Cookin’ at Ilê Ayé-

I was not sure what the nature of their Culinary Program was like. Last month during my interview with Vovo, the director of Ilê Ayé, he had suggested that I come observe it. I packed that away with my things to do when I am staying in Salvador. I guessed that it might be a vocationally based program, training the prep crew and ancillary employees as opposed to developing a cadre of cooks and chefs. Other than the fact that it was community based for Liberdade residents, how did it compare with the intensive program at Senac? I had been impressed with how comprehensive and affordable Senac’s program was.

Recently, several people including Beto at Pariaso had spoken well of it. I decided to do it before I left for Cachoeira. There were two sessions per day, 8:00-12:00 and 1:00-5:00. I decided to go on Tuesday after my morning errands. I would shoot to get there as close to one o’clock as possible. I arrived at 1:30 PM and asked for Gelson, one of Vovo’s assistants. He informed me that the teacher needed more warning, even if I was just observing. And he needed to reconfirm my authority to observe with Vovo. “How about tomorrow? 9:30?” “Sim, está bom, Escotch.” “Então, até amanha!” Kind of a bummer, but ok.

I was mixed into Gelton’s Welcome to Ilê Ayé Tour Group, until the culinary administrator, Elizete; Vovo’s Sister in Law could be located. The culinary classroom was appropriately clinical, all white tile and stainless steel, white smocks and hairnets. I learned that in addition to a Culinary Teacher they also had a Nutritionist on site.

Students first learned some general history of the development of man as a species, leading up to his alimentation. The course covered all aspects of cooking, not just Baian foods. Decoration and visual display of prepared foods was also stressed. I heard that aesthetics were important to, since we eat with our eyes. I knew that banquet service was an integral aspect of both home and professional kitchens. I guessed that banquet work was probably a key avenue to employment.

The term was twenty weeks, twenty hours per week, no more than 20 students per class, between 17-24 years old. Students were selected from the community, bright young lights, recommended by teachers, church leaders and community organizations. Tuition was free if you were accepted. During my brief orientation to the program, Elizete said, that If three students stick with it, graduate and find work, then she is happy. We agreed that regardless of the outcome, the discipline, continuity, effort and knowledge involved with culinary education would inform their lives and career choices.
Today’s class prepared a whole baked fish, Amarella. It was accompanied by Rice, Molho de Pimenta, Farofa and salad. I guessed that the Nutritionist tried to inject some healthy alternatives to the popular fried foods and rich meats inherent in the local cuisine. While the fish was cooking part of the class began to prep tomorrow’s lesson. They simmered a whole octopus and cleaned shrimp for the seafood Mariscada and cut okra for Caruru.

The gender ratio of the group was 2 young men: 17 young women. I asked Elizete about this skew, since I already knew that women had a real glass ceiling in the local food scene. Truthfully, one boy was a pretty boy and scared of his shadow, while the other might not have been breathing.

She acknowledged that finding employment was tough for women, really hard for all students. But, the boys would find work. The girls often worked for small Mom & Pop operations, started their own cottage businesses or became better home cooks. I asked her if she was familiar with the Incubator project in the center of the state that gave intensive and comprehensive training to women in Candy Making with local fruits, allowing them to come away with a home based business. She knew of it, but it was one dimensional. She trained for all phases of culinary work.
I shut my mouth, gratefully took the plate I was offered and sat down at her desk to have lunch with her. The meal was good. Elizete asked me to say a few words to the students regarding what I had observed. I thanked them, asked briefly about their motivations to study cooking and applauded their efforts.

Back in Brotas, then with Beto

Saturday came in the window shining. We got out close to ten, grabbed a light bite and a cab to Brotas. We had a date to see the house Eneida had built and hang for awhile. I had the map she had created for me in August. Brotas is a large neighborhood, a former colonial sugar plantation, and a large hill with various means of egress into the hood. Learning a new hood, requires knowing which Ladeira-or hill is the right one to get into the area of the neighborhood that you will need to access.


We started out fine. Better than when Michele and I had taken a cab and given the map to the driver. This man, Luis with a sunny smile and raspy voice had knowledge of the hood, and the streets enumerated on my map. Great/Otimo. Well, that fell away on the third circuit of up and down hill and valley. By chance he stopped a passerby who ended up being his friend, they hashed it out and resolved nothing.
A phone call to Eneida got us there.


Set a severe dip in the road, this home seems like it was planted in the forest. Magic starts the minute you open the door. The house breathes with the simple elegance that characterizes Eneida’s work as an architect. This time Giba Conceição, her former partner and pandeiro, is home preparing for a meeting with colleagues involved in a rural music education initiative, “Caravan of Music.” They educate music educators in rural Brazil on creative way to teach and make instruments and music; giving new seeds to the those who are seed planters.


We laughed, giggled, we all shot pictures. Tracy and Giba, then Eneida, then one of Giba’s homey’s: Ocimar played on a few of the many percussive instruments laying about. Bliss. Hours went by, and I kept seeing both Tracy and Kathy with those wide dimply grins on. By the time we made a studio visit, Tracy was planted, roots twining towards the stream below.


We split up in mid afternoon to pursue various goals. Mine was to return to Paraiso Tropical, ( rua Edgar Loureiro, 98-B, Cabula. Tel. 71 3384-7464) and spend some time with chef, Beto Pimentel. He and his restaurant are quite unique.

Do I tell you of his first careers as agronomist, nutritionist and clothing manufacturer in São Paulo? Or his dedication to cooking artisanal products and not industrial ones? Hmm, the 23 kids and four wives? His cuisine inspired by the African culinary influences, local produce and healthful eating. The youthful vigor and spunk that keeps him refining his game moment to moment? The fifty acre tropical farm, wild habitat with a small cadre of free range chickens on the hillside behind the restaurant;—where he can pick the bulk of his produce as it ripens. I think he said more than 3,000 fruits, vegetables, edible and decorative flowers. Or his Farm in Reconcavo where he can grow whatever is not available in sufficient quantity in Cabula? Ready for dinner?

I watched Jorelma, one of his children and Chef de Cuisine lead her cooks through lunch service. The food is anchored in tradition, but constructed spontaneously building layers of flavors savory, sour and sweet. A moqueca created by Beto will begin with a light fumet like broth, fish bones, smoked-dried shrimp and a few veggies. Coconut water blended with Coco Verde, the jelly like soft fruity stage of coconut’s life comes in to create the emulsion. Kerplunk of Octopus, Shrimp, Crab, the core flavor you chose comes next. Pitanga, acerola, jaca, a panoply of herbs, green cashews or fresh Palm fruit become the coda. A of drizzled freshly pressed Po or Dende oil, Liquid Butter or Virgin Olive oil infused with Urucum seeds (for a red color) if you have an allergy to Palm get added at appropriate moments.


They have worked it out. Beto says it took him six months to create the dish grilled fish and grilled fruits. The day I came back to visit that ended up being my dinner. Before that time I alternated between watching Jorelma from their pass and taking pictures. Or, sitting with Beto watching Futbol on a large bulky set placed in the outdoor café area. He’s a chain smoker who can’t sit still. TV seemed to provide a momentary pacifier.


After the first hour he invited me to look at his garden before it got dark. One of the gardener’s walked me through pointing out various fruits unknown to me, some veggies and many budding flowers some edible, some not. It sounded like they have a litter of some animal like a tapir or one of the other oversized rodent-ish mammals native to the area. I don’t think that I saw a quarter of the property before the light faded.

Coming back to my perch between TV & kitchen, I realized that I still hadn’t eaten, since the cod pastry this morning. Beto got up and split somewhere. I asked Jorelma for a small appetizer or something easy. I got crispy fried Adulignha with a biri-biri pepper relish and a tropical fruit vinaigrette. I told her that I would be going soon. She was too. Shopping for a few missing bits to cook with. It was nearly six o’clock, I wanted to leave at 6, catch a bus, shower, change, meet Kath & Tracy and hike up to Castro Alves for the Pina Bausch protégé’s dance concert.


Beto returned, deciding that I needed to have the grilled fish. I begged off, and he wasn’t having it. I went back to the kitchen and observed for a while. I tried the route home in my head, and thought I could make it work in a cab, if I left by 6:45. Coming out of the toilet, I looked up at the crestfallen face of the one male cook in designer whites and matching cap. The kitchen has a large window in it, keeping everyone inside on display. I couldn’t hear it all, but it sounds like he burned the fish or the grilling fruit. I caught enough to bring it to Beto’s attention.

Returning from the kitchen, he said, “It’s a good dish, but it takes time.” I tried to chill. Forty five minutes later I had decided that I didn’t need to shower or go home. If I could just get this fish, then a cab and be on my way; I’d be fine.

Jorelma came in with a young man pushing a small grocery cart, her supplies. I had told both he and his daughter that I had a compromiso with Eneida, they knew her. He checked in the kitchen; a little while longer. He called a cab from his cell. I was pacing now. By returning to review his wall of fame, eyeing the many snapshots and awards, validated my activity.


Thirty minutes later it arrived on an elliptical marble platter, compartmentalized to segregate each type of fruit. Fourteen in total. He hand fed me with a fork. Just, stop. After the pear and lime, he realized that the fruit was too sticky. He started poking around my plate after he fed me a large piece of succulent fish. He put the fork down and stalked off into the kitchen. He was disappointed and pissed. As he turned around he mumbled how this guy was new, not one week on the job. “Eu tinha O Exposição Culinaria Baiana. Devia dormir alguns dias depois dos eventos. Não entendiu bem, ele.”


If the cab would come I could go. It seemed like thirty minutes had gone by since called them. After he finished his rant, I asked the waiter-runner if he knew. He checked with Beto, now in the kitchen counseling the cook in technique. He had called three cabs. One was busy, and the rest hadn’t showed, so he decided to call his friend Jo.

Twenty minutes later I was saying goodnight just before I got into the cab. Jo promised to get me there within 14 minutes. “Most folks take 22,” he said. “I need to live through this” was my rejoinder. “I have four filhos, don’t worry.” Banking the curves tightly as he drove, I hid my anxiety, and vented the last three and a half hours to Jo and nobody. He promised to arrive more quickly. I basically said, “Don’t worry, I’m fucked.”

He tried to assuage my guilt by talking about himself. If he ran late he just told his wife after he had had some stiff drinks. Coming out of the car drunk and weaving all his wife could say was, “Take a shower and sleep it off.” He hadn’t any cares. I tried to show how that wouldn’t work for me, even if my friend agreed to the behaviors. We were at a stalemate, and I am not really Baiano.


He took a few more shortcuts and got me there just after 8:15. The guard told me that the gates had been locked at 8:10. There was no intermission, nor egress. No one was coming in or out until it was finished. I walked back across Campo Grande and waited in the wrong place for the bus by accident. When I sorted it out and was home fifteen minutes later. Here at the same glass and chrome dining table writing when they came home. I had just sent an e-apology to Eneida.

No one was cussing but they weren’t happy either. Post industrial mechanical music, with excellent, beautiful dancers who didn’t move. Well didn’t move enough. It played something like that. They chuckled when I said, “It sounds Germanic.” I had had the best evening, according to them. I coulda skipped the stress, the thirty dollar cab-ride for nothing, and bitchy attitude that I had had in Jo’s cab. Again, nobody got hurt. It isn’t that hard.

homeys in da house

Kathy and Tracy arrived last Monday. Kathy is my oldest friend. Our Dad’s worked together in the WWII years. Our families have been intertwined since then. My Dad is the only parent left of the group. Kathy knew me in-utero. Tracy is a friend I met through Kath. Like her he is a photographer. He is normally in Brooklyn and she, Oakland. They are staying in the Barra apartment, Glen Tunstull’s, where Michele and I stayed when we first arrived. I had waited nearly three days before seeing them, assuming that they needed bounce-back time.

It is great to have dear friends nearby in this new environment. We have already had a couple few great times together. Tracy was kind enough to be a conduit of some technology. He ferried some equipment for a friend in need here in Salvador. U.S. prices for tech stuff are almost 1/3 of the Brazilian rate. Go figger.


As part of the exchange, we all got taken out to a fat dinner. Lucky me it was a place that was on my list to check out, Paraiso Tropical, in Cabula. The restaurant is an anomalous restaurant, located on a private street in a far flung district with almost no indication that a business exists at that address. The cuisine is created from many wild or foraged ingredients, including some herbs associated with Candomble, rare fruits and spices including fresh palm fruit.


We gorged ourselves on Preguari a chewy mussel that had a texture like cuttlefish with lightly garlicky scent. I had a thick frothy Cupuaçu juice, which everyone thought would have been fine for dessert. It has a custardy, melon-citrus petrol taste, and a slight musky perfume. It is an acquired taste for some.


We shared two moquecas between five of us, a green cashew and a Camapolvo mix. The green cashews like young almonds were grassy, tender and slightly fruity with just a slight snap to them. There was still food for Tracy to take home for lunch. The camapolvo mix of octopus and shrimp had hearty base notes without being heavy, muddled or fishy. Both the moqueca and the was wonderfully nutty vatapá used young coconut and coconut water to lighten this rich dish instead of prepared coconut milk. The pirão unctuous, the rice had four healing herbs stirred into it. It was a feast for all senses.



Our friends arranged for a kitchen tour just before our entrees arrived. The kitchen was simple and uncluttered. On two large wooden prep tables there were large displays of exotic and “usual suspect” tropical fruits and vegetables, bouquets of unidentifiable herbs and several flowers. Joralma was the chef on duty. She and her assistant diligently assembled all of the plates. The food was simple to look at, yet made with a wonderful depth of flavor and nuance.

Joralma’s assistant called the waiters with a barely perceptible whistle when the dishes were ready. Paraiso Tropical often defied accepted culinary conventions, with thoughtful alternatives that brought a human face to a well orchestrated machine. Beto Pimentel the exec chef came by the table engaging everyone with his infectious smile, before we left.


The dinner became an excuse to enjoy one long jag of laughter, celebrating each other and the conduits, like Danny D. who had brought us together. New friends that stick quickly and firmly are such a joy to experience. We drove home together making plans for later in the week. Kathy had scheduled a showing of her recently completed short film, Witness to Hiroshima.