Like a Real Saturday (Life is Good)

It felt great to wake up this morning and know that for the first time I was going into a Saturday night with eleven reservations already booked.  It seems like such a small number when I think back to the rock and roll Saturday nights of my wasted (!)  restaurant youth, but right now, it's a huge momentum builder each time we do more than ten dinners a night.

 I knew, basically, what the menu would be, but I still wanted to get down to the Uvita feria to pick up the ingredients (as yet unknown) for the finishing touches for the salad course and to dress up the entree.  I also had to head in the other direction, south down the coast to Ojochal, to see Jaime the pescadero, and find out what his boat had brought in the previous night.   It had rained hard all night and I was hoping that it hadn't kept him from his nightly foray along the coast.

 The Uvita feria is tiny, I know almost everyone there and it's gotten to the point where they know what time of the morning it is by my showing up.  I like to be one of the first arrivals each Saturday morning and there weren't too many other shoppers  when I walked in.  Sadly, it looked pretty sparse.  It is one of the quietest times of the year here right now and we're all scuffling just a little bit.  

 Marguerite's booth and tables are right in front and I always look forward to the smiles, some shy and some friendly; from Andrea, Kirsty and Deylin, the three young women who work for her.  Marguerite represents a number of small growers and producers and her table is packed with breads, cheeses and packaged organic products as well as lovely and fresh vegetables and fruit.  I had almost everything I needed back at my kitchen, but I still like to peruse the goods.  I can’t help but look even if I'm not necessarily buying.   I did need some hot chiles for Rita's Chilero sauce and took the whole bowl that Marguerite had; jalapenos, long skinny reds and a couple of bright reds with that habanero lantern shape. 

  Marguerite kind of ambled up in that quiet, shuffling way she has, but her blue eyes were sparkling and I could tell she had something she needed to show me.  She and I have been down some similar roads (and we're both refugees from the States) and I can always tell when she's got something she thinks is special.  Today it was sweet potatoes. real sweet potatoes, not the white and starchy (not that that's a bad thing) camotes we generally get.  Naturally, because it just seems that things work that way, I was intending to do my soon-to-be legendary camote/plantano puree and some real sweet potatoes would do nicely toward sweetening it up.   I grabbed a baguette while I was there; I wanted something for the salad, but wasn't sure what it was and bread is always a start.

 From Marguerite's it's just three steps to Ademar and Mauren's table.  This was the first week in months that I hadn't given them an advance order and I could see from the look on Mauren's face that I had some explaining to do.  The are a Tico couple who have given over their entire farm to organics and they do work hard at it.  I did my best to placate her by explaining that after all, we had been closed for four days.

 I've been buying lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and even organic chickens from them twice a week and their produce is wonderful.   They grow me tri-colored chard, crunchy bok choy (poc choi, here) and sweet beets for roasting and marinating.   The herbs that we don't grow at La Cusinga I buy from them as well; and fun occasional purchases like baby white chayote and mustard greens. And the amazing thing is that they put this bursting table together at the big Thursday feria in Perez, tear it all down and bring it faithfully to the tiny Uvita feria every Saturday.

 They're probably both about 40; Ademar sports a straw cowboy hat and an always half-buttoned shirt (gray hairs poking out) over his thickset muscular body.  He and I shake hands like old friends.  I invited him up to La Cusinga a few weeks ago and he was pleased by the invite and  amazed by where his produce was going.  He's the front man with the wide and welcoming grin.

 Mauren is the real soul of the operation, or at least it seems to me.  She's got thick wavy hair, a garden-weary smile and the soulful eyes of a saint.   Mauren takes my phone orders and we've struggled through some translation together.  I didn't know it was acelga and she didn't know it was chard.  Some evenings I'll call at 6 or 6:30 and she's not in from the gardens yet.  Mauren takes the orders, counts the money and does the bagging while Ademar smiles with his arms crossed.  She also administers to both her mother and their 11 year old daughter, who are there with them every Saturday.

 Mauren and Ademar have chiles picantes, tambien, so I take a bag from them.  I also buy a bunch of sturdy Italian parsley (perejil) and I can feel my salad coming together.  The parsley, the goat cheese I just bought and the roasted garlic in the refi seem to be the perfect combo to spread on crostini.  And entonces, as if  by magic, at my elbow is a kilo bag of fat, red and ripe cherry tomatoes; and it's the only one.  The salad is set.

 I wander the market, which admittedly doesn't take long, to say buenas dias to the people I see each week.  Tall, smiling Raven, who is just putting out the first edition of her new magazine that ties Perez to the coast, Montana al Mar, pulls me aside and asks me if I would consider contributing a recipe each month.  Hell, yes I would.  I was flattered and told her so.   Forgive my bursting with positive attitude, but this day just kept getting better.  I said my good-byes and turned south.  Time to buy the fish.

 The drive down the Costanera to Ojochal is a lovely one; palms on either side of the road; the jungle to the left and snatches of ocean views on the right.  Just past the main entrada to Ojochal proper is a sharp turn down a driveway to the right.  High on the hill above sits Casa Tortuga, with its sweeping view of the sands of Playa Tortuga, but after one makes a quick turn to the right the rocky dirt road flattens out and runs right up to the water.  The first series of buildings to the right are the home, fish cuttery and sales area of Jaime, el pescadero.  The buildings are in the coastal style of ramshackle utilitarian, hammocks hang from the trees and broken down cars and rusted equipment dot the yard.

 Across the mud and grass, behind the "out" building is a concrete foundation with ancient "coffin" style refrigerators, a creaky wooden table and a running hose rinsing the concrete flooring.  A group of Tico men, some shirtless, some not, but most in black rubber boots are standing around.  An array of well-worn knives rest on the table and a bag of whole fish in ice is propped in front of the refrigerator. 

  "Como estas, Yo quiero comprar pescado por mi restaurante.  Buenas dias, Jaime."   Jaime grunts and the Ticos turn to stare at me.  My Spanish has been decent enough to get my over the first hurdle.   Jaime leads me to the bench freezer and begins to pull out bags of rock solid fish filets and I gently remind him that I only buy fresh fish.  He nods, understanding for maybe the third or fourth time, and we head back to the concrete paddock.  I tell him I want either Pargo or Rovalo and he nods again.  Jaime flips back the lid on one of the smaller coolers and there, on ice, are three large, clear-eyed rovalo; yellow-striped and pointy nosed.

 I’m going to need close to four kilos for my guests and I decide to buy a whole fish.  I pick out the firmest one, with the clearest eyes, but really, they all look great, having all been caught last night.   Jaime lifts my purchase up onto the rickety filleting table and turns me over to a shirtless 40ish Tico in the requisite black rubber boots.   I have filleted a lot of fish in my days and now I always take the luxury of having someone else do the cutting for me, not having the outside cleaning area or the running water I need to make it simple and scale-free.

 The cutter and his assistant,  a lanky kid in his late teens who I presume to be his son, set to work.  The cutter slides the biggest of the knives in between the gills and the head and cleanly takes it off.  He turns to me and asks me if I want it and I tell him, “para usted, para su sopa”.  A lot of guffawing goes on around the table in Tico slang about the fish head and its “restorative” powers.   The cutter goes back to his work and slides the knife down the spine, separating the top filet from the bone.  His son hands him smaller and smaller knives as he gets to the finer work and rinses the used blades under the running hose. 

 The filleting is quick and easy under these conditions and soon there are two sides,  3.8 kilos, of lovely iridescent pinkish white Rovalo filets sitting on the scale.  I compliment the cutter on the ecomony and swiftness of his work, pay Jaime the 15,000 colones (roughly $27) for my eight pounds of fish and put the bagged filets in my ice chest.  I am really happy with the Rovalo; having fish this fresh to serve can only make both me and my guests happier.

 So it’s back to the Lodge to put all this in order and figure out the details of my established plan.  Andrey has already decided we’ll have braised greens and roasted ayote for our side vegetables and I show him the sweet potatoes and tell him that we’ll fill out the plate with a puree.  I talk to Cindy, the Lodge manager and am pleased to find that we are up to 17 reservations for the evening. 

 I start on desserts first, since it’s nice to get the baking out of the way.  The night before I’d made a mandarina pound cake and blackberry sauce and since the heavy downpour had kept all but two diners away, I had plenty left.  It’s nice when there are this many people to give them a choice of desserts, so I opted for the Chef Dave classic combo of flourless chocolate cake and organic cocoa ice cream.  The cake is surprisingly easy to make, bakes in just 30 minutes and I’ve got a freezer full of ice cream.  This combination of desserts; the mandarina with blackberry sauce and ice cream and the chocolate combo is our Saturday night “special”.The chocolate and butter melt, the sugar and egg yolks get blended in and I rapidly fold the beaten whites into the chocolate base.  It’s in the oven in minutes.   

 The first course will be a roasted tomato soup.   I serve a chilled soup as an appetizer each night and have taken advantage of the down time by making and freezing a number of varieties in zip-locs.  The soups are mostly simple purees, but using perfectly ripe product makes for an unexpected intensity of flavor.  Additionally, I roast the tomatoes with onions and whole garlic cloves in good olive oil to carmelize the vegetables and further intensify the flavor.  The tomato is a crowd pleaser and a good one to serve to first time guests.

 I’ve got several heads of organic lettuces wrapped up in wet paper towels that are from earlier in the week, but they keep well.  I’ve decided to make crostini from the baguette and to chop and blend the Italian parsley with the roasted garlic and the creamy goat cheese for a spread.  That’ll be on the side of the plate.  I’ll split the ripest of the cherry tomatoes, toss them with extra-virgin olive oil, madarina juice and basil right before serving and the salad is as easy as that.  I decide to take it up a level by dicing and crisping pancetta that I picked up at the factory where it’s made in Santa Ana, to sprinkle on the top of the lettuces.

 All that’s left is to cut the fish and decide on a sauce.  Since we’ve got a beautiful ripe papaya, I ask Andrey to make his papaya-chile puree.  He’s gotten really involved in our work and can now almost anticipate what I’m going to need.  He’s rightfully proud of this sauce and I love to have him make it for a big night.  It’s a simple puree of papaya, citrus, chile picante, ginger and olive oil, but when the fruit is as ripe as it is today it becomes something special.

 I flop the Rovalo filets out onto the cutting board and take a look.  They are, just as they were at Jaime’s, shiny white with a pinkish cast and beautifully firm.  Fish like this is a pleasure to cut and I easily get 22 generous portions out of the filets with very little waste.  I wrap the fish for the refi, see that Andrey has the sauce finished and so now it’s only the little things left to do.

 The crostini get sliced to crisp in the oven and I brush them with the oil from the roasted garlic.  The goat cheese has softened and I blend it with the vibrant fresh chopped parsely and four or five cloves of roasted garlic.  The resulting spread is delicious and I’ll wait to spread it on the toasts until right before dinner service.

 So now we wait.  The rain pours down and our waitress, Karla, a bright and charming young woman from Monterey, CA, splashes in out of it at around 4:45.  She, like me, is excited about our good crowd for the night.  She sets the tables while Andrey juices the mandarinas that we will use for our complimentary jugo fresco for each table.  The camotes and plantanos are bubbling away on the stove for the puree. It’s just about all over except the final cooking and the service.  We all take turns pacing, we jump around to some reggae and we make the final preparations.  Andrey fills the carafes with the jugo while I sear off the fish and spread the crostini with the herbed goat cheese.  Everything feels right.

 And everything is right.  Our diners arrive on time, the eight first, followed by the smaller groups.  Andrey has chilled our soup cups and I pour the brick-red tomato puree out into them.  The jugos are on the table and it’s showtime.  The soup goes out and as usual, the cups come back quickly and scraped clean.  Andrey has already started to dress the salad and I put a final grind  of sea salt and black pepper into the juicy marinated cherry tomatoes.   The lettuce goes on, the tomatoes sit at the front, we sidle the crostini off to the right and I sprinkle the pancetta bits over the top.  The salads look great.

 I turn and push the sheet pan with the top-seared fish for eight into the oven, and follow it with smaller pans for the twos and the three.  We’ve par-roasted our ayote spears and they go back in as well.  The mix of braising greens goes into a pan with hot sautéed roasted garlic, olive oil and the pancetta drippings.  A quick dash of water and the top goes on the pan for them to braise.  I give Andrey’s puree a final stir and taste and the combination of the two kinds of yams with the ripe plantanos is as good as ever.

 The salad plates are back and the entree plating begins.  The puree goes down first and we place the greens and the curved ayote spears behind it.  I pull the hot crispy fish out of the oven and gently lean it onto the puree.  Andrey spoons a generous dollop of the sweet and spicy papaya sauce over the fish and I sprinkle on whole cilantro leaves for color and texture.    It’s a beautiful plate of food and I’m proud to serve it.

 The 17 plates are a blur and now the noise from the dining room has died down and now the only noise is from the knives and forks hitting the plates, with an appreciative murmur from time to time.  I wipe myself up and having given it a few moments, visit the dining room.    All appears to be well, in fact, perhaps better than well.  People are very happy and quite complimentary.  This is what makes it worth it.

 Karla has bused the tables and all that remains is the choice of dessert.  We get a few “one and ones”, but at the big table, as is typical, we get six chocolate to just two mandarina/blackberry desserts.  The cake goes down, the ice creams are leaned against it and off they go.  These get eaten rather quickly, but then ice cream waits for no one.

 Checks get dropped, dishes get washed, the desserts and other food get wrapped and stored.  It has been a good night and a great day.  Each group of guests stops on their way out to express thanks and compliments.  It is elating for me and I hope for my team.  This is what it's all about.  We’ve all worked hard, know it was good, and are pleased and proud to hear about it.  And it’s never a let-down after they leave.  For me, the high, the buzz, live on through the night and even into the next day.  I woke up this morning thinking about how good it felt.

 

Shrimping, Good and Bad

"Costa Rica can make its shrimp fishery turtle-safe, or it can lose the privilege to sell shrimp to the U. S.",                                         from a spokesperson from the Turtle Island Restoration Network.

On the 1st of May the United States placed a one year embargo on Costa Rican shrimp because of a failure by the Costa Rican government to monitor and punish those shrimp trawlers not using Turtle Excluder Devices (TEDs).  The TED is an internationally required device for commercial shrimp trawlers that allows over 90% of netted sea turtles to swim free.  Last year commercial shrimp trawlers not using the TED netted over 15,000 sea turtles in Costa Rica alone, the majority of which died.  Over the past five years there have been  29 unpunished offenses in Costa Rican waters among the 55 licensed trawlers and several of them have been second offenses.

I read this article first, with shock, and then disappointment in Costa Rica, the country in which I live and work, for its failure to enforce simple actions to save natural resources.  Shrimping here is big business.  Last year the United States bought over 161 MILLION pounds of shrimp from Costa Rican fishermen.  The Costa Rican government has gotten big press internationally lately for all the green things it is doing to preserve the natural resources of the country, but it is only now getting started on preserving the waters that border it on either side, and is obviously turning a blind eye to the offenses of big business.

After I read the full story about the shrimp embargo I thought about my previous post and of Santos Castillo,  a man I characterized as "Pescadero Supremo".  And I thought about how fishing and shrimping are done here in our little part of the Ballena coast.  Santos, and so many pescaderos like him, go out each night in their ancient and oft-rebuilt botes, two or three to a crew.  They chug to familiar spots along the coast and put out their lines in hopes of bringing in enough pargo or rovolo to keep their boats in fuel and their electricity turned on.  I could see Santos' house in my minds eye, with no doors or windows and the thin-walled but spotlessly clean fish cleaning room.  I thought about tiny Santos proudly showing me his day's catch with his wife and business partner at his side wheedling me to take some pargo as well as camarones and reminding me that I was 2500 colones (about $4.25) short.  I also thought of the 161 million pounds of shrimp versus Santos' two or three five gallon buckets.

The shrimp fishing here on the Ballena is done with hand thrown nets, usually at the mouths of rivers just after it rains.  The shrimp spawn in the combination of fresh and salt water and the area in which to maneuver a boat is pretty damn tight.  Santos' catch of fifteen gallons of shrimp was a good one and probably weighed in the neighborhood of 30 pounds.  I bought five kilos from Santos and paid him 4500 colones per kilo for juveniles (15-20 per #), or about $3.50 per # for hand caught fresh shrimp, and he was happy to make the sale.

The turtle is quite respected here in our part of Costa Rica and Playa Tortuga just down the coast is a preserve where the turtles come to lay their eggs.  Yes, there are unscrupulous fish sellers here who will discreetly sell you a turtle egg and the Ticos do think of them as an aphrodisiac.   But it seems that here, without the lure and the temptation of big US bucks for shrimp, that the entire marine eco-system in kept in balance.  Generation after generation hands down not just their boats and secret fishing spots, but also the wisdom and warnings about maintaining the balance of the waters.  

There is talk that this entire coast, rather than just the segment here in front of La Cusinga will be turned into a Marina Parque Nacional and although the pescaderos are fighting it, there would be precious little they could do.  It would be a shame to see Santos and his hermanos del mar lose the right to fish the waters they've spent their lives fishing, but the belief that preserving the coast is a good one.  But I wonder how much Santos and the other lifelong fishermen have done to keep their fish-rich waters productive.  They, more than any of us, rely on the continued health of this coast

Santos Castillo "Pescadero Supremo"

We got a call at the Lodge that someone locally had some fresh shrimp that they normally sell to the owner of the property and her husband.  She, is Bella, Geinier's mom and her husband is a Gringo, John.  The call came from someone about 20 km down the coast in a little village called Coronado.  The price, 5,500 colones a kilo for juveniles was too good to pass up so I volunteered to take a drive down to pick up 5 kilos.
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon and we only had two for dinner, so I had plenty of time on my hands.  I rolled down the window of R2 and down the coast I rolled, through the glades (glades?) of palm trees with the ocean and soon the mangrove trees on my right.
Coronado is a tiny, tiny village that is made up of nothing more than a embastador (grocery/variety store) on one side of the street and a tiny little rundown hotel on the other side.  The houses in the village are off to the right of the non-stoplighted crossroads.  By way of directions I was told to find the Escuela de Coronado and then to start asking for Santos Castillo.  I can follow directions sometimes, so I stopped in the embastador and asked first for the school and then for Santos Castillo.  I got the directions to the school immediately and several shakes of the head for Santos until one frail gentleman shook his head up and down and flashing a toothless grin told me, "derecho, derecho, y directamente, abajo la escuela."  Okay, take a right and go behind the school.
It turns out that there is one major decision to make in Coronado once one gets onto the rutted dirt road that runs out to the ocean; there is a fork.  I rolled right and after about 100 meters or so saw large woman nursing a baby.  "Perdoname, por favor.  Conoces Santos Castillo?"  Si, si, she did and I had taken the wrong side of the fork so I backed up and headed straight, toward the water.  I should have known.
I picked my way between the rocks dotting the road on my way due West until I finally came to a bend that I had to take and thankfully, came alongside a pedestrian.  "Conoces la casa de Santos Castillo?"  He smiled happily and said, "No, Senor, no."  "Tal vez (perhaps) la escuela?"  "Oh si, senor, si, directamente".  It had to be around here somewhere.
I found the school (it was not lost afterall) about another 500 meters or so down the road and drove into a driveway hoping that perhaps I'd found the casa de Santos.  I was immediately set upon by tiny yapping dogs and a wary looking Tico came out of his blanketed front entrance.  Again I asked and this time he knew for sure.  Excellent.  I should mention that these are barebones casitas we're talking about here.  No windows, seldom doors and maybe a TV mounted on a rickety table.  We would call this abject poverty, but in these villages, this is just the way it is and they don't seem particularly unhappy about it.
I pulled into what seemed to be Santos' front yard and was eyed suspiciously by the two women propped up in front of the blaring television.  "Santos Castillo?", I ventured and was acknowledged by a cursory shift of the head toward the back of the house.  I sidled through the narrow living room and was graciously greeted by a woman whom I assumed to be Sra. Castillo.  She was plump and congenial and met me with a barrage of questions about who I was, where Bella and John (and Henry, their other son) were and what I wanted.  Once I had established my credentials as the Chef at La Cusinga we were ready to do business.  I followed her to the back of the house where we were met by a smiling little elf of a man who was indeed Santos Castillo, the man of the hour.  
The room we were in was maybe eight feet deep and fourteen feet wide and it held two bench style refrigerators and a huge old concrete sink that had a cut-off plastic soda bottle tied to the spout with a rag to increase it's range.  A scale with a tin bowl/spout hung from the ceiling.  The floor was concrete and the walls were uninsulated wood.  Santos was barefoot and in a wifebeater T-shirt and smiling hugely.  The concrete sink was filled with bright red pargo (red snapper) and when he swung the lid of the refrigerator open there was another pile of fish and two five gallon buckets filled with shrimp.  Sra. Castillo hovered around plying me with a sales spiel for more and more fish in rapid fire country Tico Spanish.  I demurred, telling her that it would be just the shrimp today and Santos hauled out a five gallon bucket and commenced to rinsing and weighing them.
He was a delight; a grinning, happy little man with a big bucket of shrimp and fish all around him.  And I must say that at no point was I hit by the overwhelming scent of old fish or anything to indicate a lack of freshness.  Despite the humbleness of the surroundings, it was kept clean.  Santos began pouring the shrimp out onto the scale and I ran to R2 for my ice chest.  When the weighing was carefully done, Sra. Castillo carefully counted the money, twice, and indicated that I owed her another 500 colones.  It was true.  We shook hands all around, exchanged phone numbers and Santos lugged the cooler out past the television ladies (who had never moved or spoken) to the car and I waved my goodbyes, jumped in the car and bumped and jostled my way back out of Coronado.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention that the shrimp were impeccably fresh and delicious.

The Uvita Feria

Each Saturday morning in our little village of Uvita, there is a feria, a farmers market.  It is put on in a small commercial development just off the main (and only) crossroads in Uvita; a crossroads used to demark many a driving instruction.  The commercial development, sadly, has never succeeded.  While it contains a number of prime location shop spots, they remain empty, the windows papered up.  The only components of the development that seem to get any use are the gym/spa and the covered soccer field  both of which are used seven nights a week.    This little development was seen originally as a community hub, with a bookstore, hairdresser and cafes; but it never seemed to take hold, rents went unpaid and businesses closed or never opened. 

The development was begun four years ago when the real estate boom on the Ballena coast was thriving.  Property was priced at an all time high and the North Americans  who were here to invest their retirement dollars were pumping up the local economy.   Athough Uvita is not a population center, or a cultural center for this part of the coast, it is a financial center.  When the Costa Rican banks put in offices here, they did not put in branch offices without full facilities as they did, for example in Cortes, although it is the county seat.  No, Uvita got the full service banks with officers and armed guards.  This was where the gringo dollar was being invested.

Banco Costa Rica took up residence in fresh development right on the prime corner of the Uvita crossroads.  Next to it sprung up a shiny new mercado, La Corona, an offshoot of the largest grocery in San Isidro; it's shelves brimming with Chilean wines, olive oils and familiar brand names.  The mercado directly across the street that had just moved into another prime location and re-opened with a fanfare quietly folded up its awnings and closed its doors within six months; a victim of La Corona.  A new upstairs restaurant, Dona Maria, opened opposite the Banco Costa Rica and  its parking lot is full in the evenings.

And just a hundred metres away sits the development, which, except for evenings and Saturdays is empty and barren.  But on Saturday the feria opens underneath the canopy roof and is, however briefly,  that needed hub of activity.    The feria is, of course, and necessarily, the victim of seasonal traffic, but it still provides a social need for this community that occasionally has no community.  On Saturday mornings, the Gringos who do support the feria crawl down out of the hills to pick up produce, honey, cheese and meat; but also to do a little catching up and some air-kissing and hand shaking.  The feria provides those functions for those who chose to attend that it should provide and that farmers markets everywhere provide.  Not only is there beautiful produce and handmade goods, but there are people, the community; neighbors, passing acquaintances and friends.

Sadly, the feria suffers, as does my restaurant and the quality eating establishments of others, from a wrong-headed thinking that dogs many food based businesses all over the United States.  There is a perception here that the feria is expensive, over-priced, unworthy of the expenditure.  And this thinking is so backwards and wrong.   Unfortunately it smacks of the carpet-bagger mentality of a few gringos who are here for themselves and themselves only and don't see deeper into how communities such as the one in Uvita need the support of all.  It seems so foolish to me that one would buy the raggedy and well traveled produce across the street at La Corona in order to save a few colones, rather than buying beautiful, sturdy organic produce straight from the earth from our feria and spending a those few colones on better food, higher yields, and most importantly, supporting farmers, friends and community.  

I certainly am not the one to tell my friends and neighbors how to spend their hard-earned dollars and colones.  I can tell them how valuable and necessary to our new lifestyle the Uvita feria is.  I can tell them that investing in the people and the produce that are native to the area where you have taken up residence is vital to all of our continued existences here in this paradise.   And I can tell them that food is love, but it's entirely possible they're not listening.

A Restaurant In the Jungle Part 2

Vehicle woes behind me, I pressed on.  It was Monday and the week lay before me; open and inviting.  Cook it and they will come, or some such cliched blather.  I took my stack of flyers and hit every store window and telephone pole that appeared to have any public access at all.  I talked it up and I talked it around; I didn't talk it down, but talk it I did.  

This is both a far-flung and tightly knit community and getting credence and recognition here take a fair amount of convincing.  The year round Gringo residents are a varied bunch.  There's the Canadian contingent in Ojochal, the hippies in Uvita and the retirees or just plain refugees of the Northern continent, and they are all here to stretch their hard fought dollar as far as it will go.   There are a lot of nice looking homes up on those mountain slopes, but for some reason it's a lot more difficult to get the local populous to pop for food than it is for them to spend their buck on lumber or labor.

My one on one sales pitches were met with a standard, "$18, that's way too much", or "And you're only serving fish?", or "I have to bring my own mixer for my rum?"  I spent a lot of time calmly explaining that their $18 was going to buy them four courses of  the best fresh and local

ingredients (and that I was cooking it), that I was serving only fish because I could guarantee its freshness and that in the long run, they would save their hard-earned cash by bringing their own Coca Cola.

Thursday, the opening day, arrived, and with it brought a thoroughly mixed bag of omens.  Although we had reservations for both Friday and Saturday night, there were none yet for the inaugural dinner.  Unfazed I plunged ahead in good faith and with the best possible attitude.  I hit the feria in fine fettle, buying lettuces, tomatoes and goat cheese.  I planned my weekend menus as I walked up and down and around the aisles of farmer's offerings and grabbed blackberries for ice cream and heirloom beans for a surprise.  I launched my way back over the hill and braved an overheating car and a downpour of Biblical proportions to buy lovely braising greens and cherry tomatoes from a new organic farm connection.  

The final leg home brought a literal gasket blowing and the arrival of a well-timed Samaritan to help me  bring my prizes back to the kitchen for "Opening Night".  I arrived sans car but with arms full, to find that still, we were without a reservation.   I stored the groceries and laid out the ones that I would prep that evening.  The cherry tomatoes were plump and bright, perfect to accent the lettuces that had been pulled from the ground that morning.  I had steamed a hug batch of fresh organic spinach leaves in olive oil and chicken stock for a cold soup the day before and the ensuing puree would be delicious.  I went upstairs to sit for a moment, to collect my cooking thoughts and to let the sight of the ocean settle me, ever so slightly.

Ah ha!  Voices and a couple, led by Cindy, our manager, arrived to look at the view and to ask about our food and philosophies.  I launched into my full-on sales spiel, citing our commitment to organic, local and fresh.  I waxed on about the lovely fresh caught Corvina I was about to receive.  I verbally dragged them through that morning's feria with me.  I blew passionate and sincere, both.  And they were sold.  At last, a reservation for four.  Opening night would not be a shutout.  

As soon as I heard their car door slam I was in the kitchen, cutting board out and knives in hand.  I pulled out the mixer and my recipes for a flourless chocolate cake and my favorite mandarina pound cake.  Why not offer them two desserts?  The woman of the couple had said she was allergic to mango, so my first planned sauce was out.  No problem; I would roast fresh tomatoes, sliced onions and whole garlic cloves in olive oil and fashion a fresh tomato sauce for the Corvina.  I was definitely alive with the moment and burning to put my morning purchases to the best possible use.  The fish hadn't arrived, but I was confident that Jose would never let me down.  Our relationship went back years.  

The cakes came out, the tomatoes followed them into the oven and I took a breath and a look around.  Oops, still no fish and three o'clock.  I got on the phone and called Jose just to check in.  Oh no!!  This can't be happening.  Jose is telling me that when he arrived with our delivery while I was out in the morning, he had been sent away by our manager since we had had no bookings for the evening.  Shit!  This was bad.  I had told our guests that their fish would be fresh and I had no fish, no car and no options, except...the freezer.  I keep a few flash frozen fish filets in the deep freeze for emergencies and this certainly qualified.  I was inwardly enraged, but set to finding the what would be the nicest of the Pargo or Corvina filets in the depths of the freezer.

I had no choice but to push on.  There was no point right now in finding out why I had been forced into this position; there was still cooking to be finished.  I cleaned the fresh greens from my new grower and marveled at the eight or nine varieties. I blanched the green beans; organic, and fresh from that morning.  I peeled garlic and pinched basil leaves from our plants outside the back door.  The tomatoes emerged from the oven, spitting and caramelized from their roasting in the olive oil.   I had changed my starch of choice from a camote puree to pasta when I had changed the fish sauce and I tossed the linguine in olive oil to keep it for an hour or so.

Finally; ready, prepped and set to serve.  My trusted helper and amigo Andrey had been given the weekend off so Jason showed up to set the tables, make our fresh juice and ultimately wash the dishes.  It was all ready and all I needed was for the fish to thaw so I could cut the filets.  I opted to flour it lightly and pan-fry it, something I don't generally do, to try to create a moister center and hopefully disguise that it might have been frozen.  And I knew, when I had frozen the fish this way a few weeks ago that there were few (other than myself) who would be able to tell.

Our guests arrived and immediately wanted to change their seating arrangement.  And Surprise!!  One of the other couple who I had not met was the food writer for one of our local monthly magazines.  Okay, here we go.  I was so confident in the quality of what I had bought and prepared that I didn't sweat it at all.  After we moved their table and served them a carafe of fresh juice the food began to flow.

I served the spinach soup and it was met with oohs and aahs after a few bites; all slurped down happily.  My salad of just picked baby lettuces, sliced ripe tomatoes and the cherry tomatoes, I topped with shredded local goat cheese and delivered to the table.  The food writer told me it was the best salad he'd been served on the coast.  And finally, the difficult part.  The panfried fish over the sauce-tossed pasta with yet more sauce spooned over the top.  It looked great, particularly when topped with a chiffonade of fresh and brilliantly green basil,  The addition of green beans tossed with red bell pepper strips and the braised greens made the complete.

Oops, the food writer and his partner could not eat onions.  A quick fix in the kitchen and new pasta was plated; the fish was wiped clean and anointed with olive oil, lemon and basil and reserved.  Voila, or as we say here, entonces.

One of the great rewards to a Chef is the absence of sound a few moments after the plates arrive at the table.   The only sound from my only table was the click and scrape of knife and fork against plate.  A few appreciative nods were seen and a kind of contented humming was just barely audible.  The plates were cleaned and the fish was eaten.  As I cleared the table of the empty plates, compliments came out as low murmurs of satisfaction.  "Great fish", said the husband, and "excellent, excellent" averred the food writer.  Phew.  I didn't feel good about "not" telling them it wasn't fresh, I had never reiterated the "fresh" part and I had done all I could to make it special.

Dessert was a breeze and a pleasure.  When given the choice between a flourless chocolate cake with organic cocoa ice cream and a mandarina pound cake with fresh blackberry sauce and ice cream, they opted for four chocolates, with a mandarina/blackberry for the table.  These too were finished happily and rapidly.  I love that.  

With all cleared, the check on the table and the convesration turned toward the future, the couple who had made the initial contact wished to return the following evening and the food writer wanted to feature us in his June issue.  It seems difficult to have asked for much more except perhaps, a larger opening night crowd.  But they'll be here, I sense it.

A restaurant in the jungle?  Well why not?

This past weekend we opened The Gecko at La Cusinga, our first stab at opening up our jungle and ocean view dining room to the public.  Previously only the guests at the Lodge were able to enjoy our fresh local cuisine but we felt that it was time to share the bounty and the surroundings with our friends here in the Uvita/Ballena/Ojochal area.   We decided not to overwhelm the public or ourselves and opted for a three night a week schedule, with one seating at 6:30 and a daily changing four course menu for a whopping $18 per person, before tax and tip.

It may appear on the face of it that this is not a particularly giant leap.  We had the Chef, we had the kitchen, we had the dining room and we had the food.  However, this being a remote and rural part of Costa Rica, nothing comes easy.  

First there was the issue of how to let the locals know that we were finally taking this oft-promised step.  People in our community live up and down the coast, up and down the mountains and in a variety of not necessarily "tuned in" spots in between.  It's not as if we can go to the local press (although, in a way we did), a website is not particularly viable, and there are no TV or radio spots from which to create a buzz.  Almost anything that anyone wants the public to know about is posted on a 8 1/2"X 11" flyer and scotch taped or stapled to a store window, local bulletin board or even a telephone pole.  Primitive?  Yes, but sooner or later, everyone needs to go to the grocery store.

I asked Geinier, our General Manager, to help by creating a flyer with a logo and all the pertinent information.  No problem.  He put together a nice package and emailed it to me to get printed.  This is where it becomes interesting.   I have no printer for my laptop and while La Cusinga has a printer, it doesn't print in color.   The hunt was on for a color printer in our tiny village.  Using what little common sense I have remaining, I first went to the Uvita information center, where Sonia handles car rentals, excursion packages, mail deliveries and sundry other community related tasks.  

Sonia knew of two people who had color printers but first there was the issue of getting the downloaded email into a printable package.  I went to see Tra, my good friend, and owner of the Tucan Hotel, a hostel/hotel and community center.  Tra hooked me up with a zip drive key and I was in business.  Maybe, and not yet.  Neither of the two shops I visited that had color printers had any toner.  Uh-oh.  It was appearing that an hour drive each way over the mountain to Perez Zeladon was in my future if I wanted to get the word out.   I stopped in at Marina Ballena restaurant and bar, a local watering hole, and another community center.   Over an icy club soda it was suggested to me that I go see Tom.  Tom had, I was assured, a state of the art color printer.  Tom is a local character; a big bearded cigar smoking, bear of a guy; but also a photographer, somewhat of a recluse, and like me, an expat from the San Francisco/Bay Area.  

I needed to get the flyers done and get them posted so I immediately hopped into R2, my 1991 Toyota Tercel (and what would appear to be the national car of Costa Rica) and bumped and dodged my way up the rocky road to Tom's house in deep Uvita, just before the river.  I should take this opportunity to point out that as soon as one leaves the main highway, road care and efficient grading are not always available and four wheel drive is preferred.   But I had needs, big needs, and I desperately wanted to avoid another trip up and over the big hill.  And Tom did have the color printer necessary and would do the job for a price.  We struck the bargain and I was out the door, quite relieved.  I obviously need a PR machine behind me.

Tragedy, however, loomed ahead, and while gazing out at the fincas and trees along the road I managed to strike, dead center and with a resounding "BAM", a huge rock in the middle of my side of the road.  The Tico walking by on the other side gave a serious wince.  There was nothing to do but keep driving and so I did, hightailing it for La Cusinga.  The car ran fine and all seemed well until after I reached the Lodge.  As I pulled up the final grade to the parking lot near the kitchen, R2 died.  Died, completely and absolutely.  Cranking of the key didn't do a damn thing.

The good news was that a delivery truck was almost directly on my tail and the two hombres in it helped me push the now inert R2 up the hill and onto a flat spot.  The grua (tow truck) was called and R2 was hauled off to the taller.  Hitting the rock had ripped the timing belt almost all the way through and the final pull up the hill at La Cusinga had finished off the job.

It appeared at this juncture, Tuesday afternoon with a Friday opening projected, that I might have to rethink my plans.  And that's what happened.  R2 came back on Thursday afternoon.  The flyers went up the same day and then, the rains came down, as did many of the stapled and taped flyers.  As we'd not had any responses up to that point anyway, a retreat was called and we put off the opening for another week.   An idea most apropos. 

A Restaurant in the Jungle

A restaurant in the jungle?  Well why not?

This past weekend we opened The Gecko at La Cusinga, our first stab at opening up our jungle and ocean view dining room to the public.  Previously only the guests at the Lodge were able to enjoy the fresh local cuisine but we felt that it was time to share the bounty and the surroundings with our friends here in the Uvita/Ballena/Ojochal area.   We decided not to overwhelm the public or ourselves and opted for a three night a week schedule, with one seating at 6:30 and a daily changing for course menu for a whopping $18 per person, before tax and tip.

It may appear on the face of it that this is not a particularly giant leap.  We had the Chef, we had the kitchen, we had the dining room and we had the food.  However, this being a remote and rural part of Costa Rica, nothing comes easy.  

First there was the issue of how to let the locals know that we were indeed open.  People in our community live up and down the coast, up and down the mountains and in a variety of not necessarily "tuned in" spots in between.  It's not as if we can go to the local press (although, in a way we did), a website is not particularly viable, and there are no TV or radio spots from which to create a buzz.  Almost anything that anyone wants the public to know about is posted on a 8 1/2"X 11" flyer and scotch taped or stapled to a store window, local bulleting board or even a telephone pole.  Primitive?  Yes, but sooner or later, everyone needs to go to the grocery store.

I asked Geinier, our General Manager, to help by creating a flyer with a logo and all the pertinent information.  No problem.  He put together a nice package and emailed it to me to get printed.  This is where it becomes interesting.   I have no printer for my laptop and while La Cusinga has a printer, it doesn't print in color.   The hunt was on for a color printer in our tiny village.  Using what little common sense I have remaining, I first went to the Uvita information center, where Sonia handles, car rentals, excursion packages, mail deliveries and sundry other community related tasks.  

Sonia knew of two people who had color printers but first there was the issue of getting the downloaded email into a printable package.  I went to see Tra, my good friend, and owner of the Tucan Hotel, a hostel/hotel and community center.  Tra hooked me up with a zip drive key and I was in business.  Maybe, and not yet.  Neither of the two shops I visited that had color printers had any toner.  Uh-oh.  It was appearing that an hour drive each way over the mountain to Perez Zeladon was in my future if I wanted to get the word out.   I stopped in at Marina Ballena restaurant and bar, a local watering hole and another community center.   Over an icy club soda it was suggested to me that I go see Tom.  Tom had, I was assured, a state of the art color printer.  Tom is a local character; a big bearded burly bear of a guy, but also a photographer, somewhat of a recluse, and like me, an expat from the San Francisco/Bay Area.  

I needed to get this done and I immediately hopped into R2, my 1991 Toyota Tercel (and what would appear to be the national car of Costa Rica) and bumped and dodged my way up the rocky road to Tom's house in deep Uvita, just before the river.  I should take this opportunity to point out that as soon as one leaves the main highway, road care and efficient grading are not always available and four wheel drive is preferred.   But I had needs, big needs, and I desperately wanted to avoid another trip up and over the big hill.  And Tom did have the 

Kudos for La Cusinga

Trip Advisor has recently published their listing for the top eco-friendly accommodations in the world and the home base of this blog, La Cusinga Eco-Lodge came in third internationally.  Great job by Geinier Guzman and everyone here at La Cusinga to make this honor possible.

TRIPADVISOR UNEARTHS TOP 10 GREEN ECO-MMODATIONS

Travelers' Choice Winner Tops List of Eco-Friendly Hotels

NEWTON, Mass. – April 6, 2009 – /PRNewswire/ — TripAdvisor®, the world's most popular and largest travel community, today announced its top 10 eco-friendly accommodations, according to TripAdvisor editors and travelers. From rustic cabins in the forest to contemporary digs in the city, these green properties allow travelers to be environmentally conscious, while enjoying incredibly unique and beautiful places to stay.

1. Eco-Adventure: Hamanasi Adventure and Dive Resort, Hopkins, Belize – Travelers' Choice Winner 2009: Best Bargain, Best Hidden Gem, Best for Romance – Average Nightly Rate: $245
Set on 21 acres of coastal forest, this eco-resort's green practices ensure that nothing goes to waste, from composting all vegetable and fruit scraps to using old linens as cleaning rags. In addition, the resort's dive adventures educate guests to minimize the negative impact of human contact with the environment. According to one TripAdvisor traveler, "The fact that the resort advocated reusing towels, limiting sheet changing and using the surrounding natural beauty made us feel that we were contributing to the preservation of Belize."

2. Terra Firma: Hotel Terra Jackson Hole, Teton Village, Wyoming – Average Nightly Rate: $371
Eco-friendly elements abound in the Hotel Terra, literally from floor (environmentally-friendly carpets) to ceiling (recycled roof shingles). Organic linens, low-flow toilets and solar-powered faucets can also be found in guest rooms, and even relaxation is green here, with organic spa products, and 100 percent natural mattresses made from recycled and organic materials. As one TripAdvisor traveler said, "We were ushered to our suite and discovered that not only was it the latest in eco-friendly hotels, but incredibly luxurious!"

3. Organic Accommodations: La Cusinga Eco Lodge, Uvita, Costa Rica – Travelers' Choice Winner 2009: Best Hidden Gem – Average Nightly Rate: $166
While stunning views of the Pacific are reason enough to visit La Cusinga Eco Lodge, its eco-friendly programs and commitment to conservation make it all the more appealing. Set in the rainforest, the eco-lodge's electricity is generated by solar and hydropower, and the water is heated by the Costa Rican sun. Buildings are constructed from re-forested wood and local materials, and rely on natural air currents to cool them. As one TripAdvisor traveler commented, "The organic gardens were my personal favorite, and they use all the fruits and vegetables in their daily meals."

Welcome to the opening salvo of my Chef of the Jungle blog.  I am sitting in my "office" at the La Cusinga Lodge (www.lacusinglodge.com), the large table on our upper deck, looking out over a gray Pacific and feeling the change of humidity almost minute by minute.  I sat up late last night on my back porch until almost 1:00 AM watching a brilliant and continuous electrical storm out over the ocean.  When the weather changes here it does so with a sudden and dramatic shift.   An hour ago I was feeling the sweat from my arms soaking the bottoms of my short shirt sleeves and now they're dry.   The air is quite still and the jungle seems to have quieted.  There is a needle-beaked colibri (hummingbird) enjoying the sweetness of a ginger blossom a few feet from me.

I am enjoying a "dia libre" today, my first since I returned from Panama, just over four weeks ago.  The Lodge has only a family of three as guests and I am enjoying the down time after the weekend opening of our in-house restaurant, The Gecko.  It was a classic Costa Rican week in that it included at trip over the mountain to the Feria (farmers market), a 3 KM drive down a heavily rutted rural road in the rain to meet  a new grower, the subsequent literal blowing of a gasket in the car on the final leg of the drive home, and almost secondarily, the opening of the restaurant.  Nothing happens here the way it seems that it should.  Pura Vida.

I make a weekly journey from my home here on the coast to the town of Perez Zeladon de General de San Isidro, not only one of my favorite town names of all time, but also the closest outpost of civilization.   My trip is primarily to pick up produce from the Feria but I also include on my trips visits to the dentist, camera store and hardware stores.  This particular trip was a typical one with stops at my favorite farmers stalls in the feria for organic lettuces, tomatoes, honey, goat cheese, blackberries and more; but was all the more important to me as this was the produce I would serve for the opening weekend of The Gecko.

Another important stop along the road back from this week's trip was a first time visit to the Finca EcoLoco, a gringo-run farm in the fertile valley of Alfombra, below the mountain-top village of Tinamastes.  I had been contacted by Lynn, the farm owner (and ironically, a woman whose wedding I had catered at another hotel three years ago) about buying organic greens and tomatoes.  My mission here is to source as many local and organic products as possible and I was excited about buying and cooking with new product.  What I wasn't excited about was the steady ascent toward hot of the needle on the temperature gauge of my '91 Toyota Tercel as we climbed back up over the mountain.    The road down into Lynn's finca (farm) is almost downhill and both the car and I were grateful for the change from climbing up to easing down.

Easing down it was, as the road, while passable for a small car, must be navigated somewhat carefully as the rocks and ruts will rise up to smack a low undercarriage if one happens to look away for just a moment.

And it is hard not to look away and just plain gape at the jungles that spring up on either side of the narrow red road.   This mountain and valley are known for sudden rains and the valley is dense primary rain forest.  There was heavy mist hanging in the trees giving a movie-set "enchanted valley" feel to the entire trip down.  Unfortunately the change in altitude was not correcting the direction of the temperature gauge's needle.  I reached the gate to Finca EcoLoco just as I was wondering whether or not to stop to let the engine cool.  I swung the gate open and drove through the dense jungle/forest along the even narrower dirt road, across the small stream and up to the main houses of the finca proper.  Lynn had advised me that she'd be out of town but that I was to ask for Bolivar or Marjorie, the Tico couple who ran the farm for her.  Bolivar, shirtless and sleepy-eyed came out to greet me, followed my Marjorie, sturdy and business like.  

The sample bag of greens was laid out on the table and it was indeed gorgeous; deeply red chards, ruby amaranth and shades of leafy green from deep to pale spilled out of the bag; kales, bok choy, even basil flowers.  Equally nice was the half-kilo bag of mixed cherry tomatoes; yellow pears, sweet 100's and fat ovate reds.  I was happy, they were happy, and Bolivar helped me to fill the radiator with water; although it seemed odd to both of us that we seemed to keep pouring and pouring it in.  I was confident that except for my climb out of this deeply hidden valley that my car would coast easily and swiftly down the hill to the coast.  I edged back out the jungle road and as I swung open the gate to let myself out the skies opened.  The rain was sudden and dense.  In the five steps from gate to car door I was soaked.  The rain didn't fall, it hammered down, pounding a warning on the car roof.  The drive back up the worn dirt and gravel road turned slippery and red mud streamed down the hill, torn loose instantly by the deluge.

As I drove I realized that my hands were clenched tight on the wheel and I heaved a deep breath, laughed somewhat nervously, and told myself to "Relax, take it easy, once you're at the top it's clear coasting.  That would have been a fine philosophy but for the one wrench that had typically for here, been thrown in the works; a traffic stop for road  and gutter clearing to keep the streets from flooding.  That five minute stop may have been the final stop for all the water in the radiator.  The entire way down the hill I let the car coast and turned off the engine for parts of it.  All I wanted was to reach the flatlands and civilization.  There is nothing on the way down the mountain.  And a sure as the rain that falls from the sky, as soon as I hit the coast and drove a half mile, my little old Toyota, like a worn and weary horse, heaved and shook and I coasted to a stall on the side of the road.  I'd made it this far, but had a car full of fresh produce and smoke pouring out from the engine block.

As fate, provenance and clean living would have it, the first car heading North was driven by John, the owner of La Cusinga and my temporary savior.   We piled the bags and and cooler chest into his car, he turned South toward the taller (mechanic) and La Cusinga, and I was still on the road and in time for Opening Night.