David's posterous

BIG RAIN/BIG DOG

Each morning at between 5:15 and 5:30, Russell, the huge and untrained German Shepherd  of whom I am in charge (?), begins to bark; a deep sonorous and resonant bark.  He barks at the first things that move and continues to bark until I roust myself from bed and then go wrestle with him to get him off his chain so he can run and poop and pee.  We wrestle because he becomes so excited at the prospect of being free that he  begins to buck and rear like a small horse.  Of course it is in no way obvious to him that this impedes the muddy path to freedom.

Thursday morning was the beginning of another day of thunderous driving rain.  It had rained all night and all day the day before.  The ground was saturated and swamp-like in front of the house and the walkway beneath the eaves that help to keep Russell dry was slick with mud and rain from his forays out to bark in the rain.  At dawn's first bark I rose to do my unleashing duty, knowing that the more quickly I did it, the more quickly I could return to a warm bed inside and the sound of the rain outside.

I eased the door open and peered into the gray dawn and the  equally gray curtain of rain and there he was, leaping up on me with muddy paws and rank doggy breath.  I pushed him back and down, as I do every morning, yelling at  him "down" and "sit" even though it's as futile as screaming into a vacuum.  Russell knows not word one related to obedience.  He is trained by his masters with a rolled up newspaper slapped into an open palm and it is the only thing to which he responds.

We began our morning grapple to find the collar and subsequently the grasping of the all too small clasp that needs to be squeezed and pulled to send him off on his morning duties.   This morning, for reasons unclear, he was particularly unruly and when he completely reared up he knocked me back and off balance.  I lost my footing in the pooled and muddy water on the concrete porch and fell backwards, my back hit the door just as I was twisting to try to keep my tailbone from crashing into the concrete and the door slammed shut.  Shut.
As in locked out at 5:20 in the morning on a calamitously rainy day with no power and/or water.

I was wearing a pair of thin sleeping shorts and nothing else.  I lay there on the cold wet of the front entrance with a huge dog panting over me and a locked door behind me.  I kicked at him and swore at him.  Neither of those things opened the door.  I pried at it just in case, but it was clearly, firmly and absolutely locked.  Thanking God that I at least have the good sense to keep my muddy shoes outside the front door, I struggled to my feet, slipped on a pair of muddy Crocs and began the slosh around the house to see if it could be broken into.  

I had previously broken in through the octagonally shaped kitchen window when I had grabbed the wrong keys upon exiting in my first week at the house.  But I had repaired the crack I had made and had strengthened the lock.  Good work.  Around the back is impenetrable as the back wall is a corrugated aluminum door on a roller, much like that of a garage or grocery store.  The only possibility was the bedroom window; open but secured by a spider-web wrought iron sculpture that covered it completely.  If one was to push in as hard as one could, one might almost; but no, way too small for me.

I was now soaking wet and shivering a bit in the early morning rain.  It may still be Costa Rica, but when it rains for days on end, the sun never gets a chance to do its warming work.  I made my way back to the front door to see if there was something, some method of breaking and entering my own house that I had overlooked.  Again I pried at the doors, the windows; working at the jams and attempting to find a slim piece of something that might be used to prise that once-broken kitchen window open once again.  Nothing.  I made this trek in the deep mud two or three times, before giving in and giving up.  

I stood outside the bedroom window, which would be my only hope.  I pressed at the iron bars and gazed at the slender opening and knew that there was no way that I was going to get through there.  I pushed at the chain that held the two parts of the ironwork together and knew it would never break.  I needed a bolt-cutter, or, wait, a small person, a very small person.  I knew that Dan and Kim, the couple across the street might just have a bolt-cutter, but for sure had a small person.  They have two sons, Reese and Wyatt, five and six years old.  

Because it was still shy of 6:00 AM I retired to my car, blessedly beneath a carport, laid the seat back, shivered, and repeated the Serenity Prayer to myself, over and over.  At least now I had a plan; I just had to wait until a slightly more neighborly hour to put it into action.  There was no electricity and there would be no lights to inform me of my neighbor's having risen to greet the day, but they do have a two year old daughter and she, naturally, gets everyone up early.

I waited as long as I could bear and then slogged across the river that our dirt road had become, letting the pounding rain pour off my body.  There wasn't much to soak, but it was all soaked.  I stood beneath the upper balcony where Kim and Dan's front door was and sensed (YES!) motion and the early morning sounds of a household rising.  I called out, "Hola, hola".  And Kim came to the front door, blinking in early morning surprise and through the haze of the recently awakened.  

I briefly explained my dilemma and within a few minutes tall Dan and tiny Reese were wriggling into ponchos and rubber boots and were accompanying this nearly naked neighbor across the muddy road to the back window.  I explained my plan and they nodded, each of them not quite awake and certainly not at all clear on why they were out in the rain and the mud at this time of the day.  We reached the back window, Dan and I pushed it forward as far as we could and Reese slipped through easily, handily.  

The only obstacle now would be Molly, my own dog.  She would bark or she would hide, one or the other.  I talked to her and she let young Reese through and he made his way through the darkened and unfamiliar house to the keys.  But they were hung too high for him to reach, I'd forgotten how short one is when one is six.  Dan and I looked at each other wondering at the delay, but then heard the sound of something being dragged across the floor.  Reese had spied the tall bar stool I have and was working it to under the pegboard that held the keys.  He was using a technique I am now certain he had used before to get to things that might perhaps have been intentionally hung a bit high for him.  A  moment or two later his pale face was at the window, thrusting the keys forward.  Victory.

Dan and I sloshed around the house one last time and opened the front door.  Reese and Molly both spilled out and I thanked everyone profusely.  By this time it was nearly 7:15.  I had been locked out for almost two hours.  I thought about sleep, but instead made myself a pot of tea and began my morning routine.  Afterall, I had some thanks to give.

RAINY SEASON BLUES (and greens and flowing browns and reds)

Mid October; well not exactly, but close enough; we've already crossed the halfway point of the month, and we are nowhere near the end of what has been a particularly heavy rainy season. According to some study done somewhere, we have received nearly 70% more rain this year than is normal (although, this being Costa Rica, normal is a bit of a nebulous concept). The fact of the matter is, however, that there is mud everywhere.

What I can tell you about it from my personal experience is that the front area of Casa de Uli, where I am now house sitting, turns into a lake, a marsh and a bog; pretty much in that order each time we get one our almost daily downpours. It makes the trip from the outlying garage to the front of the house an unpleasantly slippery, sloshy and muddy journey and is particularly memorable at night when I get home from work. I remember Uli's parting words being, "I wanted to put down a load of gravel there, but didn't get to it."

This is the time of the year when my feet never seem to get clean; you know, really clean. I suppose I could wear shoes that had ties at the tops, to keep the mud and the ooze from squeezing in, but that would require my tying the laces which is entirely out of character for me. I trudge through the sludge in my Chaco flipflops for everyday wear and my Keen's for hiking and walking the dogs. Yes, the mud slides in, but I don't have to go to all that work to affix these footwear favorites to my feet. And the added advantage is that I can just hose the mud off my chosen footwear. Sooner or later, even those in sensible shoes will step into or through a puddle deep enough to come in over the top and then one must suffer wet, gritty and muddy socks. Ick.

I guess, also, I could do what most of the Tico trabajadores do and wear shin high rubber boots, but have you ever smelled your feet after you've taken them out of rubber boots? It's enough to make you want to slip on your flipflops and walk through the mud just to get the odor out. There are a pair of Uli's rubber boots here, shiny and new, but his feet are also substantially larger than mine and I definitely don't need the blisters that would be incurred by even a short trek in those floppy boats. And there is also the cultural faux pas of looking like a gringo wannebe when you show up in town with a pair of practically new shiny rubber boots on.

Business? What business? All of Uvita is a ghost town except for us year-round residents and the action at La Cusinga is exactly the same. Every now and then one sees a couple of Euro-kid backpackers hop off the bus staggering under the weight of their giant designer backs. They look around, blink and head off to the nearest hostel. At La Cusinga our guests are made up of those to whom we owe favors or to those for whom we are extending a favor.

Last week we had seven young French guests ("what do you mean we cannot eat at 10:00? Sacre bleu!") who huddled on the upper deck in their ponchos and chainsmoked Costa Rican Marlboros. This week we have guests from a tourist agency who are bringing prospective clients from other agencies through, the off season being the only time to be able to check out prospective recommendations. Later in the week we are hosting a couple who are part of a group building a GPS system for the waterways and mountains of this area. This is a gratis stay and they have told us we can just feed them "rice and beans". Right.

Buying food to serve (and keep fresh) for this kind of business represents a serious challenge to my chefly abilities. Potatoes, onions, hardy green beans, even broccoli and cauliflower are no problem. The interesting veggies; my precious lettuces, greens for braising, long beans and others of that fragile nature are harder to protect. We rely on turnover and our vendors rely on our being able to buy in slightly larger quantities than you might for your home.

This buying pattern doesn't make me happy and it sure doesn't make my farmers happy. And as seasonality and bad luck would have it, this is a time of the year that so many of the rare and exotic come into season in the raised beds at Diamante Organico. Each week poor beleagured Marjorie calls me and I have to tell her that I can only take a kilo of this, two bunches of that, and fruit ordered by the individual quantity, rather than bags and bags of her organic goodies.
I have to be careful to keep enough food around for surprise local guests of whom I have had few in the last couple of weeks, but not enough so that it rots and turns to compost in the refrigerator. And you thought you had it tough.

Am I freezing fish? Why yes I am. I portion it and freeze it as deep and as fast as I possibly can.
And I would challenge you to be able to tell me that it's been frozen after I'm done doing my magic to it. But still; it is frozen and if and when anyone asks me, I look them right in the eye and then I look away and say, "yes, er, yes it is frozen; that is, no, it's not fresh". Damn do I hate to have to do that.

So come on October, kick it over into November and then we've only got one more (long and wet) month to go. December will magically bring the sun, it will bring the guests and it will bring loads and loads of fresh veggies and fish every single day. Pura vida. Chef Dave.

Who We Are and What We Do

 

PHILOSOPHY/WHO WE ARE/WHAT WE DO

 

I returned to La Cusinga in January, 2009 with a dream in mind.  I wanted to create a cuisine that would bridge the gap between what La Cusinga offered their guests physically and spiritually, and what they were putting in their bodies when they ate here.

Just as La Cusinga represents a sustainable form of eco-tourism, I wanted to offer a cuisine that reflected that same sustainability.  I was on a mission to show not just our guests, but also the people of this community that it was possible to create delicious, serious, mostly organic food using entirely local ingredients.

 

I had in mind a vision that would support local farmers, fishermen and food artisans and one that would create a new cuisine of coastal Costa Rica.  I visit the markets each week to talk with growers and to develop the relationships that will be mutually beneficial as Costa Rica experiences its rapid growth on an international level.  Dairy farmers, cheesemakers, rice farmers, ceramic artists, vanilla growers and cacao farmers; all are included in this vision.

 

I am often asked if I cook entirely locally and my answer, somewhat surprised, is always, “Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I?”  This should be every Chef’s dream, to be able to provide the food for his guests with ingredients grown less than an hour away.  Between the produce we grow here at the Lodge, the lovely organics I am able to buy from my loyal and local farmers, and the fish that come from the ocean I can see from my kitchen, we have created a cuisine here at La Cusinga that is original and unique to this area. 

 

What we are doing is by no means unique internationally; after all the French have been using this model for years and the United States is home to a huge “farm to table” sensibility.  But here in Costa Rica our world class fish and produce have been pushed to the side in an effort to create a more homogenous cuisine for tourists.  I don’t believe we have to do that and I believe that the ingredients I get here at tiny La Cusinga rival those of any kitchen in the world.

 

I am proud of the food we serve at La Cusinga.  I am proud that organic growers here have risen to the challenge of producing top flight produce and I am proud to be able to go right to the boats where our fish are caught.  But mostly I am proud to be able to put food on our tables here that honors and respects the hard work of John and Bella, of Geinier and Henry and of all the people who make La Cusinga the world class Eco-Lodge that it is.

Frijoles Tiernos

 

FRIJOLES TIERNOS

 

I must confess to being a bean lover and nothing is better, to me, than using a bean fresh, that would normally be dried.  In the States, these are called “shelling beans” and they are taken right out of the pods and sold fresh.  They are available at the Feria in San Isidro and during the season, there may be four or five types available.

 

The joy of these beans is that they cook in 45 minutes or less, cutting at least two hours out of the time on the stove.  The real pleasure of them though, is the flavor and texture.  These fresh beans have a richness, a creaminess and almost a “meatiness” when cooked that is unsurpassed. 

 

When I see them at the Feria, they are usually laid out in bins, with a few kilos bagged up ready for sale. They are plumper and more colorful than their dried counterparts and there is a sheen to them, as if they have a healthy glow.  The colors range from a pale pink to a mottled variegated pink and white to faint shades of green and yellow.  Among my favorites are the heirloom variety, “Cua” which is a yellow-brown color, a bit more rounded than elongated with a deep almost nutty flavor.

 

I cook these beans much like I cook dried beans (except for a substantially smaller amount of time) and find that it’s best to start with a sauté of whichever vegetables you choose and the fat and meat from whatever pork product you like to flavor them.  Sauteeing the vegetables gives them a greater depth of flavor that just adding them and letting them boil.   For additional flavor I like to add a couple of spoons of of roasted tomatoes, or a handful of roasted pepper strips. You can of course, cook these beans in a purely vegetarian style, but they don’t call it “Pork and Beans” for nothing.


FRIJOLES TIERNOS

 

1 Large Yellow Onion, cut in ½” dice;

6 Cloves of Garlic, minced;

1 Carrot, cut in ¼” dice;

1 Jalapeno Chile (optional), cut in fine dice;

6 Strips of Bacon, or 1 Smoked Sausage (hot or mild), cut in cubes; or, 2-3 Smoked Pork Chops (it is quite tempting to use a combination of the three);

1 Ounce Light Cooking Oil;

1 Heaping TBS of “Cajun Spice Mix”

3 Fresh Thyme Sprigs (or ½ Tsp Dried Thyme Leaves);

4 Bay Leaves

 

Add the oil and pork products to a heavy pot and bring up to a good heat.  If you are using bacon, try to get some color on it.  Stir frequently and add the vegetables and the Spice Mix.  Stir often, scraping up the spice mix if it should stick to the bottom of the pot.

Add the beans and herbs (and tomatoes and/or peppers, if you like) and cover by 2 inches with water.  Bring the pot of beans to a boil and then reduce the heat until the liquid is just bubbling.  Allow to cook for 15 minutes and then check the level of the liquid.  It is best if it remains about an inch above the beans.  Try not to let the beans cook at too high a heat or they will break up and not remain whole.  It is important to keep the beans in enough liquid while they cook, but after about 30 minutes, as they get closer to being done, let the liquid cook down until it is just even with the beans.  The beans are done when you can just squish them between your fingers.  Remember that they will keep cooking as they cool.

 

Frijoles Tiernos are great served alongside grilled fish or meat, sausages, or along with either a highly seasoned and flavored rice dish for an upscale version of “gallo pinto”. 

Two Couples/Two Fincas

TWO COUPLES/TWO FINCAS

I would like to use this opportunity to both appreciate and introduce you to the two couples that do the hard work that brings me the organic produce I value so highly. Mauren Jimenez and Ademar Varela, who own and run Los Coreotos, their own certified organic finca, are one couple and Marjorie Cerdes Mora and Bolivar Cortes Gomez, the operators of Diamante Organico are the other. These two couples, between them, supply me with 90% of the produce (all organic) that I put on my plates. In each family both partners share the workload, and interestingly, on both farms, the women handle the ordering, the paperwork and the bulk of the communication.


I have written here at great length about my trips over the hill and down into El Valle de San Isidro to visit the Thursday Feria in Perez Zeladon. The market there is immense and the beautiful produce is a multi-colored reflection of the bounty the valley has to offer. My visits there, however, are not of the onions and carrots, garlic and potatoes variety; the nuts and bolts of cooking, if you will. The Thursday Feria is where I hunt down the newly seasonal, the small batches and special growths, the perfectly ripe tomatoes and the handpicked watercress that screams “use me today”. I should note that there was no watercress yesterday, it was eaten by a tapir.


The real workload and major part of my tiny supply chain comes, however, from Los Coreotos and Diamante Organico.


I first met Mauren and Ademar at the Perez Feria a year and a half ago. My boss, Geinier Guzman, introduced me to them on my first day back at the market after a long absence and suggested that if I really wanted to go all organic that they were a good place to start. They had a table in the line of tables in the back corner of the football field sized platform and Mauren wore the green blouse that showed that she was selling “certified organic”. Geinier introduced me to a couple in their early 40’s who were a bit “Tico shy” at meeting a gringo, but I pulled out my somewhat rusty Spanish and we were off.


Mauren is slender with tousled curly black hair and the patient but world weary look of someone who has raised three children while partnering in a small self-sufficient farm. It appears that sleep is somewhere down the list of her priorities, but she is warm and open and we have become good friends. Ademar is the muscle, the physical part of the farming and he looks the part. He is short and strong with a dark tan, a firm grip and and ever present white straw cowboy hat perched on his head. I am so immensely grateful that we all hit it off from day one.


My buying history with Los Coreotos began with me making one buy from them at the Thursday Feria in Perez Zeladon and then another at the Saturday Feria in Uvita. At that time La Cusing was buying our "nuts and bolts" from a local non-organic vendor. I wasn't happy with that arrangement, nor the quality of his goods and I wanted a change. It became clear over time (and as our business increased) that we would need a delivery early in the week and we struggled with how to put that together. Los Coreotos is above the San Isidro Valley and it is a long trek to the coast for Ademar to service just one account.


In February of this year Mauren and Ademar courageously pooled resources with a local seafood vendor and opened a small retail outlet here in Uvita. This was great news to me, but sadly, community support was tentative at best. Signage was bad and our local gringos went on buying produce and frozen fish from far away at La Corona and the BM as they had in the past. But what this did do was open the door for Mauren and Ademar to develop a small produce distribution network here along the coast.


They say that when a door shuts a window opens, and suddenly I was able to get not only my specialty produce from Los Coroetos, but also to have them pick up and deliver the potatoes, onions, carrots and garlic that we need on an ongoing basis. Now I get three deliveries a week and we're all happy.  Additionally, Mauren and Ademar have begun to participate in yet another Feria further south in Ojochal and their business is good, but not doing much for Mauren's world weary smile.


My introduction to Marjorie and Bolivar at Diamante Organico came in a much more roundabout way. Diamante is owned by Linn Aosjia, a vibrant woman with spectacular blue eyes who split her time between farms in California and the San Salvador valley, between the coast and Perez Zeladon. Ironically, I had met Linn during my riotous days at the Lookout Hotel in Ojochal and had even catered the week long party that was her wedding in Spring of 2006.


We had made phone contact and had circled each other a bit warily, as our previous relationship had had it's ups and downs. We had, however, each been through a few changes (perhaps a bit more significant on my part) and our first meeting was classically defined by her showing up at my kitchen entrance for her first delivery with the Grateful Dead singing "when life looks like easy street, there is danger at your door" from my iTunes. We had a good laugh about the irony of that and the ice was broken. And better yet, the produce she brought me was nothing short of awesome, a word I use infrequently.


Everything she pulled from its bag that first visit was of exemplary quality. I had asked her to bring me a sampling of greens to braise, one of my passions, and the bag she brought had not just three or four, but nine different varieties, beautifully mixed. There were the first Chinese long beans I'd seen in Costa Rica and beautiful bok choy. The red romaine was tender and still crunchy and she even brought me variegated amaranth leaves for garnish. I was like a kid at Christmas and completely sold on Diamante Organico.


Linn was, however called away to the US on long term business at her other property, leaving Marjorie and Bolivar to run the finca. Marjorie is robust, red-faced, jolly (but quite business like when need be) and filled with energy. Bolivar is the perfect foil; slender and quiet, but with twinkling eyes and a look on his countenance that engenders trust. I loved them immediately.


So now each Wednesday Marjorie calls me and we joke and laugh over the bad connection. Diamante Organico sits deep in the San Salvador valley, in reality just over the coastal hills from us, but far, far away as far as climate and phone connections. The valley is in rain forest and when it is raining it looks like a set from "Lost World" with fog hanging in the trees and mists floating through the valley. The finca is quite a special property and the care and love that is taken with it is impressive.


On Thursday morning Marjorie and Bolivar do the cutting and bagging and head out of the valley and over the hill to the coast. They make a stop in Dominical and then head down to see me at La Cusinga to hand deliver their lovely perfect produce. I give them some of my homemade ice cream for their troubles and Marjorie always packs a gift bag with chiles, annona or some of those variegated amaranth leaves for me.


It is so moving to me that these people, these two couples, work so hard to provide to such a limited, specialized market. I don't know how they're making it, but thank God they are. If the produce wasn't just so damned good and if they weren't all such special people, I could never feel this strongly. But they are, and it is, and I feel that it is not just my pleasure but my duty to support them. It is definitely a privilege to count them among my friends.

WHY WE/I DO WHAT WE DO

WHY WE/I DO WHAT WE DO

A great part of our business at La Cusinga comes from making ourselves available to various tour groups. This is just smart marketing, something my boss and good friend, Geiner Guzman, is very good at. We put ourselves out there in a number of small internet niches and our guest list reflects this. We have been jam-packed busy the whole month of July, normally a slow month, and have hosted bird-watchers, yoga practitioners, GPS classes and more. Additionally, a lot of our guests who are non-group affiliated come here from Europe, primarily Germany, where we are a big presence on Eco-tour websites.

And this is all great; groups come and groups go. We put on our best faces, put out our best food, show them how to get around and relish our position as hosts at what is a very special place in a very special part of the world. We provide directions and bag lunches for hikes, set up tours, cater to dietary needs and administer to insect bites and nasty sunburns. We answer a LOT of questions. Sometimes, however, it is easy for our ultimate "reason for being who and where we are" to be lost on us. I must confess to getting a bit caught up purely in the work aspect to be able to enjoy and/or appreciate the unique-ness of my position.

Thankfully, we are lucky to have a group or two come by who bring us back to the roots of what we represent and who we are. We had such a group last week and another at the end of May. Last week, Franco, a long-time friend and supporter of the Lodge brought in one of his bi-annual yoga groups for a week's stay. And what this usually means to the cynic in me is a lot of special dietary needs and a fair amount of cosmic woo-woo-ness; this has happened frequently in the past. This was not, however, the case with this group.

What we were lucky enough to get was, instead, a group that got us. We got a group that was so ready to love us, and where they were, that when they arrived in the pouring rain they stood right out in it with their arms outstretched to the skies. The lavished and sloshed in its "cleansing feeling". It was easy to see, from minute one, that these folks would be different.
I immediately referred back to my meal roster. The only person with special dietary requirements turned out to be Franco, the leader. And I already knew he was vegan and was ready for him.

This may seem odd, but we do indeed get groups of people who will come down for their first dinner with us and not say, "hello" or "hola" and not even make eye contact. It is an open kitchen and we are right there in their faces, but somehow they choose to ignore us. And odder still, we get guests who remain that way for the duration of their stay. There is really nothing that makes one feel more like "the help" that being ignored in such close quarters. Not these guys, though, they came down to eat and to have a good time with grins, laughter and smiles of greeting mixed in with their "Como esta"'s. These people came down dancing to the music I was playing in the kitchen. It was so refreshing.

Dinner that first night was consumed with so much gusto and appreciation that I couldn't help but understand how different this week was going to be. And as the week eased by, there never ceased to be smiles of appreciation and even wonderment on the faces of this group. It seemed as if every one of them stopped at some point to make contact, to express amazement at where they were, or simply to thank us for being there. Soon, it seemed as if I, at least, was seeing La Cusinga through their eyes. The views, the yoga pavilion, the rain, the sunsets, even the food I was cooking all took on renewed value and a renewed quality of "special" for me when seen through the eyes of people seeing it and falling in love with it for the first time.

So, I need to thank Franco and all the great people in his group for helping me, in the middle of a three week run with no days off, to revisit and recapture the magic and the wonder of the place I work. La Cusinga is one of the special places on this Earth, and I have the Greatest Job in the World. Thank you.

THE COME AND GO BLUES

THE COME AND GO BLUES

Although there is some dispute as the the finer details of this particular process, as it now stands, if one, one like me for example who does not have residency, is living in Costa Rica, it can only be done on a tourist visa; essentially a 90 day pass. In order for one to "refresh" that visa, one must leave the country for (and this is where the dispute comes in) for either 72 hours, or, as some would have it, no time at all; just a quick in and out.

In order to keep my slate clean and so as to not jeopardize my situation in their lovely country, I have been a strict observer of the 72 hours out of the country every 90 days during my time here in Costa Rica. Whether this makes me any better or worse of a "perpetual tourist" in the eyes of Imagracion, I have yet to discover. And since I do indeed wish to stay here, doing what I do, I have my fingers crossed that I am doing this in the honorable and correct fashion.

It turned out that after a somewhat drab and dreadful June at La Cusinga, that we would be besieged for much of July and it was suggested to me that I make my 72 hour foray a bit earlier than the 90 days, which was fine with me. I engaged Nathalie at the Jungle Pet Lodge to take watch over Booker the Dog, I made reservations for a cabana at Isla Verde in Boquete, Panama, I packed a bag and I was ready to exit the country.

It always seems as if it should be an easy proposition, this crossing of the border, but one never knows what surprises, mysteries and downright puzzling things await.

I got up at 5:45, took Booker for our long and hilly morning walk (I'm on a big hill climbing campaign these days; cardio-vascular and all that), finished packing, consumed smoothie and tea, and he and I rambled off to the Jungle Pet Lodge. He was excited the whole time up there, but when he saw that he was going to have to share Ms. Nathalie's attentions with a 14 year old shepard/mastiff mix and a St. Bernard (yes, a St. Bernard, here in Costa Rica) he became decidedly less enthusiastic to the point of pulling back on the leash when she took him, which he has never done before.

I continued rambling on and made the border by about 9:45 or so and then the fun started. I usually park my car on one of the congested streets and some encrusted drunk or another comes over, throws cardboard over my windshield and I tell him I'll be back in three days and I will compensate him richly ($3-5) upon my return, for watching my car. But today, the streets were packed with all kinds of parking hustlers and when I parked my car, a guy with missing teeth and a blood-spattered shirt told me it would cost $100 for him to watch my car. I informed him that I parked there in January and again in April for a far lesser sum and told him we would discuss it when I got back.

There was virtually no one at the Costa Rica side of the border, but when I dragged myself and my bags through the puddles, mud and various forms of human degeneration to the other side of the terminal, the scene at the Panama side was like a panel from a painting by Bosch. The lines (were there lines?) were mobbed and there must have been 150 people competing for two exit windows. There were people pushing, posturing and parading; all of it performed at high volume. I shuddered and kind of attached myself to a couple of moderately well-to-do Costa Rican families and after 75-80 minutes of disorganized jostling we made it to the window and then were spit out. I then got on a packed shuttle bus and we careered on down the highway to David. At David, one transfers to these somewhat charming old yellow Bluebird school buses (and with all the comforts you might remember from your school bus) and the final hour and half descent to Boquete is made in a bouncing reeling fashion, marked by perhaps 30-40 stops along the way.

The stay in Boquete was lovely, as it often is. The weather is decidedly cooler, after all it does sit in a valley at the base of the mountains, and they, like us in Costa Rica, had been getting a lot of rain. No problem. I had books, music, the newest issue of the New Yorker, and best of all (a birthday present from sister Barbara and her husband, Pete) access to the NY Times crossword puzzle and it WAS Sunday, big puzzle day. Life was good.

So for three days I read, ate, slept, hiked (when it wasn't raining), got massaged, ate, read and slept. Life was good. I got up early the morning of departure and blithely slipped, unknowingly into yet another adventure. I should know to expect these things by now. I left the hotel at 7:15, Costa Rica time (Panama is an hour ahead), wanting to allow myself plenty of wiggle room for traveling. I took a taxi to the bomba (station) in Boquete and got on another charming old yellow bus; again, more charming than comfy. It took about 20 minutes for the bus to fill with Panamanians on their way to their daily requirements and we jounced off down the hill to David.

The bus terminal in David is quite a scene, but I have learned over the years that it's best not to pay much attention to the beggars, animals, smell and overall mayhem. After one pays $.25 to pee in a disturbingly smell trough, one ventures to the opposite site of the terminal where a line-up of "busetas" (shuttle buses) awaits. Each bus has a driver and an assistant who serves in the capacity of barker. He stands outside the buseta and shouts out the destination over and over again in an apparent attempt to be louder than the guy at the buseta next to him. Slung over his shoulder is a chain that holds one of those old fashioned change making machines that I always associate with the ice cream man of my childhood.

The bus ride out of David is a bit circuitous, and meanders through some fine and not so fine neighborhoods before it heads out on the highway. Once upon the highway the buseta stops intermittently, but frequently. The barker jumps out and yells our destination, "Frontera, frontera" loudly and proudly and people either do or do not get on the bus. Despite there being an open seat, no on wishes to sit next to the only gringo on the buseta, which is fine with me. I check the clock and despite our numerous stops, we are making good time and I will have plenty of time to pick up Mr. Booker, take him home and with any luck take a shower before heading in to work.

We stop and start perhaps 50 or 60 times, but finally the arched top of the Panamanian border building is in sight and we're as good as home. When I came around the corner, however, to stand in line for the "salida" (exit) window to have my passport stamped, it seemed that another experience entirely awaited me. There was a mob of perhaps 300-400 people (who knew how many) standing, pushing, waiting grimly in front of one, yes one window. There was no semblance of a line, none at all, but being the good citizen I am, I walked back along the right side until I found an obvious break in the crowd. This was far, far worse than what I had deemed a "thing most horrible" when I was entering Panama on Sunday.

There is was, I was in "line" at the "salida" in Panama, trying to get back into Costa Rica and there was one window open with one slow moving and most beleaguered senor behind it. Outside his window milling in the waiting zone, the sidewalks and spilling over into the streets (the curb is 18" high) was a nascent mob of maybe 350 people all trying to reach the window at the same time. I tucked into line (ha, line, what line?) with a family of nine from Iowa and we bobbed and weaved together in the crowd like boxers in a ring, like small craft on large seas, like whole nuts tossed into a whirling food processor.

It was as close as I've been to a riot since I ran down Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley tossing bricks through the windows of car dealerships in the name of peace. The crowd grew tired, then frustrated, and then, downright and upright (no where to sit, now was there?) pissed off and began chanting, then throwing things, and then, horribly, just surging forward with only a concrete wall and safety glass windows as their destination.

The terminal manager finally emerged and did a fine job of emulating confusion, care and concern. He tried to enter the mass of humanity that was rudely sullying his fine terminal and was pushed back out as if refracting magnets had come, ever so briefly, together. So he did what any right minded individual would do; he went for back-up and came back with six Panamanian soldiers in camo gear. They did what any soldier would do under the circumstances; nothing. They stood and watched, like good army men.

When it was finally too obvious to ignore any longer, the military began apprehending and pulling the obvious party crashers out of the center of the mob and flinging them off the 18" curb and into the street. Someone threw something and someone got hit with an umbrella and suddenly (and finally, thank God) the brave soldiers entered the eye of the hurricane and started pushing people into something resembling a line.

People fell, bodies were strewn and curses in a plethora of tongues were hurled, but finally the courage of the military won out and there were two lines formed somewhat like steel is forged over a fire; one for senors and one for senoras y senoritas. And so it came to pass that the terminal manager saw fit to open a second window (stout thinking, that) and we all ultimately came to reach the window and get our precious exit stamp so that we could go stand in yet another line on the Costa Rican side. I was in the crush for three and a quarter hours and have never seen anything like it, although Altamont came close.

I passed through the Costa Rican side (where they have chains and stanchions to form the lines) in a relatively breezy 45 minutes. Upon reaching my little Toyota that I had promised my extortionist, the toothless gentleman in the blood spattered shirt, that I would pay to watch in my 72 hour absence, found that I was blocked in by a semi, sporting a full trailer. The woman who was obviously the "Jefa" of the parking mob hit me up for $10 and promised to find the driver of the semi. It was only another half hour before the driver was located, backed it up, and I was on the road. Clear sailing? Oh no, not yet, Chef. At the customs check a huge logging truck was broken down and a senor was waving us all to the left. The left? What was to the left?

What was to the left was the side of Paso Canoas that nobody really wants or need to see. I attempted to negotiate some of the most horribly rocky streets I'd ever driven on, ever trying to keep parallel to the main highway, but working farther and farther away from it. Finally I passed the Policia who told me, "adelante y derecho". Straight ahead, then right; that's what I'd thought.
I continued through lake sized puddles, abandoned cars and dead dogs. An obvious right turn emerged and I took it to yes, the main highway. Clear sailing? Almost.

It had begun to rain while I was waiting in line for the hallowed passport stamps, and now it was coming down harder. I sloshed through Ciudad Neily and checked the gas gauge. A quarter tank; I'd stop in Rio Claro for gas, a fluid discharge and more fluids. Despite the rain, the driving was good until I hit Rio Claro where it seemed to have rained a whole lot more that anywhere else, since the Rio Claro was not clear at all, but the color of mud and instead of staying in the river banks where it belonged, it was up over the road and nearly two feet deep. Traffic was proceeding through the renegade Rio, but slowly, and one lane at a time. When my turn came, I tucked in behind another smaller car and we searched for the high ground as the water came up over our tires.

I was a lot wetter on my brake drums than I wanted to be, but I was through the flooded Rio Claro and up to the town proper for gas. I pulled into the only service station in town and saw to my horror, that all the gas pumps had garbage bags over them. "Gasolina mal" was the muttered response to my yearning question. So I was above "E", but well below 1/4 tank when I got back out on the road. The next distance sign told me it was 47 kilometres to Palmar so I sighed in resignation and hit the gas.

Fortunately, I had forgotten about Chacarita at the turn off to Golfito and I gassed up, grabbed iced tea and club soda and made a final run for it. I was late, so late. My phone had lost its charge and I just had to power on. I got to work at 4:15 rather than my scheduled 2:00 and Booker the Dog had to spend one more night at the Jungle Pet Lodge, and I'm sure it was fine with him, he likes Nathalie. Just another day for him.

So there it is, the glory, the excitement and the thrill of the road. Travel far, see the world, share experiences with like-minded souls, press flesh in ways you never dreamed imaginable. Adelante...

COOKING FOR BEN

I am standing in an unfamiliar kitchen with boxes and tubs of food all around me. I'm not sure yet where the pots and pans are and I can't seem to find the cutting boards. I have turned on a switch that says "oven warmer" and there is the unmistakable smell of burning fabric coming from somewhere near the stove.

This is just like the old days, hearkening eerily back to my time spent as a caterer. Recently, I have been taking my "Chef of the Jungle" act on the road. I have been donating my services and cooking skills as one part of a community effort to raise money to pay the hospital bills of a dear friend.

Ben Vaughn, one of the true "good guys" in our oceanside/jungle's edge paradise was brutally beaten while confronting some robbery suspects. Beaten to the point that he needed to be air-vacced to Costa Rica's only hospital with a brain trauma unit, where he spent nearly three weeks, much of it in intensive care.

Like so many of us here, Ben didn't carry nearly enough of the insurance necessary to cover the
monstrous medical costs that follow catastrophic injury. In response to the financial needs mounting from his shocking attack, this coastal community has risen up in support of Ben. A common bond seems to have united us and money from donations and fundraisers has been both pouring and trickling in to help Ben with the payment of inconceivably high hospital bills.

Ben has been released from the hospital and while he still needs a tremendous amount of therapy to even think about resuming his life, his recent appearance here showed the strength and character he will need as he faces the ramifications of this incident; physical, legal and spiritual, in the days to come. He has lost the sight in an eye and lost a step, but his willingness to do the work necessary is already apparent.

As donations and contributions began pouring in, my thoughts ran to, "what could I do?"

I don't have the money to make a straight-up donation and I don't have much to offer other than my skills in the kitchen. So it occurred to me that I could be offering my services in the kitchen in the form of fundraising dinners cooked in private homes. I would cater to small groups, meet with the hosts to create menus, cook for up to eight people, back out my costs and donate what I could to Ben's mounting assistance fund. I ran this idea by Geinier, my boss at La Cusinga and he generously offered to match what I could raise.

I put together my idea and posted it initially on Facebook. I got immediate response, not from prospective guests/diners, but from others who appreciated my idea. Beautiful flyers were donated and designed by Marcel and Rita at the magazine "Dominical Days", and a local printer did a stack of 150 of them for us for free. I was ready and willing, all I need was that first call.

And that first call did come, on a Saturday. On Sunday I was meeting with Sharon and Mac in their home in Ojochal and by Tuesday afternoon I was standing in their kitchen burning her napkins, kept, unbeknownst to me, in a pull out drawer below the burners, that was indeed an "oven warmer".

Sharon and I had met in order for me to, naturally, find the house, scope out the kitchen and, most importantly, write the menu. She had been part of a group in St. Thomas that had sponsored bi-monthly dinner fundraisers, so was a perfect first guest to try out my "Cooking For Ben" idea. And graciously, she went along with all my ideas, telling me to go ahead and cook what I thought would be best. Since that's the whole premise behind what we do at La Cusinga, it was on. I would do, essentially, a "greatest hits" menu, making it easier than trying to do something new in a new space.

Our menu would consist of four courses, just as it does at the restaurant. We would start with a chilled curried cauliflower soup, then move to a mix of lightly dressed organic greens augmented by crunchy "ceviche" of fresh palmito (hearts of palm). The entree would be fresh local fish (to be determined by Victoriano, the fisherman) with my "soon to be legendary" Salsa de la Jungla, a spiced rice pilaf, and whichever vegetables my organic farmers told me were the best. I offered a chocolate cake for dessert, but Sharon opted for mandarina pound cake topped with blackberry ice cream.

I put together my prep and purchase list on Monday, called in my produce orders, visited Victoriano to make sure he would be coming in with fresh fish and made ready. On Tuesday I went down to the little Feria that Citrus restaurant hosts in Ojochal and met with Mauren and Ademar, good friends and organic farmers. I came away with just picked whole heads of organic lettuce, fat/ripe tomatoes, small tight heads of sweet smelling broccoli and shiny red bell peppers.

Just across the main highway and down the rutted dirt road was Victoriano's fish stand and tiny home. There is no sign, just his raised concrete platform and his two ancient coolers indicating that someone might just sell fish here. We greeted each other warmly and I was given the customary kiss on the cheek by his buxom wife, Maria, whom he calls, with all the affection and love in the world, "Gorda". The lid to the cooler was thrown open, and there, glistening in among the chunks of crushed ice were eight, nine, maybe ten gorgeous silvery yellow Robalo, bright eyed and fat, each weighing at least 5-6 kilos.

Robalo (called snook in the US), is an estuary fish. It lives between the fresh and salt waters and the meat is pearly white, beautifully lean and mild. It lends itself very nicely to sauces and has just a touch of freshwater sweetness. I chose a six kilo fish, wanting to assure myself eight beautiful cuts. I have to figure on a 50% yield when I buy whole fish and need to do my math to make sure I get what I need. Victoriano packed it into one bag, packed that one into a bag of ice and I stowed it in the trunk for the short drive to La Cusinga.

I had the produce, I had the fish and I had brought the olive oils and herbs. That left me just a few short hours in the kitchen at La Cusinga to finish my prepping. I cleaned the stems from the beautiful mix of braising greens that my friends at Diamante Farms had brought me and picked the ends from the dark green "media metre" Chinese long beans that they grow as well. Bolivar from Diamante had chopped and cleaned a kilo of palmito for me and all that remained was to slice it thin and toss it with lime juice and olive oil, roasted red peppers and garlic chives. A few grinds of black pepper and a pinch of sea salt and it was packed up and ready.

The last thing I had to do was butcher the fish; the firm, fresh robalo. I marveled at how easy it was to work through the flesh is as I slid the knife down the spine and peeled the filets away from the bone. The filet knife slid again, between flesh and skin, leaving the whole filets ready to portion. I cut thick white steaks from the filets and packed them in a double wrap of plastic before putting them on the ice in my cooler.

The bags of produce, the ice chest with soup and ice cream, the fish on ice; it was all in the car and ready to go. I took a last look around, checklist in hand, and was soon behind the wheel and down the driveway at La Cusinga, on my way to Ojochal to cook some dinner.

So it was that I found myself in Sharon and Mac's kitchen, putting a light smoky glaze on her cloth napkins and kitchen towels and searching for the cutting boards. And it all came together quite nicely. I've done a lot of catering and it all comes down to preparation (back to the "mis en place is God" philosophy, for those of you who read that blog). I was well prepped and had left myself little to do but the actual cooking.

I made the rice, set up the fish to cook and when the guests arrived we were underway. Sharon had provided me with an interesting mix of two kinds of china and it was great fun to use different plates. The guests were charming and receptive; hungry and appreciative. The cooking and service flowed and the night passed smoothly and successfully. The oohs and aahs were deeply appreciated and it seemed that just because of the reason for each of us being there, there was a common feeling of sharing and unity.

At the end of the evening, as the envelope was passed, there was a moment that drew us all nearer. We were equals, chef and diners and it was clear that I was part of this and never considered "the help". The common denominator of each of us doing something for Ben was the glue that held us together.

It is unfortunate that sometimes it takes a tragedy, such as the one that befell Ben, to pull a community together. I hope it's not too naive of me to wish that we could feel that sense of sharing life and pain along with love and happiness without needing a common cause, but I suppose I do feel that way. At least for this small moment in time, however, because of what happened to Ben Vaughn, our coastal community is closer than I've ever experienced it being.
I do hope it stays this way.

CHEF'S SECRETS, PART 2

CHEF'S SECRETS, PART 2
or,
FLAVOR, AND WHERE HE GETS IT

DRY INGREDIENTS

I have two storage stashes for my flavor boosting ingredients, cold and not cold. The supplies that are dry and mostly non-perishable go in the pantry or on the kitchen shelves. A few of them even reside close by the stove. Most of these are things you can buy at the store and you probably keep a few of them around in your own kitchen. Do NOT underestimate the value of these seemingly mundane items.

First and foremost is salt. And not table salt, but yes, I keep that around too; mostly for salting the water of things I blanch or par-cook. I cook with kosher salt and I use sea salt when I want that Bang-Pow salt effect in a particular dish. But back to your table salt for a moment or two. Do you blanch vegetables like green beans or broccoli or carrots until they're just done and then saute them in butter or olive oil just before serving. No? Well I do and they taste better for it.

And they taste better still if you put a heavy dose of salt into your blanching water. In Thomas Keller's world famous restaurants, French Laundry (Napa Valley) and Per Se (Manhattan) he instructs his cooks to blanch their green vegetables in water "as salty as the ocean". Why? Because it brings out FLAVOR.

Next to the salt on the shelf is black pepper and no, not black pepper that you buy pre-ground in a little plastic package or a jar. I use either a pepper grinder in the kitchen or if I am really busy, I pre-grind black peppercorns in a coffee/spice grinder each day and keep them in a cup near the stove. Black pepper is one of the simplest flavor boosters I use, but I never tire of the "bump" it gives to salads, fresh sauteed vegetables, or meat and fish. And if you really want the pepper to have some zing (this is a secret, don't tell) toast the whole peppercorns really lightly in a skillet until the start to give off a peppery scent and then grind them. Zap.

Okay, moving on through the dry goods. I always keep a good (and relatively fresh) bag of red chile flakes around to add little bursts of heat to pasta sauces (specifically tomato). You can buy bulk red chile flakes at places like Whole Foods (gak!) and you can be reasonably sure that they have sufficient turnover so that the chiles are not aged into a second dehydration. Another spice blend that I keep around is packaged curry powder. I use it in a couple of my soups and I slip it into flour mixes that I use for fish or chicken before pan-frying. It is also a principal ingredient in my Chilled Curried Cauliflower Soup. Again, this is not one of those things that you want to try to use after it's been sitting on the back of your pantry shelf for two or three years

Something restaurants have been using for many years (I first started using it at the Elite Cafe in the mid-90's) is Pimenton, or smoked paprika. It has been hard to find, but now commercial spice manufacturers like McCormick are selling it. Paprika is made in Spain and Hungary by drying pimiento chiles (a long sweet/hot red pepper) and grinding it. Most of the commercial paprika on shelves in people's home kitchens is so old it is no longer hot and not even perceptibly sweet. This, like the chile flakes, is something best bought from a wholesale spice seller and used soon after purchase. But, back to the Pimenton, which is those same pimiento chiles, but smoked before being dried and ground. The flavor difference between regular paprika and Pimenton is profound and I love to use it in rice dishes like jambalaya, braised chicken dishes that use roasted tomatoes, any stew I make that includes sausage or pork products and soups. This is a very interesting flavor and I can't recommend it highly enough.

Something I just recently started keeping around and working with is tubs of different flavors of Thai curry pastes. They generally come in red, yellow, green, and massaman. They represent a lot of hard work avoided, if one tries to make them oneself. as is asked for in a number of Thai cookbooks and recipes. Essentially, they are a paste made from fresh and dried chiles, ginger, a number of different dried spices (turmeric, cumin, etc.) and they pack a flavor wallop. I use them in rice, sauteed vegetables and in a couple of the cold soups that I make. I particularly like the flavor boost that a tablespoon or so of Thai curry paste gives to my carrot/beet/ginger soup. But use them judiciously, as a little bit of these goes quite a long way. And yes, they are hot!

The Ticos use a lot of achiote paste to color rice and vegetable mixes and I must admit, I'm not adverse to stirring a spoon or two of it into the vegetables I saute when I make a batch of rice pilaf and I want some color (bright, bright yellow, indeed) from it. Achiote paste is made from grinding annato seeds which used to be used in an old kitchen staple from the 50's and 60's, "Egg Shade", used in shrimp and fritter batters. There isn't a significant flavor in achiote, at least none that I can detect, but it sure does make rice a lovely shade of yellow.

And lastly, one of my secret ingredients is a quasi-Cajun spice blend. I've worked in two restaurants that were New Orleans-oriented and saw my share of blackening spices. If I never see blackened redfish again, it will be too soon. But I still love to use a blend of paprika, cayenne, dried thyme, salt, and black pepper as a seasoning agent. I use it in rice. I use it in flour mixes for frying. I add a healthy whack of it into the sauteed vegetable base I add into my seafood or crab cakes. The cayenne provides heat, yes, but the subtlety of the paprika carries a lot of flavor. And it definitely needs salt to help distribute all the flavors. You certainly can rub it on fish or chicken before you pan-fry it and it works nicely with anything you're about to put on the grill, as well. It will burn and char a bit, but I suppose that's the point of blackened anything. My blend used eight parts paprika, one part cayenne, four parts of salt, two parts black pepper and one part dried thyme. Occasionally I will put mustard powder into it if I'm feeling "that way" and crumbled bay leaves are nice if you're not coating fish or meat with it.

I use dried thyme when I make chicken stock (it is irreplaceable) and beans. Bay leaves go into almost all stocks and long cooked braises. Almost all other dried herbs are a waste of time. Oh go ahead and keep some dried oregano around, as long as it's relatively new to your spice cabinet. Take any of your dried herbs that are over six months old and throw them away.

WET INGREDIENTS

Oil and vinegar; wet ingredients. And there you have it, but for the fact that there are so many misconceptions about oils, particularly the various kinds of olive oils, and the fact that balsamic vinegar is just so great in everything. Not.

I use one basic oil for cooking; a canola oil blend. I can get it all the way up to smoking hot and it doesn't burn. It it great for pan-frying fish and chicken and I use it frequently. I generally use it once and toss it. Fish cooked in twice used oil is nasty but occasionally you can get away with it for chicken if you strain it right after you use it and keep it in the refrigerator. I also use half canola oil and half olive oil in a lot of my salad dressings and definitely in mayonnaise. The one great thing it has going for it other than a high smoke point is that it has virtually no flavor. And here's where we segue way in to my olive oil rant...

Despite what they may tell you in cookbooks and on those damn cooking shows, you DO NOT NEED to use 100% olive oil in your salad dressings. Good olive oils have enough flavor to overwhelm the most acidic and saltiest of salad dressings. You can save money and taste the other ingredients in your dressings, aiolis and mayonnaises if you use equal parts olive oil and canola oil. Buying a "light" olive oil is a waste of time. Buy good olive oil and mix it. And if you absolutely must cook with olive oil (don't do it, don't do it), buy the damn light stuff. Good olive oil is not for cooking. Period.

I was talking the other day with an old friend (who shall remain nameless) about a recent recipe for mayonnaise that I had posted on this blog and he said, "So I should use extra-virgin olive oil, right? It's the best, isn't it?" Well yes and no. As far as being the best, it's the purest and has the most flavor. Does that make it the best? Everything has its use and you do not use extra-virgin olive oil except for flavor. If you want to put a splash of it in a dressing at the end of making it that's fine and if you'd rather drizzle it into your salad just before tossing, that's better yet. Most high quality extra-virgin olive oils are flavoring agents. They are not for cooking and they will overwhelm any sauce you make with them in which they are the sole oil used.

Please, please, don't misunderstand me. I love, love, love good extra-virgin olive oil. I love the way a tiny bit of it tastes over a piece of hot grilled fish, mixed with a squeeze of lemon. I love the way it tastes when you drizzle it over lovely fresh tomatoes. And I really love it on fresh grilled bread of high quality. Yes, indeed. I do not love it heated too hot and I do not love it when it overwhelms an otherwise delicate sauce.

And that brings us to vinegars. I love vinegars, too. Acid, used correctly, works much like salt in bringing out flavors. This is why we squeeze lemon over our fish and this is why we put vinegar in salad dressings. Years ago when I worked with Mark Miller in Berkeley he taught me a huge lesson by pouring a good splash of high quality red wine vinegar into a soup to finish it, rather than salting it; brought the flavors right up and helped to balance everything. I liked that.

As you may have inferred I am not a huge fan of balsamic vinegar. Most commercial balsamic vinegars have sugar and artificial coloring added to regular vinegar and are a "safety flavor"; mild and inoffensive so that people with timid palates can use them with impunity. Frankly, that's not me. I use commercial balsamic vinegar to pack roasted beets in and to braise red onions. I also toss fresh strawberries with balsamic vinegar and tapa dulce, our local cane sugar, to spoon over a Basque almond torte I make. For my palate, there is not enough acid in balsamic vinegar for it to make a decent salad dressing. There are many grades of expensive balsamic vinegars and much like extra-virgin olive oils, they are "finishing vinegars", best used as a final drizzle of flavor over tomatoes or even roasted meats.

My favorite vinegar for dressings and hits of flavor is Sherry Vinegar, or Xeres, if you're buying it in Europe or Costa Rica. It has a nice acidic bite without making your nose tingle and doing that funny thing down your eustacean tubes, and there is a "woodiness" to the flavor of it that blends well with most everything. I use it frequently, along with olive oil, sea salt and fresh ground pepper to marinate tomatoes for salads. I use sherry vinegar mixed with a bit of commercial red wine vinegar in salad dressings and have even used it to deglaze the pan after I have roasted chicken breasts.

There are a number of flavored vinegars on the market and they all have their uses. For a white vinegar I like champagne vinegars, as they seem to have a bit of fruit to them, unlike a simple white vinegar. I do keep white vinegar in my kitchen for making "chilero", the famous Costa Rica hot sauce that uses habaneros. Vinegars are a great vehicle for carrying heat which is why Tabasco ferments its chiles in vinegar and vinegar only. I do keep a good quality red wine vinegar on the shelf as it goes into my Caesar salad dressing in equal parts with lemon juice. If you are buying red or white vinegars here in Costa Rica make certain you are not buying something that mentions the word "artificial" on the label. Chemical acids are used here to create vinegars and there is virtually no real flavor in them. Cuidado!

So get in the kitchen and cook with flavor! Mild is not a word in our vocabulary.
Aspiring to mild flavors is like aspiring to senility. Create your own flavor profiles using any or all of these ingredients and remember, Food Is Love.