Sitting under the awning of a coffee shop that was a gas station, a one-eyed cowboy curses at an old Jeep while an escaped Jehovah’s Witness rifles through a box of abandoned art gallery T-shirts –– and Romina Urueña negotiates future produce availability.
“What I would like to grow are these pink lettuces, like we had in Argentina,” she explains to Bob Schwab, local gardener of note. “Well, send me the name of the seeds, and I’ll look for it,” Schwab replies amiably, then explains: it will be too hot over the next few summer months to grow lettuce, but he can plant it in August, when the rains come and the weather starts to cool down. He then details what is available now (swiss chard, arugula, bok choy, kale, collards) and what will be soon (potatoes, onions, beets, mustard greens). Romina wants purple potatoes, not the conventional, probably genetically-modified kind they have in a sack of minis at Lowe’s, but the real thing, ancient and Andean. Schwab is agreeable to this too.
And then it’s time for our interview. Romina –– everyone calls her Romi –– turns to me: “I gave you the recipe for tocinitos. I basically already wrote the column for you, what more do you want?”
“First of all, I’m in charge. And secondly, I thought the readers would like to know a little more about your story.”
There are a few good restaurants in Marfa. But there is no dining experience here in town that comes close to being as effervescent, rare, socially embedded and delicately considered as the hidden, ticketed dinners offered by Romi. Her latest series, Sol y Tierra, spans 10 courses, pirouetting around a core of indigenous foods but adapting to both international technique and local availability. Understood this way, the small, soft elote offered at the beginning of dinner, dressed with 24-carat gold leaf and pungent black sesame salsa macha, is not just a shiny piece of corn, but a thesis statement about land and wealth. Sometimes there are wild, local game meats like elk and bison, sometimes transatlantic dishes from her youth with grandparents.
Memory is an important ingredient. “Food is memory … When I was a little kid in the seventies, my grandfather was the manager of El Lago restaurant in Tucumán, on the casino strip. Some of my earliest memories are of the parties. The restaurant was beautiful, and served mainly Italian and Argentinian foods –– the most popular dish was pollo al carbón, but the special dish that I loved were mojarritas frita, which were little fried spelt. My grandpa would put ’em in a whiskey glass for me with a dipping sauce. I can still remember the taste; I dream of having that again … but then the Dirty War happened, and we had to leave all that behind.”
The format of the dinners she offers –– long, sprawling, communal –– is the point. “I felt like, when I came to America, so many people didn’t grow up like me, with a big family table and amazing food from the garden or with the wine and the Campari and whatever. That European lifestyle. I always felt there was a disconnect here between the art of gathering and food. I wanted to gift my memory to people that didn’t get to experience that as a kid. Working at ZZ’s [Clam Bar, in New York City] made me fall in love with the idea of just having like the tasting menu and the omakase, where you are gifting the food that you make and people receive it, instead of choosing. I love that I have so many people visit here that are so open, and I love that I can change the themes or the menus at will. That’s the essence of these dinners: to create community and to bring people together.”
By these measures, Romi is succeeding wildly. Leftovers from paid dinners often later become free dinners for local artists and musicians. Bacchanals from one evening will spontaneously reignite into the next day. I once came over at 1 in the afternoon and found a small crowd of fashionable 20-somethings, slumped about in a torpor, stunned from a breakfast of crêpes, jams, cheese and pâté. It’s authentically, naturally glamorous. I can’t share the address, and I can’t tell you when the next dinner will be, but interested readers can find @chef_romina on Instagram. There isn’t a more creative, alive and unpredictable place to eat in all of West Texas.
RECIPE: Tocino del Cielo
The literal translation of this Spanish egg dessert’s name into English means “sky bacon,” but this is an idiom, as it contains neither bacon nor sky. The recipe originated in the Convento de Espíritu Santo de Jerez de la Frontera in 1324 as a method of using up all the yolks generated as a byproduct of clarifying wine with egg whites.
Ingredients:
10 egg yolks
1 whole egg
Sugar 250 g
Water 250 g
Vanilla essence 2 tsp
Caramel for coating mold/molds:
1 cup of sugar
2 T of water
Separate 9 egg yolks and add the whole egg into a quart container or small bowl. Place the sieve on top of a big bowl, pour the eggs onto the sieve and filter with a spatula or wooden spoon. Set aside. Combine 250g sugar and 250g water in a small pot, bring to boil and simmer on medium-high heat till syrup has thickened to the consistency of a honey-like stream. Remove from heat and set aside to cool.
While you wait, make caramel in a nonstick pan: mix 1 cup sugar with 2 tbsp of water and let it melt on med-high heat. The mixture will clump and change colors, you can stir using a wooden spoon to incorporate but try to let it melt on its own. Be one with the pot and don’t walk away. Once it’s all melted remove from heat. It’s okay if it burns a little: this gives depth in flavor. The clarity in caramel color is a personal one. You now need to work quickly to carefully pour the caramel into each container or mold, being careful to swirl and spread caramel around the surface of your molds. Burnt sugar is extremely hot: use a towel or gloves! Set aside.
Pour the sugar syrup steadily into the eggs and incorporate with the vanilla. Pass through the sieve once again. Pour over the molds/mold, cover them. Oven should be at a temp of 355˚F (no convection). You will need a 3-inch baking pan and hot water. Place molds/mold inside but make sure water level is only half way up their sides. Let them cook for 25 to 30 minutes, and the toothpick should be clean when done. Remove, let cool. You can place it in the fridge till ready to serve. To remove tocinitos from the mold, sit it in hot water for 30 seconds, then remove carefully. Do not eat too many; they are extremely rich!