Buttermilk Graffiti
Page 23
Los Immortales is a bakery that also sells meat and grocery items. The shelves are filled with Inca Kola, which is Peruvian soda made with lemon verbena. The place used to be a pool hall, and there is still a small bar area where a young man serves beer, coffee, and lottery tickets. Behind the counter are trays of fresh-baked pan chuta, alfajores, and a row of pastries that look vaguely Gallic. A small group of men are drinking beer and talking loudly. On every inch of every wall are photos of soccer teams from Peru’s past. This place is a museum of vintage photos, trophies, and jerseys wrapped in protective plastic sheets. I look closely at a black-and-white photo entitled “Alianza Lima.” The faces of the men in their striped uniform are stoic, the photographic print foggy, with a silver cast. They are “the immortals.” I ask one of the men there about the memorabilia. He tells me that many retired professional soccer players live in Paterson. Whenever they go home, they bring back a picture or a jersey and donate it to the bakery. It all goes on the walls.
Soccer (or football) was introduced to Peru by English sailors in the late nineteenth century. The story goes that it was during these early games that the Chalacan strike was invented. Now popularly known as the bicycle kick, the Chalacan strike is an acrobatic move where a player kicks the ball over his head while upside down in the air. It is the most flamboyant and difficult move in soccer today. Peruvians have an immense pride in their national team, which was first formed in 1927. Despite the team having never won a World Cup, Peruvians are deeply loyal. Ricardo Zarate laments to me that he has not yet seen the Peruvian team qualify for a World Cup in his lifetime. “If they ever do,” he says with all the fervor of a starving man, “I will drop whatever I am doing to go.”
One of the men at Los Inmortales tells me that on warm evenings, you can go to nearby Pennington Park and watch them play. Victor Hurtado, Freddie Ravelo, Julio Aliaga—he rattles off more names I don’t recognize.
“They are old now, but they can still curve a ball like crazy. It is beautiful to watch.”
Pennington Park sits along the Passaic about a mile downriver from the Great Falls. It is not much of a park, but there is a great, wide soccer field. By the time I get there, the light is fading, but children are running around and playing soccer in random pickup games. The parking lot is filled with cars and people. The atmosphere is festive. I sit in the stands with the bags of leftover food I’ve collected throughout the day and watch the matches. Two men are kicking a ball back and forth almost the length of the soccer field. The trajectory of the ball looks illogical. It seems to suspend itself in the air and change course. I wonder if these men are the retired players I was told about, but I choose not to ask. It is beautiful to watch them play, and I don’t want to disturb them. On my left, Paterson rises over a steep hill; the houses look flat and luminous as the sun sets behind them. To my right is the Passaic River, calm and murky. Soon it will be too dark to see. I’ve been warned to get out of Paterson before dark. It’s not safe, I’ve been told.
I notice there is a hole in the bottom of the bag holding my raw chicken. The chicken is gone. It must have fallen out, and I didn’t notice it with all the other bags I was carrying. I retrace my steps, back to Los Inmortales, but it isn’t there. It is dark now, and the streets are lit up with neon signs and traffic lights. I don’t know why I’m looking for that chicken. It’s not as if I was going to keep it, but I’ve been carrying it with me all day. I wanted to be the one to decide its fate, but sometimes the world decides these things for you. The streets are crowded with people, and the restaurants are packed with patrons. The city feels alive, more awake than in the daytime. I discard the rest of my bags and feel liberated. Without the capacity to eat any more, I’m free to just roam without purpose.
I’ll be back in Paterson tomorrow, and I’ll eat at five more restaurants. I’m sure that some of the meals will feel like the same ones I had today. Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to it. Walking back through the city at night, I think about the great American poet William Carlos Williams and his epic poem Paterson, which he published in five separate volumes from 1946 to 1958. I plan on reading some of it tonight. Williams was an experimental poet who changed not just the course of American poetry but also how we view everyday objects such as red wheelbarrows. His name sounds funny because his first and last names are the same, almost. In 2016, Jim Jarmusch released a movie called Paterson, which was shot entirely here. In the movie, the main character’s name is Paterson, and he lives in Paterson, New Jersey. The actor’s name is Adam Driver, and in the movie he plays a bus driver. In the distance, I think I hear the clamor of the waterfall, but it is only the sound of a truck moving slowly through traffic. The man who jumped off the bridge on February 21, 2017, remains unidentified.
I remember when I first heard about chifa cuisine. I imagined what could happen if Chinese food collided with Peruvian ingredients. I imagined a great number of new flavors and layers of color and texture, but I never got that. The collaboration between China and Peru is a part of their history, and not mine to manipulate. But what if the imagination were free to explore the connections without the constraints of history? Without the concern for the purity of tradition? It is in Paterson where I find the confidence to explore that question. I could have imagined a fictional chifa dish without ever traveling to Paterson, but it would not have had the same respect for the people. It is always about the people, the Peruvians and Chinese who came together to form the roots of a cuisine that chefs stand on top of; the transplanted people here in Paterson who are creating another branch of Peruvian food culture, parallel and distinct from what they left behind in Lima. When I think about chifa today, I think about Lima. I think about Ricardo and José and all the people in Paterson who cooked for me and opened up a world I never knew existed.
Pollo a la Brasa
True pollo a la brasa is slow-cooked over charcoal, and if you have a charcoal grill, you should cook your chicken on it, rather than in the oven, as in this recipe. But it is the marinade that makes this dish so special. The chicken must be marinated overnight, which makes the chicken tender and juicy with a crust that is caramelized and salty, just the way chicken skin should be. I use Korean gochujang in the marinade because it closely resembles the Peruvian chile that is hard to find in the States.
Serves 2 or 3 as a main course
marinade
¼cup soy sauce
2 tablespoons gochujang (Korean chile paste)
2 tablespoons olive oil
Juice of 3 limes
5 garlic cloves
2 teaspoons minced fresh ginger
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1½ teaspoons smoked hot paprika
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon dried rosemary
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 whole chicken (about 2½ pounds), preferably organic
Green Ají Sauce
To make the marinade: In a food processor, combine the soy sauce, gochujang, olive oil, lime juice, garlic, ginger, cumin, smoked paprika, oregano, rosemary, salt, and pepper and process until smooth.
Put the chicken in a large casserole dish. Loosen the skin of the chicken over the breasts and thighs. Rub the marinade both under the skin and over it. Let the chicken sit in the marinade, covered, in the fridge overnight.
The next day, remove the chicken from the fridge about 30 minutes before putting it the oven. Preheat the oven to 450°F.
Put the chicken in a roasting pan and roast for 15 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature to 350°F and cook the chicken for 45 minutes, or until the skin is dark and caramelized. To test for doneness, insert a knife into the chicken where the thigh bone meets the backbone; if the juice runs clear, the chicken is ready. Let rest for 10 minutes before carving.
Serve the chicken with the green ají sauce on the side.
Green Ají S
auce | Makes ½ cup
1 bunch cilantro, root ends trimmed
3 jalapeño peppers, seeded and minced
3 garlic cloves
½ teaspoon salt
¼ cup olive oil
¼ cup mayonnaise
In a blender, combine the cilantro, jalapeño peppers, garlic, salt, olive oil, and mayonnaise and puree until just smooth (be careful not to overmix, or the sauce may break). Transfer to a glass or plastic container and refrigerate until ready to use.
Green Fried Rice with Chicken, Cilantro, and Ají Sauce
Think of this as Chinese fried rice with the flavors of South America. I am not going to claim that this rice has anything to do with Peru, but it has everything to do with Paterson, New Jersey. This recipe incorporates many of the flavors I discovered there: plantains, ají sauce, and pollo a la brasa. The avocados give the rice a funky green tinge, and I swapped out the traditional carrots for broccoli to reinforce that greenness. Make this with leftovers from Pollo a la Brasa or other roast chicken.
Serves 2 as a main course
1 cup short-grain rice
1⅓ cups water
¼ teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 plantain, peeled and coarsely chopped
½ cup finely diced onion
½ cup finely diced red bell pepper
½ cup finely chopped broccoli florets
½ cup peas
1½ tablespoons toasted sesame oil
1 teaspoon grated garlic (use a Microplane)
1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
3 tablespoons soy sauce
2 cups pulled chicken from Pollo a la Brasa (see Note)
1 tablespoon fish sauce
2 ripe avocados, halved, pitted, peeled, and roughly chopped
2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro
2 tablespoons chopped scallions
In a medium saucepan, combine the rice, water, and salt and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat as low as it will go, cover, and cook for 20 to 25 minutes, until all the liquid has been absorbed. The rice should be tender and fluffy; if it is not, add 2 tablespoons water to the pan and let it cook a little longer. Turn off the heat and let stand for 10 minutes.
Spread the rice out on a baking sheet and refrigerate for 1 hour, or until thoroughly chilled.
Heat a wok or a large skillet over high heat. Add 1 tablespoon of the vegetable oil and heat until hot, then add the plantain and fry, stirring and tossing it, until browned and crispy. Remove from the pan and set aside on a paper towel–lined plate.
Add the remaining 1 tablespoon vegetable oil to the pan and heat until hot. Add the onion and stir-fry for 1 minute. Add the bell pepper and broccoli and stir-fry for 2 minutes. Add the peas and cook for 1 minute. Transfer the vegetables to a plate and set aside.
Add the sesame oil to the wok and heat until hot. Add the chilled rice and stir-fry for 3 minutes. Add the garlic and ginger and stir-fry for 1 minute. Add half the soy sauce and stir to color the rice. Add the chicken, the remaining soy sauce, and the fish sauce and stir-fry for 2 minutes. Add the reserved vegetables and toss everything together, then add the avocado chunks and stir-fry for another minute.
Stir in the cilantro and scallions and serve right away.
Note: If you don’t have leftover chicken on hand, a store-bought roast chicken will do just fine.
Chapter 13
Nigerian Hustle
I live inside the hem of the American South, along the edge of many cultures and influences. Midwestern values press down from above, the Appalachian influence pushes from the east, the antebellum South rises from below. In the Bluegrass State, I can find salt-risen bread in Harlan, mutton barbecue in the western region of Owensboro, and sorghum farms in Winchester. I can tell you where to find country hams smoked and cured in a practice that goes back generations. The fabric of this culinary tradition folds over me and comforts me. At the same time, I can also go to a wonderful Japanese restaurant in Lexington and humble but delicious Mexican cafeterias all over Louisville, or get Persian food in Covington. There isn’t a checkered tablecloth big enough to hold all the dishes that come from this place.
Kentucky has always had one foot in the South and the other foot pointing outward. The Ohio River is the main tributary of the vast Mississippi River, and it birthed a vibrant commerce city, an inland port, in Louisville. From its early days of furs, hides, and salt to its dark era as a major slave-trading marketplace, Louisville has been a port of entry for diverse cultures. It has never been afraid of outsiders, from the French to the Jews to, more recently, Persians and Somalis. And after three hundred years, Louisville is still figuring out its identity.
I am explaining this to chef Tunde Wey as we drive back from the airport. Tunde has been traveling the country hosting dinners to talk about race and identity in America. Most of the dinners have been in big cities. I wanted to bring him to Louisville, a city much smaller in scale, more intimate in feel, and more polite in its politics. Tunde does not hold back his opinions, and he doesn’t couch his words in soft vocabulary. He is blunt and honest and scathing. It makes me nervous to know that he will be leading a discussion about race in front of my clientele, my friends, and my neighbors. And that is exactly why I extended the invitation for him to come here.
This is the first time I’ve done anything like this. I’ve always held the opinion that a restaurant should be a place free of politics. I’ve always believed that the role of a chef is removed from ideology. My table has always been, and always will be, a place welcoming to all. But as of late, the sad events in our country have been gnawing at my soul. The shooting of young black men, the incarceration of teens, the dehumanization of the LGBTQ community, the xenophobia, the hate. I have begun to feel that as chefs, we no longer have the luxury of being neutral. I look to Tunde for guidance.
Before he arrived here, he let me know that he wanted to explore Louisville on his own and get to know the city.
“I got you a car for the week, so you can get around freely,” I tell him.
“I don’t drive, man,” he informs me. “I can’t risk getting pulled over by the law.”
I first read about Tunde Wey from an article he coauthored with John T. Edge of the Southern Foodways Alliance. Tunde uses food to voice his protest. In the article, he came out punching, against white appropriation of what he deemed inherently African American food traditions. While I don’t fully agree with his arguments, I’m drawn in by his bravado. We began a series of phone calls. I’d call him on his cell phone, and he’d say all the right things to me. I’d open up to him about the issues troubling me, and he’d console me in just the right way. He would also make sweeping inflammatory statements that made me blush. He’d reprimand me, and it felt justified. It was like an Internet dating scam: I was taken in by his words. Tunde was somber and scholarly, but he also had an arsenal of brutal words that hinted at dismantling the system, a system I’m deeply entrenched in. I was seduced, and yet, at any given moment, I couldn’t decide whether he was hustling me or enlightening me.
In one phone conversation, he told me that his inspiration for cooking was Fela, the Nigerian musician who invented Afrobeat, a dizzying sound of percussion, improvisation, and scalding lyrics. Fela’s music is like James Brown, Bob Marley, Muhammad Ali, Che Guevara, and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band all converged into one frenetic nucleus of energy. Fela’s music was protest music, unleashed onto the streets of Nigeria at a time of post-colonial struggle, when the militant government was clashing daily with the struggling population. I bought Fela’s albums because of Tunde. I listen to them the way Tunde instructed me to.
“Expensive Shit” is a thirteen-minute song recounting the story of when Fela swallowed his marijuana stash during a raid of his home, with the cops searching through his shit, literally and figuratively. It starts out with tempti
ng percussion and keyboard chords that portend something dire to come. The horns come in at the two-minute mark, tight as a G-string. You don’t hear a single voice for six minutes, and when you do, it is a hoarse moan of anguish and release. The lyrics go back and forth from English to Yoruba to Pidgin English. A chorus of young women follows Fela’s lead. The music is so exhausting, so taut and blinding, you need musical breaks, if only to give your emotions a chance to breathe. But it never really lets go of its grip on you. I can feel the fingernails of Fela’s vocals in my throat.
“Fela used music as a weapon to protest the government of Nigeria,” Tunde tells me, “but it was also riveting music that you can dance to. I want to do the same with my food. It is not embellished in any way. It is the food of Nigeria, but it serves a purpose that is more than just eating.”
Fela was an irascible, mercurial man of unending machismo who once notoriously married twenty-seven women in one ceremony. Tunde may be a disciple, but he is very different. He absorbs energy. He walks with a swagger that is both juvenile and confident. He wears political T-shirts; his dreadlocks are hipster. When he speaks, his voice has the cadence and gravity of a poet’s. He pulls you into him and charms you with words, simple but meaningful words. He can infuriate you one moment and disarm you the next. Anyone can make radical statements. Tunde makes you believe in them. He has a laugh that lights up a room, even over the phone.
Every morning, I pick up Tunde and we talk on the drive to breakfast or to the market. On this morning, I tell him over breakfast that I wished more African Americans felt welcome eating at my restaurant. It is not a statement driven by profit or politics. It is just something I’ve noticed over the years running a fine-dining restaurant. I’ve hosted guest dinners with soul food chefs and still could not get a majority of African Americans to attend. I ask Tunde if it’s something I’m doing or not doing.