Ridgid olives cracking and tearing into the skin between my fingers. With the spicy smell of black powders fired by italian wood and steel, I hunger for more.
I bake bread with the fires and bricks brought to me by villagers of Madrid and Andalusia. The dough does not rise but cooks until it turns to a sickening black. Black like coal, but the taste is divine.
When I sell my flavors and arts, the satisfied villagers ask “how?” How does a man with no knowledge of tongue accomplish and match the finest flavors we have never sought before? I give small samples after replying “you might want to and so your women and children about my ingredients. They’re here in my kitchen, in my fridge as we speak.”