Celebrity chefs, move along.

"It is our duty to give meaning to the life of future generations by sharing our knowledge and experience; by teaching an appreciation of work well done and a respect for nature, the source of all life; by encouraging the young to venture off the beaten path and avoid complacency by challenging their emotions" - Paul Bocuse

I shouldn't use my own experience to measure, compare or criticize other chefs or professionals in any other field, I only use my memories and experience to somehow also free some of the demons and frustrations I have. 

It's not a secret that the food and beverage industry in the US is a misogynist industry that allows by omission and/or permission sexual harassment, prevents career advancement or avoids female chefs altogether. It is a racist industry that will have non-white dishwashers cleaning the entire restaurant, piles of dishes and prepare food for less than a $9 x hour and will prefer not to teach them basic culinary skills because their employers think, truly think that they cannot learn. It's an industry with food writers connected with the best chefs in the city but avoids amazing chefs from traditional Mexican restaurants, or from Pakistan, or India, or Ethiopia. At least in Milwaukee we have great food from other countries with great chefs that have zero voice in local newspapers, blogs or trendy online magazines. We have a Top 10 best tacos in Milwaukee that went viral and not a single one was a business owned by a Mexican, and instead by white male who exploit Mexicans with a miserable salary. Trust me, they're not the best tacos, and I'm not saying that because I'm a bitter Mexican, you start your taco from the corn in your tortilla, you have to know your corn, your mother ingredient and the essence of Mexican cuisine. Just like sushi, another minimalist dish, respect your grain. 

Just like in any other industry or creative field you'll have people who "steals" ideas from other people without giving that person any credit. A self-proclaimed artist who probably spent few hours staring at a clown, asked the clown to make a balloon dog for him, scanned that balloon dog and sent the blueprints to China, then forced a legion of underpaid workers to fabricate that big-ass balloon dog and to polish it for days and days while the "artist" didn't move a single finger, then that guy sold the stupid sculpture for millions because guess what? his personal network facilitated the transaction while minimizing his lack of creativity and integrity. Same thing happens everyday in my industry. At the top of the food chain we have the NRA (National restaurant Ass) and other cartels that set the standards for the industry, along with them monsanto, cargill, US Foods, Sysco, Dole, Ecolab etc. They decide wages, trends, laws and even tell local authorities how to operate (looking at you Health Department) They lobby congress and sell everyone the idea that today's standards are necessary and unavoidable. In order to justify their corrupt practices and monopolies they need good PR, they need to distract the public with shows, celebrities and trends. 

Restaurant owners especially in competitive markets in larger cities have the wrong idea that they most balance their budgets before offering their workers a living wage, it's an abusive practice that is keeping the culinary and service industry at 1912 levels. How much is too much? If chef/owners are really not making that much money and that's why they can't pay more to their workers, then something is wrong with the system, and we have to fix it, just like we ask chefs to fix everything ASAP without excuses. 

Let's begin with our food sources. Where does your food come from? How far and how sustainable? Was it out of growing season? Did your produce was collected by migrant children? Did the children use protection in order to work surrounded by toxic pesticides? Is that tomato from a conflict zone like Sinaloa Mexico? 

Just a reminder, in the 90s NAFTA destroyed Mexican family-owned farms, causing one of the biggest diasporas humanity has ever seen and parallely quiet/shamed. Forcing farmers to sell their lands to huge companies like Dole to then migrate to the US and work without any safety or stability for Dole. A cruel ironic game. 

Fishing villages in Russia, Peru, Japan, Mexico and even in the US are disappearing, along with their traditions and knowledge, and we also have more fish joining a scary big list of endangered species. 

Your chicken doesn't come from a red-barn-farm, let's be honest about it, it's a tortured chicken from the second it opens its eyes, and it's killed and processed by thousands of immigrants with incredibly painful injuries caused by repetitive motions, when the factory farm decides not to cover the medical expenses they call ICE and starts the vicious cycle all over again.

The price of the food recently harvested/collected/processed is set by speculators, "The Market". They predict or forecast droughts, wars, social crises, strikes, snow, hurricanes, you name it, and they have a bank with reserves and tells farmers how much they must keep, sell. How much they need to grow. At this point you already have big companies micromanaging farmers, in order to keep their farms (owned by generations) they must sign a lease/contract with a middleman.

At this point it gets inevitably corporate, it becomes part of your food cost at any restaurant. 

Then you need to pick your favorite purveyor, the romantic idea of chefs going to the market and hand-picking tomatoes and fish is a lie and you shouldn't believe what Food Network is telling you, you should change the channel right now, try PBS. You must have a purveyor if you want to survive as restaurant and be competitive, they'll open you a healthy credit line that you'll never be able to pay as a person, but remember "Corporations are people, my friends" so you don't have to worry about your personal credit, if you do things "the right way" of course. These other middlemen will send you a sales representative that will find you on linkedin, and he'll persuade you on what to get and when, be careful. Just think about this, how many guacamoles, chicken wings and pineapple salsas will the US consume during the next Super Bowl? again, are avocados in season? it's all frozen and that's something the market forecasted long time ago and set the price and predicted the profitability of your menu months in advance. You didn't decide the menu or its food cost. Fresh avocados are difficult to find, but they also traveled a long distance. I'm not saying you shouldn't get them, I'm talking industrial levels, like tons. 

Finally, we get to the heart of the Food and Beverage industry, its workers. An average line cook earns approximately $9 x hour, and with seniority and years of knowledge around $13, definitely not a living wage, not a wage a century ago workers fought so we could enjoy 8 hours of sleep and 8 for what we will, it's enough to give you access to a $2000 line credit card, a comfortable apartment, Netflix and $10 x night to go out and drink PBRs, That's if nobody else depends on your income, and that's why we have workers on their feet for 16 hours a day, working double shifts, avoiding meals, going to work sick, and being eternally tired, upset, stressed-out and poor.  You have a glass ceiling being imposed by an unfair market and it will try keep you down no matter what you do and how much you fight in order to break it. We have created a work culture that forces managers to learn Spanish for obvious reasons rather than training their immigrant workers and give them an income and time so they can learn English themselves. 

I've seen comments like "They should go to school if they want to earn $15" ETC, Sorry, but knowledge is knowledge and you have to pay for it, a cook is a skilled worker and that skill is learned, so I would love if people could stop calling immigrant workers in kitchens "unskilled" I would love to see some people on their feet all day, at 125F environments, cutting with a 10" knife without looking, knowing how to perfectly sear a protein while your sauce is reducing and knowing when and how to fire food so the entire line pulls finished product at the same time. While listening to loud music, your chef expediting tickets and stressed-out servers who want their food NOW, NOW, NOW.

Chefs, from farm to table, you need to acknowledge your sources and the people behind your creations, specially your team, SPECIALLY YOUR TEAM. And I mean EVERYONE in your team: Servers, bartenders, managers, dishwashers, line-cooks, prep-cooks (if you have the luxury) and with your Back Of The House team, teach, teach, teach. Not because you're freaking Paul Bocuse or the best chef in the world, but because you're the goddamn chef of that restaurant and you can share your knowledge, don't be condescending, give credit to your people, they're already making you look good when the food comes out right. Explain the food to the Front of the House, share your passion, pretend that they're listening and maybe one day they will, the smart one at least will write things down and will be selling specials like crazy while the rest will wonder why they just can't do it. Be patient, you learned how to use the knife, remember every time you looked stupid when you cut your finger because you didn't listen to the chef or your mom. If a cook burns a beurre blanc or it separates, take a break outside and explain to the cook why, there's a science behind it, but allow your team to make mistakes and oversee from far away, you already know what's going on and you know cooks can't lie to you, you can smell when something is wrong, you know when they try to hide it, but you also know when that person is trying to make it better the second time, and that's when you need to jump in and explain why it works that way. Lead by example, you also made horrible Hollandaise sauces the first time, your aspic looked like shit when you thought Julia Child was wrong, and you also overcooked steaks many times before you nailed it. 

Chefs, we have all read articles like "There's a cooks shortage" and yes, we can't find professional chefs fresh out of college with a $60K debt willing to start at $9 x hour (Remember the people who say cooks shouldn't earn $15 because of college, even with college you start at $9, sorry, no cutting in line, you start at pantry) I will say, if a person needs a job and that person is passionate about food, and passes your job interview, keep that person, that person, just like any other person has the same capacity to learn new skills, you're the teacher, that's why you're a chef. Teach that worker, if that person really wants to grow in the industry, that person will. Been there, done that. If it wasn't for the restaurant owner and my biggest mentor, I wouldn't be able to become a chef, I owe her pretty much my whole career, but it's because she had the vision, she invested in me and gave me the tools. I have also trained many workers with zero or close to none culinary experience and now they're fine cooks, some have bigger strengths in some areas than me already (bastards, they learn fast) so, don't tell me it is not possible, that's a lazy and stupid excuse.

The soul of your kitchen is your stock (veggie to chicken) you simmer it down, never boil it. You roast the buns first, you season it, filter it, cool it down, portion it out and freeze 75% of it because you always make a lot. It takes a while to make the perfect stock, so don't rush the magic of learning new skills and talent, your cooks need time, learning from own mistakes, some burns and cuts. Trust them as much as you trust humanity.

Celebrity Chefs. I'm not talking about Jacques Pépin. I'm talking about Food Network and company with their fake pretty faces and a legion of ghost writers, they're nothing more than trendsetters and the ambassadors of an unfair industry, an oligarchy and the cancer of the service industry. 

Do whatever you want, but I don't respect Top Chef wannabes. They think they know how, but they can't do it either. This whole post began hours later when I saw a Facebook post featuring a chef I trained for a month years ago, he was useless because he was arrogant, I've seen many of them before, and you can't and shouldn't force someone to learn something. Not even a year after it, he got an executive chef job, years before me, and he stole my personal journal with recipes, techniques and dramas. And even with that he can execute nearly as close as his own cooks he never gives credit. Also, in this industry the guys delivering your food will share with you the gossips of the entire city, so it's a smart decision to be friends of them. Anyway, this guy is a chef, that's great, but from all the people I trained, he's the worst cook, but it's a clear example of how some people don't have a glass ceiling, and that privilege can be misleading, sooner or later your sauce will break and you won't have anyone there to fix it for you.

This person spent his first paychecks as chef on the most expensive Japanese knives he bragged on Instagram before he cut his fingers several times while sharpening them, true story. A thousand dollars on cliché tattoos and expensive aprons (could you believe you can pay $150 on an apron?) Let me tell you something, if you're serious about this profession invest in a good workhorse French knife, expect to pay more than $100, keep it sharp with a stone, and steel. Get a nice bread knife. You'll need a garnish set, don't go crazy, a peeler is what you actually need, read books, knowledge is your primary tool, not only cookbooks but also memoirs and novels, get some books about farming, gardening, politics. Get a nice pair of shoes, don't be stubborn, get them, they are expensive but your back is going to  kill you and you won't get any younger, get those shoes. 

On the other hand, we do have a trend getting stronger. Everyday we have chefs who understand the politics from farm to table; the consequences and how to deal with today's issues. They understand the importance of locally sourced food, the importance of family-owned farming and how to wow people with fantastic no-bull-shit techiqunes, they've earned the badges with perseverance, they read, they listened; now we learn. We have chefs who collaborate with other chefs rather than compete against each other, they feature special menus with incredible imagination, and they explain to you why. Milwaukee is fortunate to have amazing creators, and not only chefs. We have tons of artist and geniuses.

I'm not going to fix the food world right now because I don't know how without replacing capitalism altogether, maybe I'm wrong but I rather be a maladjusted chef than a corrupt one. Knowledge should be public domain, cooking should be public domain. Just be careful with cultural appropriation too, there's a fine line.

There's nothing more beautiful than acknowledging that you're still ignorant.  

The Pig and I

It was New Year's Eve in 1992, my family was invited to some people's farm in Veracruz (beach front, fabulous) I was naive as a potato, and since I was very little I gave my mom such a hard time with food, I definitely didn't like the idea of eating animals, but my family was weird anyway, who knew I was going to be a chef 25 years later. So, these people brought a huge and gorgeous pig to this awesome beach front farm, my immediate reaction was fascination, I pet it non-stop, that animal was extremely friendly and I think we had some chemistry. No adult advised me of its sentence, I'm sure they were all drunk, happy enough that the kids were not around but rather playing with the pig or anything moving but close to them. 

The next morning I woke up at the screaming of the pig, I witnessed with horror the destruction of sensitive life without the minimum respect or consideration, its death was inhumane, perhaps necessary and sustainable, but inhumane. That day Czechoslovakia dissolved and I promised myself to avoid eating animals as much as possible, since I didn't control my diet or had enough information, I was just a confused and traumatized kid. But, how do you control your diet at that age?

So I had the brilliant idea of starting to wear a fanny pack, neon of course, because my mom bought it for us and it's the 90's in my fanny pack you could find: calculator (indispensable), notebook, pencil, eraser, sharpener, stickers, a silver ounce coin, a photocopy of Ricardo Flores Magon speech, stamps of classic paints and art, dinosaurs and famous astronauts and candies, always candies. You can tell why I was not everyone's favorite classmate, but I never got my ass kicked, I was always the strong nerd nobody dared to confront but rather fear and avoid.  I was not a monster, I wanted friends but also didn't know how to fit in, still don't. Stupid fanny pack. 

So, I kept all of my stuff organized in the pockets, except for the big pocket, that one I originally designated for hiding food. Good and bad, snacks banned by my mother (American candies) but I also had a ziploc bag, and at every meal I would start with the starch and carefully observed my parents moves. I calculated our daily routines. My dad would eat fast and leave the table, my brother was a slow eater but he was always busy talking, and my mom would constantly go into the kitchen for you more salsa, avocados, salt, water etc

I love my mom's cooking (now) so don't take me wrong, but seriously, liver and onions is not a kids friendly dish. Dishes that are common in Mexico sound scary in the US, because you already know that "Mexican" food is not really Mexican right?

Here's a comprehensive list of my childhood horrors:

-Braised octopus

-Pozole (with pig's head)

-Quesadillas de sesos (Sheep brains with manchego cheese)

-Barbacoa (Sheep bbq)

-All sorts of cow organs stews for tacos

-Raw fish, cooked only with lime juice, hot sauce and salt.

But my worst enemy was the Mexican version of Chinese food, technically Mexican food with soy sauce and still lime juice. Unnamed parts in each stew. 

I mastered the art of hiding food in my fanny pack for years, until my brother caught me or waited for the right moment to blackmail me, and he did. I gave him (a forced bribe) a toy, 

Monterey Jack from Chip'n Dale Rescu Rangers. Apparently it was not enough to cover his mouth.

He told my parents what I've been doing and of course they were horrified, I explained to them

the story of the pig and etc, you can probably imagine in how much trouble I got.

Flavor was good, I never denied that (except for liver with onions) It was only my trauma.

In 1993, in another New Year's Eve adventure but now we were heading to Yucatán to visit our family, my mom got lost in the jungle and we noticed that people were marching in the middle of the rain, morning and night like a pilgrimage or that's what we thought, after hours of driving in circles my mom decided to go to Agua Azul waterfalls, a scenic destination and tried to find a map, what we didn't know was that those people were about to declare war against Mexican government and declare autonomy, but we were middle class and we only cared about getting safe to our destination. 

When we came back from vacation, we saw on the news that the Mexican army bombed Chiapas and flooded the Mayan state with soldiers and tanks, killing and disappearing people, an unknown amount but one is too much. I watched the news, which are state propaganda in Mexico and they demonized the Zapatistas, they immediately named them a terrorist organization, and at that age you have no idea of what is going on, but I remember the people marching when we got lost in Chiapas and they were just normal people, pissed off but people nonetheless, kids included. I was fighting my fanny pack revolution in my wealthy (sort of, it was just debt) while people with real problems were being murdered by the army we were raised to respect and honor. Those two worlds collided. It wasn't long before the entire economy collapsed after a presidential candidate was assassinated and the military conflict intensified. My family lost everything. Our house, cars and valuables. One day on April my dad picked us up from school and when we drove by our house all of our belongings were outside, my mom was standing on the sidewalk holding a pot with a mole she was preparing for my dad's birthday, she was petrified and crying. That night we were homeless, but thankful for having a roof over and warm food. We moved in with my grandmother, my closet and my world was inside a box of Pampers, our furniture got sold or stored. My parent's debt was growing and we had $0 from one day to the next the Mexican peso devalued and thousands of people lost everything, it only takes one day. Banks knew it, they were waiting like hawks.

My vegetarian revolution died (I was vegetarian again but never an activist from 2006 to 2010) and I was more curious about the Zapatistas.

My brother and I were still enrolled in a private Catholic school, being smart at school helps with the bills. But now I was the scary nerd with the neon fanny pack and homeless. So, you can tell how my personality developed after that.

Zapatistas were fighting for land and freedom, and respect for their traditions and Mayan roots. NAFTA was the main target.

After Govt. changed the Constitution in order to adopt NAFTA, rich global companies forced-purchased family owned farms, we witnessed one of the biggest diasporas the world has ever seen, millions moved to the US with whatever they had, families split and society got bitter. The gentrification of colonial towns, and our gastronomy began too.

It's easier to fight a revolution for yourself, while enjoying socioeconomic privileges than when you lose everything and have to fight every day for survival, and it's immensely more honorable when people unite and fight together for a common goal and others show solidarity and move out of the way. 

I'm not indigenous but I'm Mexican, I don't even know exactly what I am when it comes to family tree and etc. I know there's basque and Italian, but no specifics. Both of my parents are proud Mexicans and so am I, but since colonial times there's a crystal clear caste system  that keeps indigenous people, the original owners of Mexico in the bottom of society. It was better for me to show solidarity and appreciation but never to the point of appropriation, it was not my fight, but solidarity is key.

It is clear to me now that if anyone wants to talk about what people should eat they should at least acknowledge that many don't have the access to not only fresh food, but food and by many I mean millions. Industrial farming is an abomination, but if we want to really change things, the means of production should not be private property. Let's start with food. "La tierra es de quien la trabaja " 

Vegan activists can't exclude poverty and history of racial exclusion in their narrative. 

I think we need to end factory farms and animal torture, but I don't have the heart to change entire cuisines, traditions or force people to adopt a diet they cannot afford.

Good food comes from the heart, and so it should be the way we treat animals. Good food should come from healthy societies, not from oppression. 

Cinco de Mayo

Drinko de Mayo is approaching, one of my biggest nightmares. Every year I complain about cultural appropriation, the distortion of Mexican history and white people being incredibly insensitive. 

Since I try to keep this blog merely culinary related, I'll avoid controversial subjects, but to talk about any cuisine we need to understand historical aspects, geography, politics, climate, immigration, traditions and religion. Cuisine is a complex and ever-evolving phenomenon. Some techniques like braising and deglazing are as universal as breathing and laughing, yet the ingredients make the difference, that's where you have to talk about politics. 

So, Cinco de Mayo is May 5th translated to Spanish, so you can't have a seis de cinco, or whatever some people are trying to do, that's just stupid and you should avoid it. Second, Cinco de Mayo is broadly mistaken to be Mexico's Independence Day, which is actually celebrated on September 16, but let's move on, May 5th is The Day of the Battle of Puebla, the inconceivable defeat of Mexico over French army back in 1862, only 41 years after Mexico won the war of Independence against Spain, and just 14 years after pro-slavery US stole half of Mexico's territory in defense of some racist libertarian ranchers in Texas. 

I could tell you the story about the French invasion and all of that, and I would love to, but I have a crying baby in the background and I'm not your History teacher, it's also cloudy and that doesn't help either. 

So, now you know that Mexico's independence from Spain is celebrated in September, that's a huge advance, you still need to return those tiny sombreros to wherever you got them from, and if you own a huge sombrero but have no idea what is it for or the why of the sombrero, you have a special place in hell, sorry, I don't make inferno's rules. You can also help civilization by not using fake mustaches, I'm a real Mexican and I've never had a mustache. Have fun, go out, get some margaritas or coronas, eat tamales and red rice, sing Mexican songs, do all of that without insulting Mexicans. You probably don't behave like that, but we all know some people who do. 

First, trying to describe French food is complicated, each region in France is different from each other and the same thing happens in Mexico, each region possess incredibly rich and unique dishes, but in order to understand Mexican most influential cuisine we need to think Mexico City-Oaxaca-Puebla + Paris and Veracruz + Marseille. French cuisine as a whole is also a compilation of Arabic flavors, techniques and spices too, at least the most common food, not necessarily the 5 stars Parisian restaurants, but even them. I know this is getting complicated, but trust me, the links between Mexican and French food are very strong and not broken. 

Four dishes from Mexican-French war era: crêpes with huitlacoche (corn smut), quail with mango sauce, bouillabaisse-style stew a la Veracruz and fresas con crema, or strawberries with Crème fraîche. 

You know how important tortillas are to Mexicans, and of course corn as the base of our diet, huitlacoche is a corn fungus and it's pronounced weetlakochee, my mouth is watering right now just to think about it, its flavour is difficult to describe, I can think of walnut and apricot together, with a hint of black truffle. Now, go make your crêpes. Ok, if you're lucky enough you'll buy some huitlacoche, which I doubt because you can't introduce corn smut into the US other than pre-cooked canned huitlacoche, but let's pretend that you figure something out, you're going to need shallots, garlic, fresh thyme, dry guajillo pepper, olive oil, salt and pepper. Crème fraîche and shredded iceberg lettuce. Caramelized your shallots, start in cold pan and seriously wait until your shallots are caramelized, add your diced garlic, you figure out the amounts, I trust you. Wait like a minute or two then add your huitlacoche, you probably need some salt and pepper at this point if you didn't do it before, remember that salt enhances flavors and pepper adds and disguises. When everything is cooked, add some chili flakes, of course from the guajillo and fresh thyme. Toss everything in a bowl, add more EVOO, this time the oil is adding flavour. You can even add some parmesan cheese if you have a fancy restaurant in Soho, otherwise avoid it, but my point is that you can play with it, just make sure to leave some of the Huitlacoche flavours intact, you need to respect the main ingredient. So, you have your stuffing ready and warn, I don't know what's the origin of serving three tacos or crêpes on each plate, but just do it, two is not enough and four is disrespectful if you have other hungry guests. Top your huitlacoche crêpes with Crème fraîche and shredded lettuce. Enjoy.

You can also use corn tortillas instead of crêpes and Oaxaca cheese along with your stuffing, then top your quesadillas with salsa verde, queso cotija and sour cream. But, right now you are in Mexico 1862, because you really want to celebrate Cinco de Mayo and you can't find Mole Poblano for some strange reason. 

Now, I said strawberries with crème fraîche, fresas con crema is a dessert as Mexican as Apple pie is American, they're neither, they're French, but we like them and they're popular. Now Fresas con crema are broadly served with sour cream and granulated sugar on top, fork-mashed taste better too. Mexicans think it's a Mexican dish and you don't argue with a hungry Mexican, and I don't have the heart to demystify my own family, that's a dangerous territory.

Quail entrees in Mexico are coming back, especially in fine-dining restaurants and that's a great thing because quail is delicious and for centuries Mexicans have cooked game, or what we now call game, French and Mexican birds back in the 1800s were completely different, but cooked with identical techniques but different ingredients. If you've read Laura Esquivel's Como Agua para Chocolate (Like Water for Chocolate) if not, I totally recommend that novel, one of the recipes is precisely quail with rose water and rose petals, that's very arabic and Mexican, it's both French and Mexican. This time we're going to go a little bit more tropical, you're going to need the following ingredients: semi-boneless quail, ripe mangoes, chile serrano, white onion, garlic, cilantro, white wine, flour, butter, olive oil, saffron, salt + pepper. You can stuff your quail too, that's optional. White rice with pistachios is a great combination for stuffing, but you can make your own. If you have a cast iron pan, much better. So, dust your birds with flour, add salt and pepper of course, wait until your oil is screaming hot, you don't want your quail to swim in oil, just be gentle, put your birds right in the center of the pan, I would be gentle and use my hands, don't be scared of hot oil, if you are I can guarantee that the oil is going to jump and burn your hand, so be firm, you own that oil. Wait until quails are golden brown and crispy, then cook the other side and finish them in the oven, 350 F is a safe temperature, your food is crispy now, you need to cook the interior of the quail now. In the meantime, blend your mangoes, add one chile serrano, no salt and pepper. Remove quails from pan and put the pan back in the fire, add butter, finely diced onion and garlic, once the butter is melted add equal amount of flour, you're making a roux, then add a little chicken stock (oh yeah, you need chicken stock too) whisk very well, add saffron, reduce, now you're making a classic velouté, add white wine and reduce, season. Add some of that mango blend now, strain the mango first, you don't want the fiber in your sauce. Reduce. Your sauce is going to be kind of thick right now, but not super thick, because of course you didn't make roux to sink a battle ship, at this point you're going to pull some of the chopped butter from the fridge, the one butter I didn't tell you about but you need, you are going to incorporate your chilled butter into the sauce now, one chunk at the time using your whisk, wait until butter blends with the sauce before adding more butter. Serve with chopped cilantro on top, white rice goes well together.

Finally, bouillabaisse-style dish. If you have a debate between a proud Mexican from Veracruz and a chauvinistic French from Marseille on whose fish stew is better, you'll have the French army invading Mexico all over again as result, and Mexicans will likely kicked their butts again too. Just know that Mexicans have cooked fish stews for centuries, each town and family has a different recipe, you can use crab and grouper in Veracruz, or shrimp, lobster and marlin in Sinaloa. Mexico is lucky to be located between the Pacific ocean, Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean, so if you want to talk about Mexican cuisine, seafood is 1/2 of it, poverty, NAFTA and tourism have changed the rules of the game, while working-class people in Sinaloa and Veracruz can still access to fresh seafood, people in other places have to pay higher prices now, and the best seafood goes directly to US and European markets, as a Mexican chef in the US with family in Sinaloa and Yucatan this breaks my heart, and when I cook seafood from the gulf of Mexico or the Pacific, I know how illogical this is, NAFTA changed Mexican's diet for generations to come, it's a bittersweet feeling because I love cooking, I love cooking fish stews and entrees because it's part of me, my heritage, but I also know how the market works, and it's not easy to deal with this, I'm also a worker so I need the income.

Anyway, if you like Mexican food, I invite you to be curious about our entire heritage and culture, our politics and history. Can we also start considering Mexican accent something sexy just like French? Because mine is not going anywhere.

Birria.

You probably have realized by now that I hate writing recipes, and when I do I write 5 pages and at least 90% of the content is explaining the why of the technique. I also have to recognize that nowadays all you have to do in order to find a recipe is Google, just type the word "Papaya" and you'll get a thousand options from celebrity chefs (or their ghost writers actually) and I have no intentions to even try to compare myself to any of those people, or even amazing local chefs.

I'll share some recipes here and there, but I guess I have to feel comfortable with that person, of course I like sharing, specially knowledge, but I also think cooking is a very personal thing, when you're creating something the last thing you need is an internet smartass judging you or telling you "That sounds good, but I would do it ..." and in the world of the foodies it's just as common as breathing. I could compare cooks with painters, and foodies with an opinion with art collectors, because it's easier to know everything about art, but they'll never get the most intimate part of the painting.

Basically, I like talking about food, restaurants and traumatic experiences, anything but writing specific recipes, but I will, eventually.

The problem I have with celebrity chefs it's how elitist they can be, they take dishes from all over the world, they appropriate someone's culture and then twist it and say "I did it, I'm awesome" not all celebrity chefs, because I respect many who actually spend time in different countries listening, learning and then sharing it just as is. But there's nothing more heartbreaking than (white) chef going to let's say, Peru, and tell Peruvians "Your food is amazing, mmmm, but.... " OK, at that point you need to go back to Brooklyn mi amigo, and take a seat.

In Latin America at least (and I know it's the same in Africa and Pacific Asia) food is a religious act, it comes from the soul, we are lucky enough to have amazing ingredients from fish to fruits and exotic spices, which are not exotic at all when you live there, there's nothing glamorous about food, but a lot of pride, and of course we like sharing our recipes and food with the world, but it really is an intimate act, you don't want a Food Network person who barely understands Latin America's history telling you "That looks good, but why do you cook veal with vanilla, gross, make a mango salsa ay, ay, ay, ay, ay "

We need to understand that the relationship between Europe/US and Latin America is an abusive one, we take your best ingredients (Thanks NAFTA), we take your ideas, we copyright them and then make you cook for us, but we take credit for it, and by we I mean them, white celebrity chefs.

One specific case I would like to analyze with you is birria. Mexicans have been eating birria and barbacoa for centuries, and before we cooked goats and sheep, we cooked jungle pigs and other creatures in an underground oven. Most barbacoas are cooked in modern ovens today, especially in the U.S. because local authorities think that cooking meat in dirt is somehow a barbaric practice (again, "I'll tell you how to do it better" attitude) but ok, it's still delicious, not like the classic Jalisco style, more like French, and trust me, there's a huge difference.

Anyway, we've been eating and cooking barbacoa and chivos for a long time the same way, and I don't have an exact number of Mexican immigrants in the U.S. right now, I mean I could Google it, but it's a fact I usually don't carry in my wallet just to impress, but we are a lot of Mexicans, since the era of the Braceros to today (and even before when half of the US was Mexico), you'll see food trucks or Mexican restaurants with "Birria, Barbacoa" you can eat probably 5 tacos and a soda for $10, and it's usually a once or twice a week lunch. Well, here comes the celebrity chef that one day had the great idea to "explore" the ghetto and eats in that "exotic" restaurant, picks something that looks "exotic" and it's not a chimichanga, because I still don't know who in hell invented the chimichanga, or the word, it's the most stupid word I've ever heard, But anyway, so this white dude goes to this place, picks something exotic and says "oh my God, this shit is so good" then he tells other white dudes, and these people work for a famous food magazine, they interview the cooks, not for publishing purposes, but just to get the recipe, so the cooks share the recipe.

Now you have an explosion of barbacoa restaurants in Southern California, New York and Chicago and I'm not making this up, but the new restaurants are now operated by rich white people, the cooks with humble restaurants now work for them, but the celebrity chef "owns" the recipe, they get more attention and now it's a thing, eating Barbacoa is the Ray Bans of food.

I wish there was a better way to describe this phenomenon, but it's Christopher Columbus "discovering" America all over again (what? brown people have souls?) and I'm glad that middle-class America is expanding their culinary frontiers, just remember, you didn't discover it, you didn't invent it, you can't reinvent it, you can eat it, you can ask for the recipe, you can cook it at home, etc. but you need to ask in a nice way, you know? stupid consent applies here too.

It's not black or white fortunately, food is universal and brings people of different cultures together.

Leaving Home

Eight years ago I left Mazatlan and I haven't been back ever since.

Two nights before, my friends Ricardo and Rodolfo brought a bottle of whiskey, a tupperware with fresh ceviche and saltines. We sat in the beach and we barely talked, it was half-quarter moon so at least there was something other than the lighthouse to stare at, I can still remember clearly the sound of waves and their spume slowly disintegrating when they pull back. We probably said stupid things and laughed, but we didn't talked about my trip or work. Few hours later, we went to a dance club in the mall, they had live musical, a Salsa and cumbia band from Colombia, just two blocks away from the beach, I walked back home for just an hour of sleep and an obligated shower. Restaurants in Mexico usually tip a small percentage to the kitchen, plus your daily wage, it's not much, but at least you have some cash in your pocket. Every night after work, I would go to my mom's room for the goodnight kiss and leave the money I made in her nightstand, hoping we could save us from an inevitable bankruptcy, losing the home she bought with her retirement money and the restaurant we opened with all of our savings.

I had two jobs, I worked for my mom's restaurant in the morning and by noon I walked one block up, right next to the beach and worked for 12 more hours. In between, I delivered food in my gray Chrysler, went to the market to pick up stuff for both restaurants, go home to walk the dogs and play with them.

Mom's business, that's a whole different story, I will now just say that our sopes and enchiladas de mole were amazing, and our best costumer was former Dodgers star Fernando Valenzuela and a taxi driver that would always order the same thing every day, huevos con chorizo, it was not even in the menu, but we had eggs and chorizo, so we couldn't say no to a costumer.

The other job was a fine-dining restaurant, right in front of the beach. I was a prep cook: handmade tortillas, made the fisherman's soup (I still make and I will share the recipe as well) clean seafood, portion meat, clean meat, marinate stuff, more tortillas (always more tortillas), I was also the busser in busy nights and grilled steaks when our chef didn't show up. Some nights, I stayed in the lobby of the restaurant, like some sort of night-cop or whatever, because that place didn't have windows or many walls, the owners needed someone to stay overnight, that was extra money. With tips and extra money, I was making US$150 a month, and of course I was not making one cent at my mom's restaurant.

My last day in Mazatlan, I didn't have to work at the other restaurant anymore, so I made a special lunch for my mom, brother and girlfriend. I wanted to thank everything they did to help me with my trip, and I said "you don't have to worry, I'm just leaving for three months" -  and that's what I thought, that was my original plan.

Since before we left Mexico City, and to be more specific, since my dad left us, we were chased by some sort of terrifying I don't know what to call it, but I think of a snowball growing and growing and you either turn around and try to stop it or you keep running away from it. It was hell. At that age (15-18) I decided to become a chef, but I knew college was not an option at that moment, I mean, I abandoned my political science path and I didn't know where and how to start a new course.

Many circumstances forced me to just work as hard as possible, sacrificing things I used to enjoy doing, like reading for hours, writing random thoughts (thank God for Twitter and modern tools), I like my quiet times were I can just process ideas and stare at life, I sacrifice that because I knew my mother did the same for us and I feel forever grateful, at some point it was so overwhelming I felt depressed like you can't imagine. Then my brother had a car accident and the bank told my mom that the house she was buying with her savings and retirement, was not going to be built and that they were going to keep 40% of the down payment. The bank said she was not eligible for a credit line, and other stuff we still don't understand. I had some friends in Milwaukee, they offered their help, trying to find a job so I could send money to my mom while staying at their home for few months. So, without knowing much English and not much about Milwaukee other than the classic cliches (Brewers, sausages, cows), and I'm honestly not a person that takes risks that often (but when I do, I surprise myself) my family was my priority, and I couldn't see my brother and mother hurt anymore, so I accepted the offer and immediately talked to my girlfriend about it, she was my best friend and we were dating for more than 5 years, she helped us so much in the Mexico City- Mazatlan transition, She disagreed with the idea, but knew how desperate I was.

It was time to go. My girlfriend, mom and brother drove me down to bus station, I had with me few clothes, some pictures and fifty dollars in cash. I said goodbye to my brother, it was fast but he hugged me for the first time since we were kids. Then my mom, she cried a little, she usually doesn't, she's the rock of the family and I'm not saying crying is a bad thing, but it's something she doesn't enjoy doing in public, and I respect that, and told me "you need to bring your jacket!" that jacket was a horrible All Star jacket with a gigantic Dallas Cowboys Star. So I got on the bus and didn't feel much at that moment, then I saw Lizbeth getting on the bus too with that stupid Dallas Cowboys jacket, she was like "Please, take it" we said goodbye and we both cried "You don't have to go" she said.

When the bus started moving (I was going down to Guadalajara to see my dad and grandmother, they drove from Mexico City just to say goodbye, first time I saw them in two years) I was feeling sick, seriously sick, I was so confused and terrified I can't even describe it, I've never felt that scared in my entire life, full of regret too. I was also mad because we were still mad at my dad, I still am. I accepted seeing him in Guadalajara because I believe in the power of forgiveness without shaming, and I know it's a process that I'm still trying to discover, I'm hopeful but I don't want to force anything, I think one day I will find the correct words and share them with him, without making him feel bad.

Hours before my flight, my grandma and dad joined me for lunch, that was the last time I saw my grandmother (hopefully I'll see her next August, but she doesn't remember much) so it was happening, I was leaving my family and my country, and even when I thought it was going to be for just three months, it was something new to me.

I arrived to Houston and my first reaction was "I cannot believe they named the airport after one of the worst presidents Americans have ever had" then I discretely abandoned my Dallas jacket in the men's room, I regretted that instant once I discovered Milwaukee's tundra (not really, it was 32 degrees, but Mazatlan was around 80) I couldn't believe how not knowing much English was starting to become an obstacle, I was starting to feel dumb, useless and frustrated. That day in Houston, I discovered discrimination in a form I was not familiar with, from the way some people looked at me, to the comments I did understand. I was familiar with discrimination in Mexico, it was usually people like me of European descendent and Mestizos humiliating indigenous and immigrants from Central America, our very black population from Guerrero, sons of slavery and the people that gave us a homeland with their successful uprising against the Spanish crown commanded by Vicente Guerrero. Mexico is also full of contradictions too, and although I didn't feel like I was a racist in my own country, I know my actions were, I was part of a caste system not many see or prefer not to, it's that comfort zone and privilege that keep us unequal, I was 18 and I considered myself a progressive man, that year I was campaigning for the left coalition candidate for president in a Macho-Conservative State, and somehow the campaign worked amazing, we found common ground, poverty, the one I was experiencing too. People from different backgrounds compromised and left their comfort zone and joined a democratic revolution, we were millions and we are still very strong, I know many of you don't see these demonstrations in mass media, and instead we have articles talking about "The Mexican Miracle" or "Saving Mexico" etc, 2006 was the year Mexicans said "Enough" and the right wing won the election by 0.56% the Electoral College (equivalent) rejected our effort to count every single vote, they said a recount would divide the country, so Felipe Calderon, a man no person knew, won and he tried to legitimize his victory with a war no one asked for, a war that transformed my country forever, a Country I don't think I will ever recognize again, he destroyed Mazatlan and the way my community interacted, if life was difficult in Mazatlan before...  Immigration became a diaspora, people leaving entire towns abandoned, cartels and international corporations taking over family owned farms. The Mexico I escaped from was not that terrible, and I didn't feel like escaping, just from poverty, just for a moment.

I love Texas, now, but I was so happy when my plane took off from Houston, and I finally slept for few minutes. When the plane landed, I didn't know how to process everything that just happened. But the first thing I did was to get some coffee at starbucks and get some quarters for the phone, and let my friends know that I arrived.

Salome and her brother picked me up at the airport, but she needed to go back to work, so her brother took me to the IHope by Miller Park, to be honest with you I didn't understand the menu well, so my friend chose for me. He ordered some fish so I could feel like home, that was the most horrible meal I can remember, I was so disgusted but didn't want to show it, then I saw the price, $7.00 that was more than an entire day of work back in Mexico, I felt remorse, thinking about my mom and brother and how they needed those $7.00 so I didn't eat for an entire week, my friends noticed it so I stopped avoiding meals, until today sometimes I feel bad when I buy myself something, some sort of shame and I know it's wrong, I'm working on it, again, I don't like forcing feelings or masquerading them, I prefer understanding the nature of a phenomena.

After IHope, he took me to my temporary new home, a bed with just a blanket and a chair, I improvised and used some clothes as pillow.

Two weeks passed and I was working for this guy painting houses, I think it was Watertown, or something like that, McMansions in the suburbs with frozen pools and kitchens I've never imagined. Instead of feeling jealous of those homeowners I was feeling kind of sad, because almost all of them were retired people, I was confused because my mom was losing her home, a way smaller home that these, while I was painting homes for people who didn't needed that much space. I called my family every night and I was waiting impatiently for my first paycheck. This person didn't pay me, I was immersed in the most dangerous depression I've ever experienced. Finally the restaurant I applied for a job called and I accepted the offer as fast as possible. One of the cooks lived few blocks away, so we gave me rides every day. I got my first paycheck $183 and I sent everything to my mom. I was already making more money in one week than one month in Mexico working almost all day. So I felt and still feel grateful, I know it's still poverty, but not the kind of poverty I escaped from, I finally had enough money to get some non-Mazatlan clothes, I bought used clothes at the thrifty, in pretty good condition, coming from an upper middle class background (my childhood) this moment changed my life forever, even when I was poor in Mazatlan I was in denial, it's the caste system and privilege I didn't want to lose, it's the stupid concept of preserving a status with material things, I started to feel more humble, life was changing me, I've never felt that free in my entire life, I renounced to my status, to my caste. I also bought a plant and a candle, I enjoy seeing plants growing every day.

Two months after, Lizbeth broke up with me on the phone, I called her everyday too, she was now dating an ex-boyfriend and she was feeling confused, she knew I was happy at the restaurant and fulfilling the culinary career I always wanted to have, I was really enjoying it, and she said she didn't want to be an obstacle or the reason why I had to sacrifice my dreams for someone again. I was heartbroken, I didn't see myself with another person at that time, we were best friends for 5 years, but we were very different, so I accepted that, somehow because I thought I would see her again, in a delusional plan I was making, but that's something I still don't have the stomach to share. I respect Lizbeth a lot, she is an amazing person, a leader, she taught me forgiveness and how to liberate myself from middle class illogical stratum. I don't feel sad that our relationship ended, I feel happy that it happened. But then my mom decided to close her business and we definitely lost our house. More bad news? a drunk driver killed one of my dogs and doctors detected a tumor in my mom's uterus. I made the decision to keep fighting for my family and work even harder, I found a second job and went to the Forest Home library to get books and dictionaries in English, I tried to learn as much English, as fast as possible, I went to MATC and took some classes, so being that busy again helped me with the depression and knowing I was in fact helping my family and myself. My mother started a new business, she sold her jewelry and with that money she made more jewelry, things were changing fast, and life was improving.

Mayday. I marched for the first time in my life for immigrants rights, not mine, because I was still not feeling American, but I was standing there in solidarity with people who call this land HOME. I saw the face of hate, people booing us all along Water Street, all white people from their offices, throwing garbage at the march, but some others joined the march, it was the very first pro-immigrant march in Milwaukee, or at least in a very long time. Thousand of people flooded downtown. When I left the march, I called Milwaukee home too. This is my home.

Life has given me the opportunity to experience and risk, take risks I don't regret. I am a different person, a more accepting person, I'm still taking risks but I'm never going back to an unequal caste system, I can say I renounce my privileges, but that's impossible, instead I want to fight against privileges until the day I die, so maybe next generations can enjoy equality and justice, so women can be people too, that immigration is a right, and every person can have access to public education, so dreaming high is not a challenge or a torturous life journey, but a pursuit of happiness.

It's been eight years, and I am a proud Wisconsinite, I'm the executive chef at a very cool restaurant and I live with my best friend. Life is good, I doubted many times, I abandoned my faith in God so many times, I made mistakes, but now life is good, I don't know for how long, but I'm ready for the next challenge.

Pozole

Every Mexican family has its Pozole tradition, or even ritual. Recipes are always different, some are prepared with a combination of chicken and pork, some just chicken or turkey, some are religiously 100% pork; from head to tail, and seriously, sometimes you can see a pig's head floating in a cooking pot at the market, a horrifying scene, but that's something you learn to respect, because every pozole recipe has its own family DNA, families brag about it, and that's why you will never get an accurate recipe, you will never eat the same pozole, and you should create your own pozole, but always use whole hominy kernels, that's the only rule.

Spanish Conquistadors believed pozole was a stew made with human remains, that according to ethnographer and evangelist Bernardino de Sahagún, who considered Mexicans (not Aztecs, but that's another story) not to be humans, or to be a different race without souls, sadly some people still think Mexicans are some sort of inferior race 500 years after colonization, but whatever, it was more than one Spaniard, a whole group championed a smear campaign against Mexicans, taking this debate all the way to Valladolid, between ultra-racist Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda and condescending liberal Bartolomé de Las Casas. They did not debate whether pozole was made with human meat, but to start viewing indigenous population as human beings, artistically and mechanically capable, and adroit of learning when properly taught; however, Mexicans DID know, just differently, and that's why condescending, but I still respect De Las Casas' efforts.

Before Spanish conquistadors put a foot on America, MesoAmerica was as problematic as it is today, Tenochtitlan (Today's Mexico City) was the richest and most powerful city-state, controlling different nations around, from Michoacan to Nicaragua, starting an agricultural revolution, genetically modifying corn and other crops. War was inevitable, imagine a powerful country trying to "educate" and bring, lets say, democracy to a foreign region in exchange for natural resources. That was basically Mexicans before the conquest, against Azcapotzalco, Tlaxcala, etc. Tenochtitlan always tried to intimidate other nations with psychological warfare such as: we eat humans, or even surrounding their island-city with walls made out of skulls, mostly stone, and yes, when war occurred, soldiers dismembered humans. This graphic violence horrified the already barbaric Spaniards, and I'm probably just trying to justify why Mr. Sahagún was wrong about pozole, because also, he was wrong about everything else he wrote and drew on Florentino Codex, an ethnographic research work trying to describe Mexico and its traditions to Europeans. The only fact we know about pozole is that it's been around for centuries, always a ritual, always controversial, always different from each other.

My tradition begins in the 1980s, I don't know exactly when, but I'm pretty sure I was 5 when I started helping my grandmother Rogelia and other cooks make a pozole, because there's always a neighbor, aunt or cousin trying to learn your family recipe, so there's usually more than one person involved, plus you need to clean a mountain of hominy and that's where my brother and I helped, that was our at least once a month Saturday-Sunday job, while Mexican soccer league was on channel 2 or 13, and my dad was always preparing other appetizers like guacamole, chips and salsa or cheeses, because part of the pozole ritual is eating more food while preparing it, and seeing your favorite soccer team being irritatingly forgettable. My dad's favorite team is ironically the team I like now, Pumas (National University) but my brother and I rooted for rich, glamorous but always mediocre America (owned by biggest TV network in Latin America) the only time we enjoy soccer together is during a World Cup, and we always get frustrated because our team usually sucks, not all the time.

My grandma's pozole recipe changed when I started talking to adults. She took me to the market and one day I saw this butcher shop with dismembered pigs, including a wall of heads, since my father is an anthropologist and ethnohistorian, you can imagine the sorts of stories he told me when I was a kid, I mean, my first children's books was Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse, but his stories about the conquest, the ambiguity of Florentino Codex, and all of that, made me beg my grandma to make a pozole, pork free, so she started cooking a chicken pozole just for me, I was a pain in the ass, I requested no chicken organs in the soup at all, or skin, just white meat. Somehow my own tradition survived, now new cousins eat it this way too. A huge element of eating pozole is Chile de árbol sauce, made with dried chile de arbol, sesame seeds, pumpkin seed, garlic, oregano and cider vinegar, most of the time you can get this hot sauce in the market, or if you need a decent equivalent, I can recommend Salsa “Valentina” or Crystal Sauce… if it was spicy enough.

Another thing I remember is my grandma unplugging the TV most of the times because she didn't like soccer, and she was more like me, we need music when we cook, her favorite was Pérez Prado, Carlos Gardel, Celia Cruz, Willie Colón and Rocio Durcal. But she was OK with other music, but my grandmother dancing in the kitchen while “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White” was playing on vinyl is a classic scene in my family. Pozole is more than one recipe, I have none, it's a ritual, experienced in different ways, every home has its own secrets and rites, but I do recommend fresh chopped oregano, avocado, fresh radishes thinly sliced and lime juice as garnish. I think you should start your own tradition, celebrating the importance of corn in America, collective knowledge and diversity.

Clairvoyance

Cooking is a universal compilation of knowledge, it's the continuous debate of which technique is better and why, it's chemistry and physics, it's survival. Cooking brings people together, whether it's your grandmother forcing you to clean a monumental pile of corn for Sunday's pozole, your friend trying to be all "manly" telling you how to grill a steak to perfection while being completely intoxicated with PBRs, or cooking for people in need. Cooking can also be a form of art and a way to express the way you feel.
Cooking is knowledge, and you never stop learning.

That's why I dislike celebrity chefs in pop culture, sharing recipes and procedures of public domain for a grotesque amount of money, copywriting the evolution of food and with it, erasing basic skills of survival. It's knowledge, not magic.

When we are kids, he have a powerful curiosity for food preparation and where does food comes from, then we develop some sort of culinary clairvoyance, full of tabus and lies, but we are kids, I'll just call it "magic" then we find a sexist world, were each gender has a role, and of course I'm talking about Macho-Mexico, the kitchen is not for the man. But, my curiosity never went away, to the contrary, this gender-bullshit made it even more exciting, because now, every time I grabbed an onion or garlic and peeled it for my mom, I felt I was in fact creating something magical, underground. I would have to basically camouflage or something in order to retain my "manhood".

Acquiring knowledge is always a challenge, and so is getting fresh food nowadays. I witnessed the decline of Mexican Family-owned farms and everyday-local farmers markets, I saw miles and miles of fertile lands being redeveloped in order to supply not just (or at all) the local market, but our hungry USA, instead of free range chickens, and seriously, they were as free as seeing chickens eating next to you while waiting in the bus stop, but instead of that, now I saw enormous buildings with thousands of animals with no freedom. All of that farming know-how went to huge corporations, profiting with knowledge, making it harder to even get a share of it. I saw farmers leaving everything behind for a dream, I saw them abandoning entire towns, the most cruel diaspora of modern times. Something most rural Mexican immigrants have in common, they still have that knowledge with them, and also, a dream to maybe one day, start all over again.

Life is ironic. I was studying to maybe one day work in politics, but my love for food never went away, I decided to tell my parents about my decision, I wanted to go to a culinary school and become a chef. My mother got all excited, we talked for hours about how I helped her in the kitchen when I was a kid and stuff, but now it was time to face my dad. Well, that was one of the most unpleasant moments of my life. He was so upset, so confused, so full of passive-aggressiveness. I remember one of his lines "Is that why you don't have a girlfriend?" I did answer in my head (No, I don't have a girlfriend because I'm the biggest antisocial nerd in the classroom and nobody invites me to parties) So again, gender roles. He said, "Then you have to find your own path"

We left Mexico City and moved back to small town living, Mazatlan. Without my dad. My mother and I started a small restaurant with Mexican food (no, not the "FOR REAL, THIS IS THE MOST AUTHENTIC ONE) but we needed more money, so I was looking for a second job, so I walked to a restaurant couple blocks away from my mom's business, saw the "Hiring" sign and talked to the owner, she hired me immediately as general chef helper, whatever that means. That was the most exhausting experience ever, from going to the market for both, my mother's restaurant and my new job, cleaning grills and fryers, chopping cases and cases of tomatoes and onions, cleaning fresh seafood, making handmade tortillas, etc, etc, etc. I was working 18 hours a day. No time for school, no time for friends, no time for family.
But I was doing what I wanted to do, I was finally cooking, acquiring knowledge at a very high cost, intense labor but how much I learned.

Sadly, my mother's health was not the best at that moment, my income was not sufficient and her business was not doing that well.  My brother had a car accident. I was completely overwhelmed, so I decided to  buy a plane ticket, take my US$50 saved in the bank, which I thought it was a lot, said goodbye to my girlfriend and friends, to my mom and brother, to my two dogs and turtles, to the ocean. I left everything behind because I wanted to save my mother and I wanted to learn more and to become a chef one day, again.

My first job in the US was not food related, I was painting houses in some Wisconsin suburb, I think it was Watertown, but I'm not sure, at that time, I knew a little English, such as: Elephant, Apple, Thank You.
So, for months I was just sending money to Mexico, and looking for a kitchen job. Finally found one, for pantry/prep. My first night at this restaurant, I cut my finger while chopping tomatoes, never been that embarrassed in my life.

Knowledge is a fascinating trip, I chose food, and I owe everything I know to many people that had the patience to teach me, to people that made me feel like shit, but I learned anyways, to my mother and grandmothers, to street vendors in Mexico City, to amazing coworkers in Mexico and Wisconsin.

So, I just want to share the recipes and techniques I've learned over the years and share them with you. This is of course just a long "Hi, this is me" letter and I will now write recipes in the next posts.

PS, My dad learned how to cook, however, his food always looks brown, but it's pretty good stuff, he also learned how to respect my profession and he's proud of me.