yelling at Ivan saying very rude things about his mother. Apparently the staff salad wasn’t up to standard.
More on that later.
At home today I have been busy in my own kitchen baking Swedish hard bread. There is something to be said about the therapeutic effect of baking your own bread. Especially so for me, when it’s in my own kitchen, in my dressing gown, bare footed and free to get flour and dough all over the bench, the floor, and in my hair without a pair of hawkish eyes following my every move!
More Shabby Chic ( aka rip, shit and bust) than Avant Garde
