Peninsula Part 2

My traveling companions were fascinated by stories of cooking food inside a hole in the soil. The hour-long traffic jam allowed for a comprehensive narration of the first day I spent at Ya’ache, Wilson Alonzo’s open air restaurant and culinary center. After 12 hours that involved market visits, digging a hole, gathering firewood, palm and banana leaves, mixing spices, dicing vegetables, tending to five different fires and sour orange harvesting, we sat at the kitchen table to talk and wait for the food that was slowly cooking. We had eight mukbil pollo and a tejón underground, two tamal colados buried in ashes and a clay pot simmering with leftover chicken. We discussed globalization, the profitability of a Mexican restaurant outside of the U.S. and the relegation of traditional farming methods to a passing marketing soundbite. The conclusions of our impromptu round table were not particularly insightful or novel: globalization is creating a false narrative of manicured ingredients accessible all year around everywhere in the world, a good quality Mexican restaurant is not profitable unless you get every guest drunk, and milpas and chinampas will soon become another museum artifact unless a new generation is willing to continue their legacy. These conclusions seemed like a tragic epilogue of glorious traditions. However, the late night conversation mixed with the vapor of mezcal, lingering traces of smoke and full-belly-optimism, invigorated us.

Wilson told the story of a French girl who confessed growing up with the belief that mangoes grew in supermarket cardboard boxes. And after plucking a ripe mango from a tree at his restaurant, the girl stared at it in disbelief and wonder for hours, cradling it inside a pouch on her dress. Wilson also told the story of a German tourist that laid on a hammock under a tree for the first time in his life, the staff from the restaurant had shaded him from the sun with a palm leaf and gave him a peeled grapefruit. The man’s online review read: “I was treated better than at the four seasons, pulled fruit from a tree for the first time in my life”.

Dining at Ya’ache is not a usual experience and cooking there is even less ordinary. There are no gas stoves, high volume dishwashers or specialized cooking equipment. Menu items are cooked in clay pots, on grills over wood fires or inside a Píib (an underground oven). Instead of a chinois they use a fine mesh bag, a Vitamix is substituted by a mortar and pestle or a hand cranked molino. Most of the metates used for grinding corn and spices were unearthed while excavating the farmland. The open air is the smoke extractor and a compost area substitutes trash cans. Dishes are washed in a pileta (a large concrete structure) with water from the well. This “lack of sophistication” is not an obstacle but a tool that integrates the environment and opens the possibility for experimentation and creation of new techniques and processes. This setup naturally encourages zero waste and follows a subtle philosophical principle: trabaja con lo que está a la mano (work with what is available).

Burning chiles can produce intense physical discomfort, it causes suffocation of the breath and puts the amygdala in a state of overdrive. This state of fight or flight can induce a cathartic state similar to the ones produced in ecstatic experiences or night long religious rituals. Before burning chiles in a comal, everybody in a 50 feet radius is warned. Those who decide to stay inside the symbolic circle have to pace and regulate their breath, stay low to the ground and dance around spicy gray clouds. This infusion of smoke and capsaicin forces the most brave to close their eyes, concentrate deeply and engage fully with the tasks at hand. In premeditated intervals everybody has to walk away from the circle to violently cough and cleanse their airways. Memories of my grandmother burning chiles got mixed with the surreal soundscape of convulsive coughs and every ethnography report I’ve read on indigenous rituals. Burning chiles at Ya’ache felt like spiritual catharsis.

Setting up a Píib is also a ritualized affair. The cooking occasion dictates the shape and size of the hole. The heating core is formed by criss crossing wood logs under a pyramid of rocks. The placement of those rocks follow zen-like protocols instructed to the caretaker of the fire by the guardian of the Píib. The balance of elements and interactions between the guardian and the caretaker mirrors the harmony of an ecosystem. The direction of the wind is essential in deciding how and where to light the fire. The color and density of the smoke instructs the caretaker when the fire can be let alone. A portion of the process involves a moment of prayer. Once the rocks have changed hue three times and the logs have disintegrated, the guardian of the Píib uses a stick to break the rock into even sizes and distribute them based on the food that will be cooked. Every cook in Ya’ache pours salt on the hot embers as a gesture of gratitude and intention. The food is placed in the burning heart of the oven and covered with palm leaves and shrubbery. The leaves are chosen based on the season, the humidity in the soil and the type of food being cooked. A metal sheet is placed on top of the hole and buried with soil. No traces of smoke should rise from the ground. Every decision is coordinated with signals from nature and the intuition of the caretaker of the fire and the guardian of the Píib. The cooking time is also based on experience and intuition. Everybody walks away, trusting their joint efforts. Every element has been considered: water, wind, soil, fire and intention.