chef’s whites without thought of anyone else in the room.) He does, in fact, possess almost nothing of his own. He never cooks for himself or friends and always eats out, usually traveling the world two or three times a year to eat, except for Christmas Day, when he cooks with his brother for their parents at home. Though he could buy them a Mercedes, and would, they don’t want one. It would change the context of their lives, he says, and they’re happy with their lives.
In the kitchen, Ferran Adrià is demanding, withering, Napoleonic. His dissatisfaction may manifest itself like an unexpected thunderstorm. But he’s almost preternatural to watch, like Picasso captured on film, changing a strawberry to a rooster to a woman in a few brushstrokes.
Even now he dreams of a day when a restaurant will be less a museum (serving the same, same, same) than an experiment (serving the new), when a computer screen will bring the revolution into all of our homes, Ferran greeting us after work with a fifteen-minute recipe for his chicken curry, a succulent, deconstructed confusion of solid curry and liquid chicken that turns chicken curry on its head.
And yet, it’s odd: For being one of the most self-actualized men I’ve met, he is also one of the most ahistorical. When I ask him to describe the best meal he’s ever eaten, he says he erases hismemories so he doesn’t live for a moment he can never bring back. When I ask about his grandparents, he can recall nothing about them. “I think my grandfather died in the Spanish Civil War,” he said. “Ten times—ten times I’ve been told, and ten times I’ve forgotten. Since I didn’t know him, it’s as if he never existed.” When I suggest that it’s a bit strange not to know the first thing about your grandfather but then to be able to quote a recipe by Escoffier from 1907, he says, “Not at all. My life is kitchen, kitchen, kitchen. History doesn’t interest me, the kitchen does.”
Politics? “I’m in the center. It doesn’t play into my life.”
Religion? “Do I pray when someone’s sick? Yes. Otherwise, no.”
Hobbies? “Hobbies?”
Mentors? “I came as a virgin to the kitchen.”
When I ask if it troubles him when people don’t understand the invention and game of his cuisine, he says, “Some people come here and see God; a few come and see the devil. The truth is relative.”
The truth is relative? “I mean that only the tongue tells the truth. History doesn’t tell it, religion doesn’t. All that concerns me really is what the food tastes like. I am the chef, so I have to ask: Does it amaze me? Is there a before and after? If there is, then good. Let’s eat.”
7. [ON TASTE]
“The difference between a grand chef and a magical chef,” Ferran said as we whizzed down the mountain, “is that a magical chef knows not just what he’s eating, but how to eat.”
“And how does a magical chef eat?” Carlos asked. Ferran’s eyebrows rose at that, and an “Ahh” passed his lips. Then he grinned and said, “You are about to see.”
We had asked Ferran to pick his favorite place for lunch inRoses. He had us park and led us down an alley that spilled into another alley that opened onto a walking street outside a place called Rafa’s. The restaurant, named after its owner, was a simple, traditional, open-air seafood grill with wooden tables. And Rafa himself seemed plainly hungover. While we sat, he disappeared into the back, then reappeared with a red bandanna that he wrapped deliberately around his head, ears jutting out. And once he’d knotted it, he was suddenly transformed. “Okay,” he said in a gruff voice. “Okay.” Samurai Rafa.
“There’s nothing like this place,” said Ferran, pleased. When the waitress read the day’s menu, when she was through reciting twenty or so items, Ferran looked at her and simply said, “Yes,” and then clarified, “Yes, all of it. A little bit of all of it. And whatever else the chef has.”
In the kitchen, Ferran Adrià is demanding, withering, Napoleonic. His dissatisfaction may manifest itself like an unexpected thunderstorm. But he’s almost preternatural to watch, like Picasso captured on film, changing a strawberry to a rooster to a woman in a few brushstrokes.
Even now he dreams of a day when a restaurant will be less a museum (serving the same, same, same) than an experiment (serving the new), when a computer screen will bring the revolution into all of our homes, Ferran greeting us after work with a fifteen-minute recipe for his chicken curry, a succulent, deconstructed confusion of solid curry and liquid chicken that turns chicken curry on its head.
And yet, it’s odd: For being one of the most self-actualized men I’ve met, he is also one of the most ahistorical. When I ask him to describe the best meal he’s ever eaten, he says he erases hismemories so he doesn’t live for a moment he can never bring back. When I ask about his grandparents, he can recall nothing about them. “I think my grandfather died in the Spanish Civil War,” he said. “Ten times—ten times I’ve been told, and ten times I’ve forgotten. Since I didn’t know him, it’s as if he never existed.” When I suggest that it’s a bit strange not to know the first thing about your grandfather but then to be able to quote a recipe by Escoffier from 1907, he says, “Not at all. My life is kitchen, kitchen, kitchen. History doesn’t interest me, the kitchen does.”
Politics? “I’m in the center. It doesn’t play into my life.”
Religion? “Do I pray when someone’s sick? Yes. Otherwise, no.”
Hobbies? “Hobbies?”
Mentors? “I came as a virgin to the kitchen.”
When I ask if it troubles him when people don’t understand the invention and game of his cuisine, he says, “Some people come here and see God; a few come and see the devil. The truth is relative.”
The truth is relative? “I mean that only the tongue tells the truth. History doesn’t tell it, religion doesn’t. All that concerns me really is what the food tastes like. I am the chef, so I have to ask: Does it amaze me? Is there a before and after? If there is, then good. Let’s eat.”
7. [ON TASTE]
“The difference between a grand chef and a magical chef,” Ferran said as we whizzed down the mountain, “is that a magical chef knows not just what he’s eating, but how to eat.”
“And how does a magical chef eat?” Carlos asked. Ferran’s eyebrows rose at that, and an “Ahh” passed his lips. Then he grinned and said, “You are about to see.”
We had asked Ferran to pick his favorite place for lunch inRoses. He had us park and led us down an alley that spilled into another alley that opened onto a walking street outside a place called Rafa’s. The restaurant, named after its owner, was a simple, traditional, open-air seafood grill with wooden tables. And Rafa himself seemed plainly hungover. While we sat, he disappeared into the back, then reappeared with a red bandanna that he wrapped deliberately around his head, ears jutting out. And once he’d knotted it, he was suddenly transformed. “Okay,” he said in a gruff voice. “Okay.” Samurai Rafa.
“There’s nothing like this place,” said Ferran, pleased. When the waitress read the day’s menu, when she was through reciting twenty or so items, Ferran looked at her and simply said, “Yes,” and then clarified, “Yes, all of it. A little bit of all of it. And whatever else the chef has.”