Mestizaje and colony, by Javier Masías

It all started just over five centuries ago. A confused excursion of lost Europeans arrived by accident in what we now know as America and changed the history of the world forever. The most significant step in the globalization process was the first of Colon on these lands and, from that moment, the most important gastronomic revolution since agriculture.

Following in the footsteps of Columbus came the lemon from the cebiches, the Arab influence from the nougats, the ham from the chicharronerías but also the chocolate to Belgium, the tomatoes to the Italian sauces, the chili peppers to Asia and the potatoes to the Spanish tortillas. Among rivers of blood and ink, some peoples imposed themselves on others and some flavors and techniques on others, in a savage process that, far from being amortized, continues in unstoppable evolution.

I think of the systemic violence of the Spanish crown on the majority of the inhabitants of its colonies, but also in the wars of independence, while I see in the networks that a handful of protesters have marched with the flag of the Burgundy cross , to defend the monument to Columbus, a monument that no one attacked, but that like all those of the crucial character in the world, is at least problematic in times of express revisionism, laden with criticism but often without a critical sense. Destroying seems to matter more than reconciling or giving an integrating meaning to what exists, which solves existing discrepancies.

The words of a Spanish friend come to mind, responding to the claims of five centuries of another Peruvian friend, mainly, for the extirpation of idolatries and slave systems and servitude during the colony, inherited in the republic, and He said, still persistent until today: “Pizarro is more your grandfather than mine,” he replied, making it clear that we have to find a way to deal with our ancestors, and to resolve the conflicts that they could have generated, no matter how uncomfortable they may be. . We are the children of a terrible marriage, which ended up being shot at the police station.

I think this while a ceviche smiles at me. On what should be a decidedly gray day, the sun has risen in the sky and on the plate. More than five centuries ago, fishermen from a Lima that was not called Lima, ate fish taking advantage of the antibiotic qualities of the chili pepper. If they looked for acidity, which I am not clear about, perhaps they would put down, my imagination and the memory of an old reading tell me. The dish could have evolved with the addition of sour oranges, an adaptation of Spanish citrus fruits to the climate of these lands, and it must have been renamed with the word mora for pickled or a similar derivation from Arabic or Persian, if one believes it. that theory about the origin of the word. The hybrid palate – a still incipient mix of European, African and ancestral influences from here – must have preferred a long cooking process, like the pickles with which the fish was preserved. Over time, the northern lemon reached the capital. A new migration also motivated by hunger, this time from the Japanese to a pubescent but independent Peru, would impose the valuation of the fresh product and would bring the Peruvian ceviche closer to sushi, by serving it marinated à la minute, almost raw. Then the infinite variations and derivations would come: the crystalline tiradito, the ceviche a la Huancaína, the one with white wine, the one you like the most, the one you want, the one that touches the sky, which is also the limit here.

Chewing, almost ruminating, I verify that there are monuments that we all enjoy, meeting points built with the cries of pain and pleasure of our ancestors. In the kitchen, the ingredients dialogue and time does its job. The idea is to find the balance, the middle ground, the consensus. In the good table of the 21st century, the best ingredient is the dialogue between diverse, even opposites, and perhaps it is time that we begin to recognize it everywhere.