I’m so privileged to be given this opportunity to reach out to so many people and share my passion about food and la vie gastronomique. I kept thinking to myself, What on earth can I write about as my first article? A favorite ingredient? A recipe? A boring background of my business? Blah, blah, blah… So I’m being logical and starting from the beginning.
How was this passion born and where did it stem from? Why am I nuts about certain flavors and hooked on certain ingredients? Perhaps only then will you begin to understand the rest of this series of “food-osophies” or culinary babblings and gourmet adventures. So here goes the story of what I like to call “The Great Love Affair” between my plate and myself.
I have the memory of an elephant. My memories aren’t just simple blurry flashes of random images. They have a soundtrack, lighting effects, tactile emotions, but above all, tastes and smells. While I have many vivid food memories, I’m sharing only the most distinct, giving you a small peek into my epicurean soul.
I was never the child that needed sliced mangoes to eat with her rice and ulam. Nor was I the child that pushed her food around her plate, making babad for hours, till the food went stale and chalky, kept inside chipmunk-like cheeks. No, no, I was the pesky kid that bothered everyone in the kitchen and in the household, forcing them to eat my strange, overly spiced creations.
According to my mother, as a baby I was nourished on puréed pasta with fresh pesto sauce. And whatever my family had for dinner, it went into the blender and was fed to me. No bland, potted baby food for this baby! I was never a rice eater but, boy, did I love my pasta, especially the little farfalle, bowtie ones. My mom used to make fresh pasta for us and I adored the simplicity of it all… fresh pasta cooked al dente with some butter and garlic. That’s it. Till this day, at the expense of my poor, frustrated trainer, I will never be able to blast my belly fat because I need my pasta. Oh, and I adore garlic. Perhaps I was Italian in a past life…
My abuelito Zubiri was Spanish Basque. I never met him but had always been fascinated by his story: anti-Franco, Basque independent during the Spanish civil war and how he came over to the Philippines as a stowaway from Marseille and won the Lotto in Manila. Legend has it he loved to eat, and dinner was a very formal ritual of five courses. My abuelita was a fantastic cook making all sorts of Spanish and Basque dishes for us, always insisting that tomato sauce must never be sweet. Actually both my lolas are fantastic cooks. (My Lola Fernandez has the best kare-kare and lechon paksiw in town!) But apart from my family name, the only connection I feel with my Basque roots is this love for chorizo. The slightly spicy and rich flavor of paprika and porcine heaven… Nothing makes me feel more like a kid than fried-up Marca El Rey chorizo with rice and eggs.
Another integral part of my foodie development was a trip I took with my mother and my sister to Italy. I was nine years old. I tasted white truffles. I fell in love. I wanted to bathe myself in white truffle oil. I wanted to reek of its pungent earthiness and be transported to heaven. I carried a small bottle in my pocket and everywhere we went, I would let its precious, pale drops fall on whatever I ate. And today, when I catch the fleeting winter season in Paris and I bite into Pierre Hermé’s White Truffle and Hazelnut Macaroon, the world stops, and the hustle and bustle of Place Saint Sulpice melts away as I am drawn into a nostalgic party in my mouth.
Readers, do not get me wrong. I am not a Gourmet Snob. Being a Filipino child in the Eighties meant that the best birthday parties were held in either McDonald’s or Shakey’s! After each piano lesson at the age of five, I would go to McDo with my yaya and order “One regular French fries, please.” And on a truly hungry, glutinous moment, I would also have a chocolate sundae and dip the French fries into the ice cream. Strangely yummy and oh-so-satisfying. On a very stressful day I will shamefully do drive-thru at the Golden Arches and order this calorific guilty pleasure.
I guess what I’m saying somewhat indirectly is that food is an integral part of my soul. I don’t see it as lean, oily, energy or necessity. I see food as how it was in my childhood, how a dish can transport me at the present moment, and how an ingredient can be a part of my future. Food is my life. Food is both personal and professional, stressful and gratifying, bringing both a sense of longing and fulfillment. I want to share this with you. My experiences, my musings, my recipes. Cook with me. Taste with me. Feast with me.
Fry Me A Memory
Serves 1
1 package of large fast-food French fries
1 to 2 pieces of chorizo de Bilbao (my new favorite brand is La Norense)
1 egg
A drizzle of truffle oil (optional)
Keep French fries hot in the oven. Crumble the chorizo or chop it up into small bits and pieces. Fry with no oil in a non-stick pan till a bit crispy. In another pan, fry the egg sunny-side up. Place French fries on a plate then top with the fried egg. Scatter the chorizo, crumble on top then drizzle with white truffle oil. The best way to eat this is to slice it all up with your fork and knife so that every bite has a bit of everything. Enjoy!
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You can contact me at http://twitter.com/stephaniezubiri.