¡Cálmate!

The only time I ever submitted a written recipe for publication was for a magazine called FINESSE. The ad read:

“WRITING CONTEST. We’ll be featuring staff meals in the upcoming issue of Finesse magazine. Highlight your creative side with a recipe for our issue. IN ADDITION TO PUBLICATION, THE WINNER WILL ALSO RECEIVE $250.00. Details: Stories will be read and selected by Chef Thomas Keller.”

As a smart-ass, I’m always keen on highlighting my creative side, or lack thereof, for other people’s issues. I didn't care much about the money or whether the captain of the ship had to approve it; my only thought was that civilians needed to be made aware of this preparation.

The recipe's name is Sopa de Arroz, and, if memory doesn’t fail me, the story goes something like this:

Juan, the poissonnier, who wears a cross necklace under his chef’s whites, was making staff meal. The fish station was notorious as the toughest post. Hardly any cook lasted more than a few weeks, and you can count on one hand those who survived longer than a couple of months without quitting—or worse, being demoted to garde-manger. It was 4:00, and staff meals must, without exception, be served at 4:30. Juan had the pot on the stove with what appeared to be rice, onions, and oil. The rice was getting darker and darker.

Juan had been working as a poissonnier for nearly a year, which, by itself, should be considered an entry for Guinness World Records, and was another reason for me to keep my mouth shut. But everyone has challenging days, especially during busy times, and the motto “If you see something, say something” lives invisibly next to “Sense of Urgency” under every kitchen wall clock.

Staff meal serves about 80 people. If you, dear reader, haven’t spent time in a restaurant kitchen, there’s no worse sin than fucking up staff meals. Not only will everyone miss their meal for the evening, but the entire team will inevitably know why they didn’t get it. You don’t want to be that guy—or girl. It also builds atmospheric pressure, which is measured by the accumulation of fuck-ups, multiplied by the duration over which they occur. The result? A bad night for anyone in close proximity.

“Güey,” (pronounced “way”) I said, nodding to the pot, “the rice.”

“!Cálmate…,” Juan replied, which translates to “Do not worry, dear friend. Please attend to your mise-en-place.” The rice kept browning.

Turns out that for Sopa de Arroz, the rice is toasted, with the onions, until it turns a golden brown—short of disaster. Only then does the garlic, tomato, water, or stock go in. Cook it, covered, until ready; it tastes deliciously nutty when done right.

Staff meal was ready on time, atmospheric pressure remained stable, and Finesse paid me $250 for highlighting my creative side. I shared none of it with Juan.