Every summer, when the tomatoes begin to ripen in my garden, I think of my friend Gaspar.
Most travelers unpack a toothbrush and a phone charger. Gaspar unpacked a chef’s knife and a carving fork.
He came to stay with me for ten days, and before long those familiar tools appeared on my kitchen counter. To him, it was perfectly normal. To me, it was mildly amusing. After all, how many houseguests arrive carrying their own professional kitchen equipment?
Gaspar spent much of his career in some of the world’s finest hotels. As an Executive Chef, he oversaw large kitchens and cooked for distinguished guests, including Queen Elizabeth. Yet when I think of him, I do not picture a grand hotel or a formal banquet.
I picture my kitchen.
One afternoon he decided to prepare sea bass. I watched as he carefully examined the fish and began trimming it with the precision of a surgeon. A little more here. A little more there.
Standing nearby, I remember wondering whether his perfectionism would eventually leave us with a fish the size of a sardine. Fortunately, it did not and the result was beautiful.
That was Gaspar. It didn’t matter whether he was in a luxury hotel or a village home. The same care went into every detail. Food was never simply a profession for him. It was part of who he was.
During his stay he prepared several memorable meals, but the one that returns to me every summer is his gazpacho. Perhaps it is because tomatoes now grow in my garden. Perhaps it is because some meals become attached to a person. Whatever the reason, the memory returns each year with the first ripe tomatoes.
I find myself thinking about our conversations, the meals we shared, and the quiet pleasure of having a friend stay under my roof.
Funny how life works.
A man who cooked for royalty came to stay in a village home. Years later, it is not the impressive résumé I remember, it is the gazpacho, and the friend who made it.