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Ferran Adria, Elbulli, And The Quest For The Ultimate Dining Experience

Published on: https://www.thalo.com/

ElBulli’s Ferran Adria is changing the way the world dines.

CALA MONTJOI, ROSES, SPAIN -- Consider the martini, for instance. “Martini”- whether served at a swank New York restaurant, on some pristine Seychelles beach, or anywhere else in the world – it would be a cocktail of gin and vermouth garnished with an olive or a lemon twist, and served in a martini glass.

Anywhere else in the world, that is, except at ElBulli. ElBulli’s martini is made of pear-flavored vodka and St. Germain liquor which, in turn, is obtained from freshly handpicked elderflower blossoms. That may not seem like anything extraordinary, until the cocktail is served. First, it doesn’t swish around. It can’t because the drink is inside a sphere. And second, it’s served not in a martini glass, but on a spoon. 

Or look at ravioli. Everyone’s familiar with ravioli: filled pasta from Italy. ElBulli’s, however, is a little different. While ElBulli’s look like ravioli, it’s not made of pasta, but of squid meat, which, at the bite, “explodes” and squirts a warm gel of mint, coconut, and ginger around the inside of your mouth before it trickles down your throat.

Or a Piña Colada (as seen in Photo 3), for that matter: rum, crushed pineapple, and coconut cream blended with ice, and garnished with a pineapple wedge; that is, until you visit ElBulli. There, a Piña Colada is topped with an eye-catching coconut milk foam, which Adria accomplishes with the use of nitrous oxide (N2O) and the common kitchen appliance called the iSi cream whipper.

The wobbly spherical cocktail that’s served on a spoon; the ravioli that “explodes” inside one’s mouth; and the foaming Piña Colada are just three of Ferran Adria’s creations that have gone viral, and are now found all over the world where there’s a “molecular gastronomy” restaurant.

To be sure, Adria is not the one who developed “molecular gastronomy.” The concept developed from a series of scientific workshops held at Erice, Sicily in 1992 called “Workshop on Molecular and Physical Gastronomy” initiated by London Cordon Bleu alumna and Berkeley, California cooking school owner Elizabeth Cawdry Thomas.

But the workshops never had innovation on its mind. The workshops merely tried to explore how traditional cooking could be improved by an understanding of physics and chemistry.

Innovation, on the other hand, is at the heart of Adria’s “deconstructivist” discipline, a passion he pursues with an almost religious zeal. His restaurant, for instance, would open only six months of the year even if it meant accepting only 8,000 of the 2 million reservations it normally gets in a year.

As if that’s not enough, Adria closed it entirely in 2011, promising to reopen in 2014 as a foundation devoted to experimental cuisine.

Why? Because Ferran Adria needed the time to perfect the ultimate dining experience, an out-of-this-world experience through unexpected contrasts of flavor, temperature, and textures.

The world waits with bated breath.

Meet Real People: The Tigwahanon Tribe of Bukidnon

Published on: Mabuhay Magazine, the inflight magazine of Philippine Airlines (August 2010)

It’s a scene straight from “Avatar.”

His breath forming a mist in the 3:00 A.M. forest cold, Datu Makapukaw clambers down the notched tree trunk that serves as the stairs of his tree-trunk-and-bark thatched house, the quiet of the pre-dawn darkness broken only by crickets chirping and an occasional distant rumbling of thunder. He glances at the clear sky. “Hmmm, the clearing of the forest will have to start today,” he says to no one

in particular.

Soon his extended family join him as he starts a fire using the same traditional flint stone called “tingkig” his ancestors have used even before the Spaniards came. Normally he’d use a safety match, but this is one time he’d like to show the young ones how to start a fire the traditional way, determined that their culture must not be lost in the convenience of modern methods.

In the crackling fire, the adults talk about the past, the day’s events, and the advice they give to the young who listen attentively. Soon they burst into a spontaneous, high-pitched, and plaintive chant called “Ulahing,” expressing their most intimate joys, fears, or hopes of the moment. As the impatient dawn finally breaks, the family shares a meal of boiled sweet potatoes called “kamote” and smoked meat from the other day's hunt. Everything is washed down with-- believe it or not-- Nescafe coffee, a favorite.

The day has begun for these Tigwahanon tribe members in the rain forest of Kibungkog in the mountains of San Fernando, Bukidnon.

It’s so easy to dismiss indigenous tribes as “primitive.” A closer look at their culture, however, reveals certain values we’re only starting to appreciate.

Take respect for the environment, for instance. Higaonon, Manobo, Ummayamnon, Polangihon—it doesn’t matter which tribe – indigenous people highly respect the land. It is their home, hospital, school, playground, source of food, and, most of all, their friend, given them by the Almighty they call “Magbabayo” in his munificence.

From the soil come the root crops which provide bulk in their diet. From the river come the fish they grill on slow fire. From the forest come the wild pigs and occasional deer which the tribe’s youth hunt with traditional bows and arrows and a gun if one’s available. From the trees and plants come the leaves which cure their common ailments like fever.

The stars speak to them, telling them when to start clearing the forest, when to plant, when to harvest, yes, even when to hunt for wild pigs. Plants reveal their secrets to them, telling them which to take for food, which to take for medicine, which to avoid. Indigenous people just know which forest water is safe to drink, which is not.

And, indigenous people never abuse the environment, taking only what’s necessary to survive. For instance, they will clear a swath of forest just enough for them to grow their crops-- nothing more, nothing less. Every wild pig brought home after a hunt is shared equally among everybody, the one who made the kill getting no more than the others. Private ownership of the land is unheard of, which is only to be expected, because these people do not consider themselves owners of the land, but only the custodians of it, ultimately accountable to “Magbabayo” for its wise use.

Sometimes lowlanders like us wonder how could indigenous tribes refuse to leave their seemingly backward way of life in the mountains, and come live with us with our malls, plasma TVs, and iPhones.

I think I know why. When I see Datu Makapukaw with his two-stringed guitar called “Kudlong” and his wife Bae Norita with a smaller version of the guitar called “Saluray” in a three-day marathon reciting of their great epic, the“Tulalang,” I see not an inferior culture, but one far superior to ours, something we’re just trying to appreciate and learn from.

I’m Getting Old, And Loving Every Minute Of It!

Published on: Bisanano (Personal Blog) - https://abrahamvllera.wordpress.com/

After 57 years of trying, I am now the person I have always wanted to be.

To be sure, I have not become the Roman Abramovich I’ve always dreamed of becoming, or the Brad Pitt that once I fancied myself to be, but I have come to realize that one could be very rich without being wealthy, or wanted without becoming a star.

I have my wife of 26 years– God’s most precious gift without whom I couldn’t cope, and she, alone, is more than enough. I have my children, which makes be blessed beyond anything I could imagine. I have my health. And what remains of my hair. Or my teeth.

Yes, my body sucks. I wake up every morning feeling like a steamroller had been placed on top of me.

I like to jump out of bed, impatient and wanting to hit the ground running. But aching joints from still-slumbering muscles prevent me.

And when I look in the mirror — could that puffed up guy with the horrible lines and sagging jowls be really me? Invariably, however, I’d notice how sexy my graying (although thinning) hair had become.

It’s tempting, but I would never trade my family, friends, my health for a chance to do it all over again, but differently. I’d probably be driving a Lamborghini Gallardo, but what’s even ten of those if I have a listless life? As I’ve aged, I’ve become a connoisseur of value, and there’s nothing more precious than family, health, and friends. (God comes first, of course.)

I don’t hate myself for wanting to have two eggs for breakfast, or for often forgetting things, or for buying those turn blocks that make our clothesline taut like no one else’s (but which my wife considers an unnecessary expense). I am entitled to indulge in my favorite food once in a while, to be exacting with cleanliness in the house, to be extravagant with small things like turn blocks.

I can only count myself blessed– I have seen far too many dear friends leave the world before they have the privilege of being called “old.” Perhaps that’s why I always take the senior citizens lane at the supermarket, and feel pleased when counter girls fail to notice my lack of qualification.

Whose business is it if I take longer time to marvel at morning glories? Or paint my house yellow? Or have numerous Facebook and Twitter accounts? Whose concern is it if I have six blogs?

I will croon to my heart’s desire to those wonderful tunes of Nat King Cole or Simon and Garfunkel, and if I, at the same time, feel like belting out Bon Jovi’s “Bed of Roses,” or Hearts’ “Alone,” I will.

I will continue to adore my wife and dote on our children, and will always want my son with me even if he’s already twenty-six. That, despite the snickers of others. They, too, will get old.

I know I am sometimes forgetful. But then would growing old be growing old if one always remembers everything? And you know what? I always remember the important things like my wife’s birthday, or our wedding anniversary, or the names of our daughters’ friends.

Sure, I’ve had my share of grief. How can one not weep at the loss of a loved one, or when bills get due and payday is still two weeks away, or when even one’s own son thinks Dad’s the worst thing that has ever happened to him? But from broken hearts come wisdom, and from every humbling experience, strength. A man that has never been down has not truly lived.

I thank God to have been allowed to see my hair turn gray, and my teeth fall. So many have never been as privileged. As one gets older, it is easier to be positive. One spends less time worrying about what other people think.

So, do I like getting old? Yes, Virginia, I love growing old.

It has set me free.