Opening the kitchen’s double doors, Sara glided to the tray of croquetas. David always fried extras after the restaurant closed – a way of showing his gratitude to the staff.
David Planas moved to Los Angeles 10 years ago from Salamanca, Spain. He dreamed of building a restaurant to highlight the estilo Español. He crafted and served Spanish delicacies from his region: Jamon Iberico, Lechazo de Castilla y León, and Cochinillo Asado. David felt most people only knew of a few great Spanish dishes, but he dreamed of showcasing the Spanish heartland to the American culinary world. After two years working with peers, he finally introduced West Los Angeles to El Trocito.
Sara smiled, four croquetas waited for her; a basketful rested on the service table. She stopped when she noticed the sizzle of oil serenading the kitchen. Looking toward the cook’s station, she noticed David with one of their new employees. Veronica only began working a week ago as a table runner at night.
“Smell those potatoes?” David asked Veronica. They leaned over the pan waving their hands to fully capture the aroma.
“They’re almost ready, maybe a bit more salt?”
Knitting his brow momentarily, David stabbed a potato from the pan with a fork and placed it on Veronica’s palm after allowing it to cool. Savoring it for a moment, she corrected herself, “never mind, the flavor is perfect, a few minutes more, though.”
Veronica bounced to the refrigerator. She set aside a bechamel mix and removed the eggs. As she rejoined David, she spotted Sara. David spun catching her bite into the croqueta.
“Sara, I didn’t hear you enter.” Turning his attention back to Veronica, he added, “Sara was my first server; eight years ago, and now, as you know, she runs the front of the house.”
Sara smiled and shrugged her shoulders, then sat on the serving station, palms planted on the stainless steel next to her legs. Her interest piqued, wondering the reason for this after hours lesson, so she settled in for the show.
As the potatoes finished, Veronica removed a spider skimmer from the utensil rack. She ran it through the pan collecting the potatoes inside the mesh wire netting. Next to the pan, David unfolded a mustard yellow towel, the same used as napkins for restaurant patrons. Oil dripped from the spider skimmer as it hovered above the pan, Veronica moved the potatoes and gingerly arranged them onto the towel to dry.
David smacked two eggs together and plopped their gooey interior into a bowl. “Four ought to do it.” The sun yellow yokes stared up at him. He collected the whisk and beat the eggs rapidly.
“Oh, did you want me to do that?” Veronica asked.
“No, not at all, it’s always good to have a hand in the kitchen.”
He continued, his wisk twirling the eggs in the bowl. The yolks split and bled into the egg whites until the mixture became one. His pace relentless, Sara eyed his mastery from across the kitchen, a simple culinary task perfected. After a few minutes, David stopped. “This is the perfect amount of bubbles, that’s how you know the eggs are ready.”
Sara watched as Veronica put her index finger on a potato and pulled back, smiled, and then grabbed a handful with both hands cupped – nearly half. She dropped them into the egg mixture, and carefully mixed them together with a cracked wooden spoon. She plucked a few more, making the selection even, dropped them into the bowl, and left the remainder on the towel. She carefully poured the mixture into the hot pan, the potatoes cascading and splashing into the hot oil, then returned the glass bowl to the table.
“Now, let’s begin to prep the other eggs while this tortilla cooks.”
This time Veronica insisted she whisk the eggs. After a few minutes, the eggs were prepped, and the tortilla was ready to flip.
“Okay, so this is the most challenging part of the process. When you place the plate over the pan and flip, it must be a smooth motion.”
Veronica lifted the pan from the fire and placed a plate on top. Twisting her wrist and holding the plate to the pan, the tortilla transferred. From Sara’s vantage, it appeared smooth and successful. However, a moment of hesitation during the flip and a shaky grip on the plate left a bit of egg spill onto the counter.
“Shoot, shoot, shoot”
“Is okay, just transition it back to the pan”
Veronica regrouped and guided the uncooked side of the tortilla into the pan facing down.
“You hesitated midway.”
David gave Veronica a reassuring smile.
“This is why we are making two.”
Turning her attention back to the bowl of whisked eggs, Veronica added the remaining potatoes. Sara, still admiring David and Veronica, removed another croqueta from the basket.
“Is the pan ready?”
Veronica turned and saw the empty oiled pan. She poured in the mixture, watched it ooze and spread evenly across the black surface, and listened to it sizzle. She inhaled, savoring the wonderful aroma of this simple Spanish specialty. Yet, the edges of the first attempt were haphazardly shaped. She frowned. The loss of egg ruins the composition, leaving too much potato and too little egg. It had that perfectly golden yellow and speckled brown color but was far from a perfectly formed circle.
“No matter, it will taste good. You can keep the masterpiece that is now cooking.”
The pan shook during the second attempt, as Veronica lifted it from the flame. She covered it with the plate, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. She opened them and swiftly flipped the pan. This time no egg dripped onto the counter nor seeped from the pan’s edge.
Veronica grinned with her eyes, but her mouth remained stoic with pride. She gently dropped the edge of the tortilla to the inner edge of the pan and listened as it crackled.
As the tortilla finished, David turned to Sara and waved, inviting her to join.
David meets Sara’s eyes and beams.
“You see, Sara, Veronica wants to be a chef and wants to learn Spanish cuisine, so I agreed to teach her.”
David goes on to explain that she sent him an email explaining her ambitions. Rather than attend some generic culinary school, she felt keen on learning from a real master. In the 1930s her family fled Zamora, Spain to avoid the war. As an homage to her ancestry, she sought not only a renowned Spanish chef, but one from Castilla. Through food, she thought, she would learn who she is.
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Stephen Michael 