With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Cluck, Cluck
“Emoni, I’m looking forward to working with you this week. First, let me learn what you already know. Can you name me these ingredients?” Chef Amadí points to the different herbs and spices. “I can see that you know,” she says. And I do know.
I pick up the large leaf and sniff it. It’s smaller than the type we use back home but I’d know that scent anywhere. “That one’s bay leaf,” I say. “And that seed is cardamom.”
She nods and shoots me a wink.
She moves us to a different station and opens a container where several large octopi chill on beds of ice. I’ve never worked with octopus and I’m fascinated by the vibrant red color of the skin and the slippery feeling of it in my hands. She demonstrates with a knife how to slice through the octopus tentacles that she will marinate for grilling. I pull my hands back when they begin reaching for the spices. I feel like scolding them as if they were Babygirl, always trying to touch something they have no business touching. Babygirl. I was able to FaceTime ’Buela and Babygirl right before I got here and it felt so good to see their faces.
“Chef Amadí,” I say, comfortable enough to ask something I’ve been wondering about. “One of the kids from school has your same last name, but with an ‘h.’ Ahmadi. I didn’t realize it was Spanish.”
“My family hails from Morocco,” Chef Amadí says. Her voice always sounds like it’s in song. I look at her. Her skin has a tinge of tan in it, but I wouldn’t have thought her anything other than a Spaniard. I slow my knife down and glance at her under my lashes.
“Oh, no. You probably can’t see it. I take after my father’s side, mostly Spanish. But Spain and all of the Iberian Peninsula has a huge influence of the Moors.”
I didn’t know a lot of this. I don’t know how to respond so I grab another tentacle and sprinkle it with oil.
“Chef Ayden says you have something special. An ‘affinity with the things that come from the dirt,’ he says. A master of spices. And coming from Ayden that means a lot. He doesn’t usually believe in natural inclinations. Only in working hard enough to make the hard work seem effortless. Is it true about you?”
I know my eyebrows look about ready to parachute off my face. “You mean the bay-leaf thing?”
“No more oil, that’s good.” She takes the bowl of marinated octopus from my hand, covers it with a red cloth, and puts it in the fridge. “The ‘bay-leaf thing’ is exactly what I mean. You’re new to Spain. From what your teacher tells me, not many of you have had exposure to world cuisines. Yet, you know a variety of herb that looks and smells slightly different when found outside of this region. I’m sure you’ve probably seen it in other ways. You’ve probably mixed spices together no one told you would go together. Cut a vegetable in a certain way that you believe will render it more flavorful. You know things that no one has taught you, sí?”
I shake my head no at her. ’Buela always said I had magic hands but I’ve never said it out loud about myself. And I don’t know if I believed it was magic as much as I believed I’m a really good cook. But she is right; most of my experimenting is with spices. “My aunt Sarah sends me recipes that I practice with. And I watch a lot on Food Network. Do you have that channel here? It’s really good. They have this show called Chopped—”
Chef Amadí puts down the rag she was wiping down the counter with and takes my hands in hers. Studies my palms. “Chef Ayden tells me you have a gift. If you don’t want to call it magic, fine. You have a gift and it’s probably changed the lives of people around you. When you cook, you are giving people a gift. Remember that.”
I pull my hands from hers. “What’s next?” I ask.
Chef Amadí purses her lips, then takes a breath and smiles. “You’re going to make hen for my guests. The restaurant opens for lunch in an hour and a half. We will call it the Monday special.”
Her words scurry over my heart like a barrio rat and I want to squeal out a horrified “Me?” But I keep my face calm and nod like I cook for dozens and dozens of people every day with a recipe I haven’t tried before.
She nods. “Take whatever spices you want, break down the bird in any form. We will serve it your way. Gallina à la Americana.”
She raises an eyebrow and I know it’s a challenge. She’s trying to see if I can hang. I adjust my chef’s hat and walk to the pantry. I don’t have to turn around to know that Chef Amadí is smiling.
“Gallina à la Afro-Boricua has a better ring to it.”