Felipe Alfau - Chromos

“Not that. I am not going to drink that at this time of day and before dinner. You are supposed to be so castizo and you drink that thing! A true Spaniard never drinks anything Spanish before meals. He drinks Italian vermouth. You have some Cinzano there, I know. Bring it out but use the same kind of glass, big.”

“There is some lemon there too,” put in Lunarito, “although I don’t see why I should bother with you.”

“No. No lemon. Only plain and in a big glass.” He got what he wanted and went straight to the refrigerator. He placed his shillelagh on the nearby table and then brought out two chickens and laid them on the table. He began to squeeze and poke them with expert fingers: “Hmmm — they could be more tender, but they’ll do. The technique of the old maestro will tame them. You know.” He reminisced about those people in Spain who grow chickens for eggs on roofs. When one of the chickens won’t lay or is slow, they hold it over a bed and squeeze for all they are worth. He pantomimed while talking:

“Come on there, you lazy chicken, let go of that egg— These Spaniards are inimitable and most of the time they get their egg.” He addressed Lunarito: “I am going to cut up and clean these chickens. You get the olives and rice and fix more peppers and chop a lot more garlic, and don’t go foreign and independent on me. You and your pressure cooker for the chickens — it is formidable. They could sell all of them in Spain, but not for cooking but to press the eggs out of the lazy chickens— The National System, always use everything for what it is not intended. Put the pressure cooker away. I cook this in the black iron casseroles, although a paella should be cooked in a paella. Where are the casseroles?” He found them under the stove. “There seem to be enough chorizos,” he mused to himself.

“Better put in more chorizos,” chimed in Bejarano. “I like them and I am hungry.”

“More chorizos it is,” sighed the Moor. With remarkable speed, no doubt born from long experience, he was cutting chorizos in slices and dissecting chickens like a surgeon. Lunarito, her argument forgotten, had obediently done as ordered and brought all the ingredients. Don Pedro picked up the bottle of olive oil:

“This is Italian, but no matter; just as good.” He interrupted himself with a start: “Where are the clams and the shrimps?”

“The clams are right there in front of you and here are the shrimps.” Lunarito brought a bowl of shrimps from the refrigerator.

“These are the clams? In these jars? All shelled? Have you lost the last vestige of mind you had left?”

“I like them that way. One gets all clams and not shells mixed up with the rice and taking up room, and while we are about it, that’s why I like the pressure cooker; one can cook a chicken in it so that the bones come out easily and then one does not have bones taking up room and. ”

“All right, all right. You win.” He lifted his shoulders and then let them drop with a deep sigh: “I still say a paella should be cooked in a paella, but. this is what things have come to. Paella Newyorkina— I tell you, these Spaniards—” He took a good swallow of his vermouth: “I need the stimulant, but as I was saying: they were living in Spain, in primitive bliss, with those things which could not possibly be improved because they were born perfect, and when they leave Spain, they begin to think. They try to simplify and that’s when the complications begin, because they lose track of the original plan. It’s hopeless. They join all the foreigners in that absolute incapacity to understand the obvious, they become reasonable, traitors and forsaken by God.”

“Such sanctimonious words coming from the Moor.” It was Dr. de los Rios standing at the kitchen door: “Don’t let me interrupt while you are in such a mood.”

“The Dr. Jesucristo,” Don Pedro cried, “to my arms.” He limped over with arms outstretched and then stopped. “I can’t. My hands are all messed up, but christen your gullet and watch me do what I can with what I have. You, Lunarito, put some of the juice from those accursed clams in some container and soak some saffron in it.” He limped back to the stove, poured the oil in the casseroles, and then in went the garlic, the pieces of chicken, and the seasoning. He kept a running commentary: “We’ll give it a little more time, to tame the chickens,” then he eyed the large refrigerator with disgust:

“That ridiculous white elephant. Like the pressure cooker, it is only a domestic example of the second law of thermodynamics. In one, time passes fast; in the other, slow. No wonder people live in such confusion. The old-fashioned cool room was much better. Foods developed more flavor, you know?” He chuckled to himself. “It reminds me of an extraordinary business venture on which the Chink was going to embark.” He always referred to the Señor Olózaga as the Chink. “We baptized it the Case of the Vanishing Refrigerator — that Chink! Simply no one like him. You know how things are here about advertising all these gadgets. Lunarito and Bejarano here have been long enough in this country to learn only the bad things.” His head nodded toward the clams: “But you know about this advertising pressure — your pressure cooker, Lunarito, that’s good, double advertising pressure. Get the eggs out of your chickens faster — but you don’t know what it’s all about anyway. The Chink learns fast, even if his materialism is purely illusory. This was a fitting counterpart for his other inspiration of selling the sand in the Sahara Desert as a cleanser and at the same time forming an international combine to fill in the space with water and make a sea out of it. A great idealist, but this time it was the refrigerator. You must remember how some enterprising manufacturer discovered that when a solicitous housewife approaches her refrigerator with both hands occupied, she cannot open the door. So, he thought up a pedal that would do exactly this. However, this had the drawback that some people might lose their balance and fall, breaking dishes, hurting themselves, and then, you know? They have all learned about suing in court — the International System, of course. Well, the Chink thought up a better one. Have a refrigerator without a door and maintain a lower temperature. See the connection? One can see what’s inside without opening the door, use more electricity, obtain a commission from the electric companies, and at the same time save in the manufacture of doors. Beautiful, I tell you; a nonexistent source of profit and a good selling point at the same time. Oh! The combinatory powers of the Chink. But having conceived this, he went further; there was no stopping him now. He said to himself: Why a refrigerator at all? Why not market a nonexistent refrigerator? Step by step, the refrigerator has vanished — an irresistible selling point, and the profits, immense. One can lower the price considerably, claiming that the space saved in shipping this nonexistent refrigerator, as well as the savings in manufacture, are being passed on to the consumer and competition is smashed. Besides, it has the undeniable advantage of taking no room at all in the kitchens of the consumers. No doors to open, no fatal falls, no lawsuits. But besides, in the space left by this refrigerator, one can install one of those, by that time, wonderfully fashionable old-fashioned oaken iceboxes purchased at some auction upstate with the savings from the vanishing refrigerator. Masterfully rounded, eh? That Chink — but I suppose that by now he has forgotten all about it, like he did about the Sahara Desert. His is a love for the business itself. Once conceived, once planned and solved, he loses interest. He wants the general solution. The numerical solution is for the lesser mortals who must be shown. His business ventures have been refined until they vanish like his refrigerator.”