A useless column 7 Cannibals
I've completely forgotten about the cheesecake. It's a reflection of how my world is; I forget what day it is, and the things that should set things right slip through my fingers, one by one.
Safety guidelines say that in a situation like this, you should jump out of bed, without wasting time even putting on your slippers, grab your survival kit, and position yourself under the doorframe, which is usually a safe spot. I once threw myself downstairs while the neighbors laughed at my antics. Last night, I ran to the kitchen and back to bed with a spoon in my hand, ready to devour the giant wave of melted cheese. It hasn't happened, but I can't close my eyes; it just dawned on me. At 7Caníbales, we've forgotten the list of the most runny cheesecakes around. Shit. Impossible to sleep when the taste of defeat washes over you.
The list of the best cheesecakes is a tradition; the midpoint between the lists of the best Three Kings' Day cakes in the neighborhood, which have become the benchmark for the New Year. Soon, Madrid will trade the twelve grapes at Puerta del Sol for reading the best Three Kings' Day cakes from Señorita Pepis in the hairdresser's chair. For the mid-season, we have croquettes and mini sandwiches with asparagus and mayonnaise, which are making a strong comeback with their respective days. The culinary world is more dangerous than ever, and the lists and the days they correspond to provide an extra dose of adrenaline.
Thirty years ago, things were different. It had been some time since El Corte Inglés had officially established Mother's Day, and Rafael Ansón was still insisting we celebrate Kitchen Day on Saint Teresa's Day. The jubilation of the culinary academics, always attentive to the leader's whims, contrasted sharply with the indifference of the real world, which remained in a state of waiting, as if hibernating, aware that patience is a virtue and that world-changing events were on the horizon. Cheesecake Day, for example. Everything has shifted between Philadelphia cream cheese days and cheese medley days; kitchens have become dynamic, and we've enthroned surprise as a defining element: Which cake will be the most liquid? Which one will be the least cake-like?
In an interview with David Salvador for this publication, Francis Paniego says he doesn't understand how his mother managed to make a living with 35 recipes, while he has over 700 (that was the important part of the interview, not the rambling that our social media manager chose to highlight; my apologies). He talks about many other interesting things, but I'm particularly struck by the moment when he raises the possibility of dedicating one's life, as was done in the past, to perfecting fifty good recipes, or however many there may be. I agree with him, as long as one of them isn't cheesecake. Please. They say the bottled version is about to hit the market. This is getting out of hand.
The other day in Quito, I had a gazta tarta for breakfast, written in Basque and made with a certain fidelity to the recipe I knew from the pastry shops (gozotegiak, something like "lots of sweets," a lovely name) in San Sebastián. A double surprise: an old-fashioned, tall cake, about three fingers high, and semi-dense, and served at Fankor—it's spelled with the diagonal "o" like the Scandinavians, but I can't find it on my keyboard; please excuse me—an exemplary coffee, but with no Basque influence whatsoever. And it didn't melt on the plate. Quite remarkable.
On this side of the world, we're more down-to-earth. We celebrate National Roast Chicken Day, which is basically just reheated chicken day—rotisserie ovens aren't the size of Machu Picchu—and to celebrate, we cut down an entire forest: the raw material for grilling doesn't grow under the rug. We also have National Ceviche Day, steeped in national rhetoric—"Anyone who doesn't like ceviche isn't Peruvian," read an advertisement for a (foreign) soft drink brand years ago—or National Chicharrón (pork belly) Day, a more down-to-earth reference point, though with much more substance.
This is a pointless column; a way of writing without saying anything worth remembering, like the cheesecake day and the lists that followed. Does anyone really care? It's a recourse for someone observing the heat waves and the exhibitionism of summer Instagram—it reminds me of an Ibiza beach: lots of skin and seafood on display—from the Southern Hemisphere winter, well covered and bundled up.
