Vanilla Salt

  “She comes from a land of potatoes, tubercles buried in the darkness of wet soil. They have to eat cakes for dessert, because the sweetest fruit they have is the carrot, and they cover everything with butter, which clogs up their arteries and brains. You can’t get through to the soul of someone who lives in a place where vines won’t grow.”

  “It seems Monsieur le chef he know my country but he never visit there.” Annette is riled. “If you would make effort to visit us one day you see the kitchen is centre of house, with fire always burn for to receive visitors in comfortable way and cook many foods for table which is pride of room. Now we sit down,” she orders in an almost martial tone. “Òscar he deserve his dinner and I have a special dish today.”

  “You’re full of surprises, Annette,” Àlex exclaims. “When you’re worked up, you’d put the great Catalan philologist Pompeu Fabra to shame.”

  Òscar watches the conversation as if at a tennis match. Àlex has sent a hard serve, but Annette has very energetically returned the ball to his court.

  She offers a small slice of tomato quiche left over from lunch and some botifarra, with a Penedés Merlot to drink. Òscar’s enjoying watching them together. He’s increasingly convinced that they’re madly, desperately in love. Hearing them squabbling, one might conclude that they deeply dislike one another, even if the scorn-laden words they use are distinctly puerile. In their stolen glances, when one looks at the other when sure it won’t be noticed, the candour of their gaze is total.

  Àlex stares at Annette adoringly, as if her curves were the fragile outline of a Romanesque statue of the Virgin, a wonderful work of art. The unmistakable sign that he’s head-over-heels is that he eats everything she serves him, reverentially, as if taking communion. The body of Annette. Amen.

  “God, this botifarra is amazing. How did you do it?” Òscar breaks the mystical silence that has descended on the kitchen in Roda el Món.

  “Very good, Annette. It really is,” Àlex says, “but I’m sure you’re tricking us and you didn’t make it yourself. Where did you find it?”

  “I no buy it. I give little drink of Caol Ila if you find secret ingredient.” Annette is amused.

  Òscar actually knows that this sausage is filled with haricot beans, but holds his tongue, because it’s clear that Annette wants Àlex to make the effort to guess the secret. But Àlex has no intention of activating his taste-bud memory. He’s not in the mood for playing culinary riddles.

  “I haven’t got a clue what you’ve got hidden in this botifarra and I couldn’t care less. The main thing is that it’s full-flavoured and smooth, with a slightly earthy taste that balances the pork fat. It’s a metaphor for life. Flesh kindles desire, earth holds us firm, and fat is our reserve for surviving life’s ups and downs.”

  “I no understand nothing. When you say this philosopher talk you impossible.” Annette sighs loudly, as if bored to death and looks heavenwards.

  “Annette’s right. You’re a better chef than philosopher,” Òscar intervenes. “I think he’s trying to say that even if we like a woman a lot we have to be rational, keep our feet on the ground and our head well stocked in order to cope with problems and always be prepared. Is that what you meant? Were you comparing the botifarra with love?”

  “Exactly,” says Àlex, staring at the botifarra and unsure how to continue the conversation after his absurd homespun philosophizing, which has left him fairly well unmasked. “The secret ingredient, as you like to call it, is haricot beans. I haven’t eaten them for more than two decades, but the taste is unmistakable and it’s branded on my memory with a white-hot iron. The clever thing is putting the beans inside the sausage and thereby making one single product out of the two things, botifarra and mongetes, which is supposedly the quintessential Catalan dish. This is totally ignorant of course, and shows how little people know about our cooking. When I hear people spouting this nonsense I feel like throwing up.”

  “It’s long debate, Àlex. Food, Catalan or Québécois, no is inert thing but it live and it change. Cooking we do today no is cooking of yesterday. You want to keep still, you go against movement of world. It no have sense.” Annette’s tone conveys all the weariness of a long struggle against all the elements.

  “Well, I happen to think that if we don’t preserve the identity of our cuisine by establishing its basic structure, we’ll end up eating sushi rice casserole with wasabi peas. What do we miss when we’re away from home? Cupcakes? If we want to feel we’re part of a culture, we’ve got to protect what we have and stop being so permeable.”

  “Umberto Eco he explain that incorporate new products in diet of Catalans, Spanish and Europeans it was essential for to save them. He say protein from dry beans help to make multiply European population after Middle Ages. But it also seem that people of Europe eat dry beans before America discovered, but this kind very primitive and vulgar. American bean, it very more resistant and better taste, so substitute other bean. When it arrive to Catholic lands in sixteen century, the people they reject it and it only start like them for to eat in middle of eighteen century, but now everyone they say Catalans they only know to eat haricot beans!” Annette counters.

  “Yes, you’re right. Catalans would live exclusively on potatoes, tomatoes and beans, whatever the order,” Àlex notes. “My cooking was risky, taking a leap to maximum difficulty and a challenge that’s almost impossible to meet today, because it was based on what people ate before the arrival of food coming from the New World. In my resistance against using these products that are so deeply rooted, despite having such distant origins, I had a lot of fun. I wanted to see if I could avoid them in all my recipes and to test how far I could stretch the tolerance of my customers. This radicalism, in addition to my impeccable technique, got me listed as one of the most daring and best-rated chefs in Spain. I wanted to pique the curiosity of the food critics and, when I succeeded, I was acclaimed. Of course, the whole thing got me nowhere and has been nothing but a resounding failure.”

  Òscar and Annette stare at Àlex in amazement. He’s never given such a clear and serene explanation of his reasons for rejecting New World products.

  “It hasn’t been such a resounding failure. Not totally. We’re here, aren’t we? And it seems that the restaurant’s doing well.” Òscar tries to tone down the drama. “In any case, you get ten out of ten for this botifarra, Annette. You must put it on the menu. By the way, since you’re so well informed about the origins of food, do you know why beans are called mongetes – like the word for little nuns – in Catalan, and judías – like the feminine form of the word for Jews – in Spanish? It looks like a contradiction, doesn’t it?”

  “In the popular etymology people they say the nuns… um – how you say them? – ah yes, the monges, they eat always this bean they think is kind of white pea, so the people give name mongetes, like ‘little nuns’. In Spanish they call these beans judías because the Jews they torture by putting in boiling water like the beans. But these no very scientific theories, and I think they no come from serious studies, but someone tell stories by fireside,” she says with the solemn air of a senior lecturer in anthropology.

  “Yes, Annette, you should put this botifarra on the menu. It’ll be a winner.” Àlex winds up the conversation. “Goodnight.”

  Òscar makes the most of the occasion to leave, in case he ends up having to wash dishes or dust shelves, or worse, Annette might ask him again for help in advertising and positioning Roda el Món on the Internet.

  Annette doesn’t feel like clearing up their dishes. She feels lighter somehow, and reasonably happy. The conversation tonight has been enjoyable and even civilized. She bounds upstairs and, as she goes past Àlex’s door, she hears music. Haydn? How beautiful! She impulsively knocks at the door. Àlex takes a few seconds to answer. He knows it’s Annette. Who else could it be? He’s in his underpants.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No. All good. I wanted… I wanted… Is very beautiful, the music.”


  “Yes, I like it too. Do you want to come in?”

  “No… um yes. I no know. Yes, I think,” she dithers. “I wanted… I wanted talk with you, but it very late maybe.”

  “It’ll be a while before I go to sleep. I have a bit of trouble dropping off. You can come in, but there’s just one condition. I don’t want you to tell me about the history of food, whatever the kind. We’ll listen to music and that’s that.” His gentle tone changes to brusque. “Come in, girl, come in. I’m bloody freezing out here in the passage.”

  What is she, the boss, doing in Àlex’s room listening to classical music, and him wearing only underpants? She has no idea but it feels good.

  “So, what did you want to talk about?” he asks.

  “It no important. Days ago, many days you say, ‘I still miss my brother.’ Talk about it is good sometimes. It just this. If you want… you can to tell me,” Annette stammers.

  “Hmm. This could well end up late. It’s a long, complicated story. I could even tell you in instalments.” He laughs.

  “I have time. Lot of time. And I no want sleep. You tell me please.”

  Àlex’s older brother was what might be called a “ten-out-of-ten” kid. He had everything: good looks, brains, ambition and a pleasant nature. He was nine years older, a considerable difference. Their parents were more than satisfied with the good marks, excellent behaviour, sports medals and, in a nutshell, all their boy’s achievements.

  They expected very little of Àlex, however. The baby of the family was assigned the roles of clown, cuddly toy, cute kid, plaything and pride and joy of the household. Everything he did amused his parents, who cheered him on. Hence, he grew up trying to make everyone happy. He was the balance, the counterpoint and compensation for the seriousness of his big brother, who shouldered the burden of responsibility, of being the one who would eventually sustain the family.

  His brother excelled at school. He wanted to study aerospace engineering, but the family had scant means to help him. However, since he was so brilliant, he got a five-year scholarship to study at one of the most prestigious universities in his field. His parents were beside themselves with joy and gazed at him adoringly. The university was a long way from home, in the United States. The boy set off and the parents cried with happiness. A son studying in the United States and all because of his own merit! A lad from Vall d’Aran was flying high, heading for the Mount Olympus of the most privileged people, going off to study in America!

  It was like a dream. But it wasn’t. He’d done this all by himself. No one had given him any gift. He’d studied till he was dead on his feet, with saintly devotion, as his mother said. And he’d done it. All his efforts had been recognized with the most valuable reward: the best degree at the best university. His proud mother told everyone she met in the street, in the queue at the greengrocer’s or at the hairdresser’s. After getting the good news she became a little vain, wanting to look good when they pointed at her in the street, saying, “There’s the mother of that boy who’s gone off to study in Florida.” She bought a new dress and a sexy dressing gown, which she referred to as her déshabillé. Her husband didn’t understand what she had bought. “A desa-what?” he asked, intrigued.

  “Oh, Manuel, we’ll never get out of this hole if you carry on like this,” she sighed. “This is in all the fashion magazines. A dés-ha-bi-llé. I’m going to wear it in the mornings in the hotel when we go to America to see our boy. You have to look nice when they bring you breakfast: tropical fruit, hot chocolate, coffee, croissants, churros…”

  Her husband burst out laughing. “Come on, girl! Churros? In America they don’t eat churros for breakfast. The only Spanish dish will be you in that déshabillé out of the fashion magazines, and you certainly frittered away our money on that. Churros are more Spanish than flamenco.”

  On and on they went. “What would you know about America and what they do there? Of course they have churros! Do you think they don’t eat croissants? In America they have the best of everything from everywhere, and churros are our best thing.” They argued but were happy and laughed a lot.

  For Àlex’s mother, America was as far away as Mars, as exotic as Carmen Miranda and as glamorous as a film starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. She packed their bags so they’d be ready when their son summoned them to come and see him, and meanwhile she dreamt of having coffee with Shirley Temple, Vivien Leigh or Clark Gable, who, she was sure, would be their son’s next-door neighbours.

  The longed-for day of setting out for America never came. They never saw their son again. The first year he asked them not to come and visit. His parents were surprised, but of course they agreed not to come, because, to the extent that they could, they obeyed his every command, granted his every wish. They thought he needed every spare moment for studying such a difficult course – and, moreover, in English! But that was only part of the story.

  Àlex’s mother never got to wear her déshabillé that first year and she started going less frequently to the hairdresser and eventually ended up with long hair that looked like chocolate mousse and cream: dark brown (where the dye still held) topped by white (where it had grown out).

  Their son would soon be coming to spend the summer holidays in Vall d’Aran and they made a large banner with the words “Welcome home, dear son!” to take with them to the airport. Àlex’s mother went back to the hairdresser’s. The last letter from their son informed them that he’d be a little late arriving and instead of coming at the beginning of July he’d be there mid-August. “It would be better for me to stay a while longer in Florida. I have to do some training at the university, which will be a great help for my classes after the holidays.” His parents were both sad and happy. Although they missed him and longed to see him, they also celebrated his excellent performance.

  August was almost upon them. The crickets were singing their summer symphony when the phone rang. Àlex’s mother ran to answer it with her usual “I’ll get it!” They’d had no news from their son for days and the call was almost certainly from him. It wouldn’t be long before they had him back in the bosom of the family, and they were quite on edge, but also thrilled at the prospect of seeing him soon. A few minutes later, she came back with a waxy, completely blank face, and said, “Our boy, your brother, is dead.”

  Àlex continued: “We only found out what happened years later. My brother studied very hard, nearly all the time, but he had also joined a far-right group, a xenophobic terrorist organization similar to the Ku Klux Klan. They went out one night on a ‘clarification’ mission, as they called their activities, with the aim of terrorizing a family that had just arrived from Haiti. They wanted to lay down the law and teach them a lesson – that the whites were in charge. Some members of the group were armed, but my brother wasn’t, because he was too young and a foreigner. Despite his foreignness, he was seen as one of the ‘good guys’, because he was white and following a prestigious university course. It was good for the organization to have members with such a brilliant future as the one that seemed to lie ahead for my brother.

  “The plan was simple. They were going to surround the house, leave signs identifying their organization and fire a few shots. They couldn’t imagine that the Haitians had been warned and would be ready for them. There were a lot of them. They were strong and some were armed. The white kids, who were so sure of their intellectual superiority and organizational genius, were perfect – or I should say very imperfect – amateurs. The whole thing was a huge free-for-all and my brother copped it. He was hit by a bullet, and nobody knows whether it was fired by a black man or a white man.

  “We only found out years later what really happened that evening in early August more than forty years ago, and my father never knew. The death of my big brother and their older son was also the death of the family. I was only nine years old, and for me it meant the beginning of a nightmare. My mother rarely said a word after that, and a few years later my father went out to work one day and never
came home. I went from being the spoilt brat, the funny little clown who made everyone laugh, the Peter Pan who wasn’t supposed to grow up, to being told off for everything I did. I no longer amused them. They didn’t laugh at my jokes or applaud my antics. My father projected his image of my big brother on to me, but I wasn’t in any way up to the standards he had set. The frustration was constant, and I felt more and more useless and pathetic, and less and less valued and loved.

  “For years I believed I was entirely to blame for my parents’ unhappiness, because I didn’t get good marks at school, wasn’t good at any sport, never said a kind word and was unable to form a structured argument. My father tried to the best of his ability, with private teachers, intensive courses, help with reading… but I didn’t improve. On the contrary, I rebelled and, in particular, I completely withdrew into myself. Over the years I’ve learnt that I didn’t have the most important things a kid needs: trust and unconditional love. Every morning when my mother came to wake me up, she said ‘I love you lots’, but those were only words, an empty declaration that was contradicted in her distant demeanour the rest of the day.

  “We didn’t know how or why my brother had died, except that it had happened in America, a country that, in the family circle, ceased to be paradise on earth and became a hostile land, full of delinquents and bad people who had brought about the ruin of my family. Anything that came from ‘that continent of barbarians who killed my son’, as my father constantly repeated in his attempts not to give it a name, was shunned as if it carried the bubonic plague. According to my father, it was the place, America, which had killed his boy. ‘If he’d stayed here to study, this would never have happened. That country is full of barbarians,’ he kept saying.