remember how he grumbled without even trying a bite. Which contrasted, almost immediately, with the happy face of my companions -and mine-, after putting the fork in my mouth: "Mine is pizza!" "It tastes like mashed potatoes in here!" "What delicious fries!" It seemed crazy, but in truth, the flavors multiplied, while Trementino's eyes shone before us like those of a god.
I'll take a chance to say that that glow came from his past. His childhood was beautiful, and he enjoyed sharing a moment of it with so many children, through that unique dish of hot food that he cooked so well. It is likely that if he were asked to remember any negative moments before the age of eighteen, he would only smile, raise his shoulders and say in his calm voice,"I was happy. Which was your favorite dish at that time? As you can guess, dear reader, the rice with ground beef that his mother prepared smiling and that he hoped to find every time he returned from school.
As an adult, however, he would be surprised to learn that for almost two months, when he was only ten years old, it was the only dish he ate. He remembers, with love, the image of his mother heating the water in that old teapot that used to be his grandmother's. That's why Trementino, while cooking, remembered and imitated the way his mommy stung garlic, poured the rice in a nice cup and then threw it into a pot where the oil was heard. In particular, he liked to repeat the part where after stirring it, he poured two cups of hot water into the pot causing an explosive sound that announced with some impetus the beginning of the wait: twenty-five magical minutes.
He had always thought it was beautiful to see how that cheap, ugly meat turned into something so beautiful and delicious when mixed with rice. That was his memory: simple and beautiful. Then, he would learn that during those two strange months, his father suffered what many families in Chile did: he had a debt so big that he was forced to sell belongings, to commit to payments, to even cry. Both of them were already his admiration then, but by the moment he learned this, his mother and father seemed like giants to him because in front of them, he and his two brothers never ever complained. Instead, there was always a wonderful plate of hot food for lunch.
It is not surprising, therefore, that Mr. Trementino Marabunta learned to cook countless dishes, even though they all resembled each other and were called the same. The children of the "home" were always the best gastronomic critics to judge his art because they never did it with their eyes. Now, Trementino is gone, we never knew anything beyond his smiles, his bright eyes, his childish eyes and the beautiful childhood he had. Don Trementino Marabunta was, without a doubt, the greatest artist I knew.
