I'm working on this year's Cochamó post. In the meantime, I offer this as an (hopefully) entertaining read:
THERESA'S CURANTO
Puerto Montt, Chile
The sea wenches call to us. Filthy port restaurant whores.
Where you boys going? You lookin' for something good to eat? I got all that you need right here.
Frigid winds brought from coastal squals break over the land and send horizontal rain to the marrow of our bones. We just want a warm meal. The sea hardened women that see us coming from miles away start their calls. One walks with a limp, her gut pouring out from her tattered apron. Another winks one eye under a long and thick unibrow. Another calls from the second floor of the red laquered wooden skeleton of a building known as Anglemo, you can see the blackness of her teeth from where we stand.
I give you free soup boys. I give you free Pisco Sour. Why don't you come and sit down at my place. We'll warm you up real good.
We already have a place where we go to eat. We walk up stairs. Thick mucus spat from the sea whores sticks on the bottom of our shoes, pulling long yellow green strands as we lift our feet and approach the walkway that leads us to our destination.
More hags.
Hey boys. I got fresh seafood for you. I got a nice warm place for you to you sit down out of this rain. C'mon boys. Come to my place.
We look straight ahead avoiding eye contact with the women. Overflowing buckets of clams and mussels caught that day border our path. The floor boards creak sharply beneath us. We're afraid. But a quick glance up and we see Theresa, arms crossed, stoic, a Hercules of a woman, her short grey hair standing straight up from her head.
Hey boys. Welcome back.
Oh Theresa. Far from the cold, inhospitable streets outside of Anglemo. Her small eatery is a refuge of warmth and comfort reminiscent of blankets fresh out of the dryer, campfires and jaccuzzis in the winter. Sweet, sweet Theresa.
We slide into the benches, peel off our soaked jackets and fleeces and bread is set before us with thick butter and pebre. Theresa knows us now. She knows that we only come to eat one thing. Curanto. We bring our appetites as curanto is meant as a dish for two. But with the wind beating on the outside windows, and our bodies withered from weeks in the mountains, we settle in for a long haul, a full portion of curanto each is set before us.
The heap of mussels steams like a geyser. Those mussels alone would be meal enough for a small family, but curanto is more still than a mountain of mussels. Piled on top of the mass lay an entire longaniza sausage, two kinds of wheat dumplings, a chicken thigh, clams, and the equivalent of a dozen bacon slices, unsliced, together in one thick chunk. On the side, a consommé of the stewed flavors rests in a mug to be sipped between swallows of the other elements of the meal. The rules of gravity bend to the will of curanto as the mound seems like it cannot be physically possible. How can so many things come on one plate? How could such a large portion of food possibly fit into me? We grab the mussels, crack them open and watch the grease slide down our fingers. We pull out a knife and fork to cut the sausage bite size and throw the hot meat down our gullet. I lift the chicken thigh to my teeth and pull gingerly at the flesh. It falls easily off the bone. I slurp it up. I take a sip of the consommé. One bite of the bacon chunk, it's salty fat filling my pores and I look at Theresa and say,
Una CocaCola por favor.
The others order CocaCola too. The sugary liquid takes the heaviness out of the grease, fills our stomachs with gas and...
Buuurrrppp!
... more room for curanto now. Each mollusk holds a bit of sea grit in it. The seafood's that fresh. The dumplings absorb all of the fat and oil from all of the other items as they are stewed together in a pot. We still dip them into the greasy sauce that sits at the bottom of the plate. With every bite, the dumplings release a gush of hot, heavy flavor that makes us instantly blissful. More bites of chicken, bacon, clams.
Otra CocaCola por favor.
Theresa nods understanding. She knows that her curanto is an extension of herself, an embrace into her voluptuous bosom. She serves us the CocoCola.
Our hands are lathered thick now, making things slippery. The chicken's almost all gone, so I gnaw at the bone a bit to make sure I get everything. A small cube of bacon is left, mostly fat, but enticing nonetheless. The mussels are a graveyard of meatless shells, the clams the same. One bite of dumpling. One of sausage. I can feel my stomach stretch.
At the end of the meal our arties don't work like they used to. Our heartbeats slow to a murmer. Sweat sits like dew on our foreheads. Our eyelids droop but the pupils and irisis show satiation. We drink in the remains of our last CocaCola.
Buuuurrrrpp.
Theresa gives a wise, sympathetic smile. She has rolled up her sleeves, revealing forearms as big as a child's thigh. She clears our table.
Outside the whores of Angelmo are sitting. They won't bother us now. They know the face of a happy customer leaving. They wouldn't dare harass one of Theresa's boys anyway. She's the matriarch of that cold, dark place. The only warm heart in the whole damned structure. We zip up our rain jackets and go back into the cold squal.
