Oh hey, it’s my Friday and I may be more than a little drunk, at home and feeling extroverted. Why? Ask me stuff or something while I get more drunk, make rune earrings and watch Anthony Bourdain and cry about not being able to travel the world.
Two chefs are given what the average person visiting a food shelf for a family of four might be given. They must make five delicious meals from it, with a little help from the /very/ limited (Flour, salt, black pepper, red pepper, garlic powder, sugar, baking soda), pantry, within the thirty minute time limit.
Chefs who don’t normally cook kosher are given a quick lesson in what is kosher. They are then given a basket of theme ingredients, or maybe an Iron Chef style single ingredient, and they must make a delicious meal from it while following the rules of kosher within the thirty minute time limit.
The chef is given a judging panel of four people with dietary restrictions, either due to allergies, or religious or moral reasons. They must make a meal that the whole panel can eat and enjoy in the thirty minute time limit.
Michelin star rated chefs are pitted against each other, having to cook dishes, 3-7 year old children and their parents, both enjoy. So the parents can’t influence the kids to try stuff, the panels are served separately.
Anthony Bourdain, and Gordon Ramsay. Sesame Street. Basically, Gordon Ramsay and Anthony Bourdain compete against each other for a panel of judges in a format similar to Iron Chef. The secret ingredient is some kind of vegetable or other food kids don’t eat. The Sesame Street muppets, probably either Abby Cadabby, Big Bird, Elmo, or Cookie Monster, play the role of the floor reporters, Kermit, Bert, and Ernie are the commentators. The panel of judges, a group of young children, decide the winner. Whomever wins gets $10,000 to donate to a children’s related charity of their choice.
If I’m an advocate for anything, it’s to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. The extent to which you can walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food, it’s a plus for everybody. Open your mind, get up off the couch, move.
Americans love Mexican food. We consume nachos, tacos, burritos, tortas, enchiladas, tamales and anything resembling Mexican in enormous quantities. We love Mexican beverages, happily knocking back huge amounts of tequila, mezcal and Mexican beer every year. We love Mexican people—as we sure employ a lot of them. Despite our ridiculously hypocritical attitudes towards immigration, we demand that Mexicans cook a large percentage of the food we eat, grow the ingredients we need to make that food, clean our houses, mow our lawns, wash our dishes, look after our children. As any chef will tell you, our entire service economy—the restaurant business as we know it—in most American cities, would collapse overnight without Mexican workers. Some, of course, like to claim that Mexicans are “stealing American jobs”. But in two decades as a chef and employer, I never had ONE American kid walk in my door and apply for a dishwashing job, a porter’s position—or even a job as prep cook. Mexicans do much of the work in this country that Americans, provably, simply won’t do.
We love Mexican drugs. Maybe not you personally, but “we”, as a nation, certainly consume titanic amounts of them—and go to extraordinary lengths and expense to acquire them. We love Mexican music, Mexican beaches, Mexican architecture, interior design, Mexican films.
So, why don’t we love Mexico?
We throw up our hands and shrug at what happens and what is happening just across the border. Maybe we are embarrassed. Mexico, after all, has always been there for us, to service our darkest needs and desires. Whether it’s dress up like fools and get pass-out drunk and sun burned on Spring break in Cancun, throw pesos at strippers in Tijuana, or get toasted on Mexican drugs, we are seldom on our best behavior in Mexico. They have seen many of us at our worst. They know our darkest desires.
In the service of our appetites, we spend billions and billions of dollars each year on Mexican drugs—while at the same time spending billions and billions more trying to prevent those drugs from reaching us. The effect on our society is everywhere to be seen. Whether it’s kids nodding off and overdosing in small town Vermont, gang violence in LA, burned out neighborhoods in Detroit— it’s there to see. What we don’t see, however, haven’t really noticed, and don’t seem to much care about, is the 80,000 dead—mostly innocent victims in Mexico, just in the past few years. 80,000 dead. 80,000 families who’ve been touched directly by the so-called “War On Drugs”.
Mexico. Our brother from another mother. A country, with whom, like it or not, we are inexorably, deeply involved, in a close but often uncomfortable embrace. Look at it. It’s beautiful. It has some of the most ravishingly beautiful beaches on earth. Mountains, desert, jungle. Beautiful colonial architecture, a tragic, elegant, violent, ludicrous, heroic, lamentable, heartbreaking history. Mexican wine country rivals Tuscany for gorgeousness. Its archeological sites—the remnants of great empires, unrivaled anywhere. And as much as we think we know and love it, we have barely scratched the surface of what Mexican food really is. It is NOT melted cheese over a tortilla chip. It is not simple, or easy. It is not simply ‘bro food’ halftime. It is in fact, old– older even than the great cuisines of Europe and often deeply complex, refined, subtle, and sophisticated. A true mole sauce, for instance, can take DAYS to make, a balance of freshly (always fresh) ingredients, painstakingly prepared by hand. It could be, should be, one of the most exciting cuisines on the planet. If we paid attention. The old school cooks of Oaxaca make some of the more difficult to make and nuanced sauces in gastronomy. And some of the new generation, many of whom have trained in the kitchens of America and Europe have returned home to take Mexican food to new and thrilling new heights.
It’s a country I feel particularly attached to and grateful for. In nearly 30 years of cooking professionally, just about every time I walked into a new kitchen, it was a Mexican guy who looked after me, had my back, showed me what was what, was there—and on the case—when the cooks more like me, with backgrounds like mine—ran away to go skiing or surfing—or simply “flaked.” I have been fortunate to track where some of those cooks come from, to go back home with them. To small towns populated mostly by women—where in the evening, families gather at the town’s phone kiosk, waiting for calls from their husbands, sons and brothers who have left to work in our kitchens in the cities of the North. I have been fortunate enough to see where that affinity for cooking comes from, to experience moms and grandmothers preparing many delicious things, with pride and real love, passing that food made by hand, passed from their hands to mine.
In years of making television in Mexico, it’s one of the places we, as a crew, are happiest when the day’s work is over. We’ll gather round a street stall and order soft tacos with fresh, bright, delicious tasting salsas—drink cold Mexican beer, sip smoky mezcals, listen with moist eyes to sentimental songs from street musicians. We will look around and remark, for the hundredth time, what an extraordinary place this is.
The received wisdom is that Mexico will never change. That is hopelessly corrupt, from top to bottom. That it is useless to resist—to care, to hope for a happier future. But there are heroes out there who refuse to go along. On this episode of PARTS UNKNOWN, we meet a few of them. People who are standing up against overwhelming odds, demanding accountability, demanding change—at great, even horrifying personal cost. This show is for them.
For everyone talking about Cuba after Fidel Castro’s long overdue death.
For every white American news outlet and reporter (Buzzfeed, Michael Moore and even Anthony Bourdain) who wanted to paint Cuba as a Communist utopia with free school, free healthcare and therefore trivialize the countless hardships faced by real Cubans who can’t leave the island.
I’ve heard stories of my fiance’s grandfather whose legs rotted after being tortured for months in a pit of raw sewage for being a loan shark, my own grandfather who was a prisoner of war and was a Cuban refugee in the 80s who brought his two little kids and wife to America on a boat full of violent prisoners and the mentally ill, Castro’s own advisor of 17 years who was thrown into a pit of cockroaches for asking to resign (because he knew he’d be killed when his term was over). Castro and Che Guevara weren’t socialist pioneers, they were serial killers. Che isn’t a public figure who’s okay to wear on a fucking t-shirt because communism is a good idea to you, but this is the reason why so many Cuban-Americans are terrified of socialism and there isn’t a single American who should blame them.
Fidel was a twisted, almost king-like dictator who didn’t give a shit about his people, and his death doesn’t mean much when his legacy is still in place and our country is so much worse than it was just twenty years ago. Don’t say shit if you don’t know, if you haven’t been there. Please.
Travel changes you. As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly, you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life - and travel - leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks - on your body or on your heart - are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt.
Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.