My friend's Chef is Burkinabe.
He cooks European.
I asked him.
"Why don't you make some Nigerian food?"
He said smiling.
In his French accented English.
"C'est le travail d'un cuisinier. That is for cooks to
do. Me I spent too much money and time learning
to make good food. Perte totale de temps. Why
should I waste my time cooking what my mother
or sister or brother or even the mad man around
the corner can cook."
I laughed.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes Monsieur. Un homme doit obéir aux règles de
sa profession. A man and his profession must be
one. Pas de compromis. No compromise."
"But I want to eat Nigerian food."
"No problem. There is a cook in Yeoville. She is
Nigerian. Igbo. Has a restaurant. I can go there and
buy it for you."
"I want you to make the food not buy it."
"Monsieur you don't make Nigerian food, you
cook it. Food you make is food that takes lot of
thinking, standardisation, style, beauty. It is gentle.
It is calming. The food that speaks and tells you a
story. You eat it and feel it. Like a person. It has
character. Vous allez au paradis et vous revenez
sur terre. Tu es né de nouveau. Eating it is like
going on a pilgrimage. You go to heaven and
come back to earth. You are born again."
"And Nigerian food is not like that?"
"Non! Nigerian food is angry. Loud. Vantard. It is
Boasting. How do you say it? In French we say
Sauvage. What is it you call it in English?"
He paused.
And thought.
I watched.
Then his eyes lit up.
Then he said.
"Wild. That is it. Uncivilised. It says nothing. Looks
like vomir. You English say Vomit. Uuughhh like
that all over the plate."
He acted it out for full effect.
Then he continued.
"It smells too heavy. In your clothes. Your house.
Everywhere. It is like a bad spirit that is angry at
the world."
I laughed.
Astonished.
Then I said.
"But you know that, that is your opinion and not
necessarily the truth?"
"It is my truth Monsieur, that is why I don't cook it
or eat it. But if you want it, I will buy it for you.
No problem with that. Absolument."
"You have a right not too like it but it is sad that as
an African you think of the food of a fellow
African like that."
"Je suis dèsolè Monsieur. Apology. I don't mean to
say it like grossier. Like rude. But bad food is bad
food. You call it Nigerian, so I call it Nigerian. If
you call it Burkinabe I say it is bad too. You call it
Southie, I say the same. Even French have bad
food. But I am not even calling them bad. I mean
they are basic. In French I say Primitif. They have
not been made better. Remis à neuf like
refurbished. Non. Not what I want to say. I mean
more like remodelé. Like you buy the latest
samsung phone instead of the first samsung
phone. You take ordinaire and you make it
extraordinaire. You understand Monsieur?"
I nodded.
Then I spoke.
"So why don't you make extraordinary Nigerian
food?"
"Ahhhh! Monsieur now you make me excité."
He rubbed his hands together, his face aglow with
an end to end smile.
Then he continued.
"Now I will show you difference between food
Chef makes and food from cook. Same
ingrédients. Non. Not same. Me as Chef I use more
progressive ingredients. Take some old out. Put
some new in. Like remplacement or substitution. I
élever it. Like elevate. Monsieur. I must start."
He hurried out of his apron and made for the
door.
I called out to him.
""Don't you need some money?"
He stopped and turned around.
"Non. Chef always has a budget, like
Administrateur de bureau, you call Office
administrator. So for lunch instead of soupe à
l'oignon and confit de canard, I make you Jollof
rice and braised meat, topped with deep fried
sweet potatoes in a sauteed tomato stew with a
side of steamed vegetables and chocolate souffle
to calm you down."
Then he stopped as though fantasizing how the
dish will look like.
Before he continued.
In a mellifluous voice.
"Monsieur. I promise you. En cordon bleu. Mon
honneur as well trained chef. You will eat it. And
for the first time. You will hear the food speak to
you. Every part of you will experience a new
sensation. A new taste. Lips. Tongue. Throat.
Stomach. Brain. Finger. Toes. heart. All will come
alive. Réintroduction. Vous serez hypnotisé. You
chew. Slowly. You swallow. Then you say."
His eyes went half closed.
He hung his head back.
He leaned back.
His jaw went slack.
And he spoke with a slow exhalation of air.
Like a pleasurable sigh.
"Ahhhhh! C'est la paradis. Nourriture des dieux.
Food of the gods."
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