When I headed to my first death cafe, I expected to find myself eating soggy croque monsieurs among goths and depressed old women who wanted to talk about loss. After spending the evening eating shrimp and participating in a book-club-meets-speed-dating—all death-themed, of course—I felt pretty upbeat.
Does anyone remember that cheap dairy by-product that stunk up American kitchens from the late 70s to the early 90s with the stench of stinky gym socks? You know, the stuff the government distributed? Since I’m a dairy fiend, I wanted to figure out what happened so I set out on a knowledge quest to see where all those curds went.
Almost every restaurant has a peeping Tom who is there to witness your Solange-style video camera shame, down to the last fart. This unfortunate soul is almost always the office manager. We talked to one who has witnessed some of the horrifying acts that would send most to a therapist.
Mining is a crucial source of employment for Bolivian men, but the conditions are notorious. Amidst reports of 24-hour days and corrupt bosses in gold and coal mines, only kind words are spoken about the Colchani cooperative who mine and export table salt to Brazil. They also make great alpaca jerky.
For most chefs it takes time to find your voice—especially when it comes to plating. If something looks good, you’re generally going to be more accepting of it. Over the years, I’ve found that less is more.
I was a freelance journalist for a few years chugging my way through odd jobs and writing assignments for poor pay and a safety net of zero. Because of this, I became intimately familiar with the fondas in my neighborhood, the small, family-run diners that dish out affordable prix-fixe lunches; the heart and soul of Mexico City’s home-style cuisine.