June 2021. Tennis had just gotten into my bloodstream, and I had a deep necessity to hold a racket and be at the courts every living second I had in my life. Now, the challenge was that there was nobody to play with. Javier, an exotic feller I had hailed myself to play with me, had gone away to work for MSC Cruises to prepare the MSC World Europa for her maiden voyage. Rodrigo, a hard-headed full-on tennis pro I went to school with, was too fast-paced for the baby steps I was taking at the time, so that companion was discarded as well. Monsieur Marcel Jeanpierre, a charming old gentleman, and father of three tennis pros was my last resource, but his free time and my free time did not coincide (we played a delightful match later on that year). So I was left to my own devices, but behold! One day, walking around the tennis courts (which I must add, were charmingly dilapidated), I found a training wall––those high walls that have a net painted on them and a mock tennis court in front, so over the next number of weeks, I squeezed every golden drop of training that wall had to offer.
One evening, after quite a productive evening of backhand drills, I arrived home to a nice aroma of something baking in the oven. Anabel, my mother's high school friend was in town, she had come from Washington, DC taking advantage of her holiday and dropped by our house to have dinner, so as my mother naturally (and lovingly) does for guests, she baked three pizzas. After dinner (alas, me in a sweaty shirt, probably smelling like death), Anabel told me about her cousin Raquel who popped up a pop-up restaurant that had a theatre play and a tasting menu that went along with the drama. "Catedral, it's called. Would you be interested in attending one?" she asked. Before I could tell her that my budget didn't cover a $60 dinner, she added "...because I'll to gift you a ticket". It seems we're going.
"Are you going on a date?" added my grandmother when she saw me all dressed up and smelling like a gent. I really dressed up. It probably was one of my first dinners to where I'd be all alone, me myself and I, at a nice place and with a crazy concept behind (note, I love dining and wining by myself, so this was golden). I arrived at the dinner and the show began. Plate after plate came bursting out the kitchen door. Fresh pasta, a steak, an eccentric mix of carrots, and one or three Beefeater and tonics. I waited for most people to leave to go and say a sincere thank you to Raquel for such a nice evening, and a piece of admiration for the guts to raise a pop-up from the ground-up. "You're Alejandro, right?" she asked, sat on a high table having a beer "join us for our next event, would ya?" ok, wait. I'm in culinary school, but can't conjure up a single dish, and you're asking me to pitch up my tone to match what I just experienced? "of course!" I replied. "We're having our next show dinner September 22nd and 23rd, come and help us out, and if you have any ideas for dishes, let me know."
I arrived, at the convened date and time to the stage that would host this dinner's edition: Of Love and Vampires. This was also the stage that got me my first glimpse into what being in a kitchen is. This was my Genesis! We got to the tasks at once. Cutting bread, searing filets, smoking cheese, it was a frenzy, but over all, it was impressive. We were giving an I-don't-remeber-how-long of a tasting menu, complete with apparatuses that activated the magic of the play; a bag hung from a stand that dripped "blood" onto the meat course, or a clipboard that, when its page detached from the clip, a whole charcuterie board appeared underneath (pardon my french, but dope-smoker type concepts). Now, cooks give out long menus with innovative attachments all the time, but we were giving this one out of a poorly-lit storage room under a mechanical staircase (the theatre used to be a Bershka) with the sole leverage of one small refrigerator, one microwave, two coolers and three foldable tables, plus a grill down in the basement (basement that by day was used as a loading bay, and had to be accessed through the sketchiest lift). Considering the conditions, we were performing pretty well.
A second evening at Catedral got me a second invitation, this time October 30th and 31st, this time up in the mountains. Sounds cool. La Caída de la Casa de Usher was the play that would pair with the dinner. It was a beautiful place to work at: a spacious kitchen with an amazing view, amazing weather and some pretty darn impressive food. The first evening we were almost sold out, everything went smoothly. The oysters, the mushrooms, the duck, all plated as if we were a Volkswagen assembly line. Now the second evening we were completely sold out, and word was that some pretty heavy hitters were seated outside. Chefs, critics, and a gentleman who used to work as the president of the nation––sounds important. One of the tables with critics had a no-meat guest, and as we had been instructed at school, preferences, intolerances and allergies have to be treated with the highest level of care and safety. Plate after another, 69 menus + 1 no-meat. Full meat course ready to plate. Dishes counted, meat pieces counted: 69 meat fillets + 1 duck breast for no-meat + 5 backup fillets, pot of hot demi-glace, pan of vegan miso sauce for duck. Me, race face, armed with a spoon and the pot of demi-glace. 20, 40, 60 plates, napéed with demi-glace "release the spoon, stop at the duck" blasted in my head. Registering the colour and shape of every fillet, 67, 68, the duck must be near, 69, 70. 69 plates with meat demi-glace + 1 no-meat plate with meat demi-glace. This has to be a joke. Tell me this is a joke.
"No no no no. Can't be true. Can't be true" said Raquel with her hands on her head, looking at the no-meat plate with a beautiful, glimmering, perfectly ombre meat demi-glace. I didn't know if I wanted to live still. One of my first few encounters with the wizarding world of hospitality and I royally screw up. "Gear up, fucker. No time to cry. What now?" I said to myself, with my hands still holding on to the pot of demi-glace. "Raquel, I am so sorry. I really am. I have screwed up big time, I had to be more aware. Please forgive me, I'll pay for this, let me talk to the guest. We have another duck breast, let me sear it right away. Five minutes should be enough to get the plate ready. I'll pay for this duck. I am so sorry". Raquel looked at the clock on the wall, looked at me, nodded like a mother would when she's been disappointed and told me to come with her to the stove. Without saying a single word we watched with Jorge the grillardin as she seared the fillet, warmed up the miso sauce and plated another duck. With the kitchen blanketed in the heaviest of silences, we called in a waiter and asked him to get the duck to the table and apologise to the fine gentleman for the delay. Raquel went out after him to offer our guest an apology as well. When she came back into the kitchen, she stood at the entrance and shattered the silence with a clap. "Shit happens" she said "be more aware, I know it was an accident, but accidents can be costly. I don't know how this will turn out, but it's done". I hugged Raquel and apologized for the twentieth time. "No pasa nada" she told me "I've also screwed up".
A few courses later, and after counting plates and cutlery and a glass of leftover wine, we parted ways to each his house. "I'm sorry" I texted Raquel again when I got home. "Thank you" she responded. It was so, that I went to sleep that evening (or morning) knowing that, although I could've easily screwed up Raquel's whole operation, this was the right path for me, and that I could do this again, day after day. There's fuckups. Some are our fault, some just happen. The important thing is to avoid them, be responsible for them and find solutions with a cool head, not with a hot heart.
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