cooks,” he says. “Not how big it is. That’s why you can’t always
follow recipes.”
Then he repeats his mantra: “Let’s go.”
While the pork cooks, we go to the juicer and Chef Andrés has
me juice a pile of oranges and grapefruits while he grabs a pitcher
and ice. When he comes back, he asks, “Do you always cook with
your hand in your pocket?”
I look down and see my hand in my pocket.
“Um,” I stammer.
“Don’t,” he says.
He pours Hendrick’s gin into the pitcher with the juice that I’ve
juiced, then adds torn basil, brown sugar, and cava. He stirs it all
together, tastes it, and pours it into two martini glasses. “Taste,”
he commands and I do, even though it’s 9:30 a.m. It’s sunny,
fizzy, and not at all too sweet.
Finally, we proceed to the dish that Andrés is best known for:
his deconstructed gazpacho. Only don’t use the word
deconstructed or he’ll get testy. “What is ‘deconstructed’?” he
asks, and I’m not sure how to answer. We’re at the table at this
point, eating the food we’ve cooked. I decide to change the subject.
We talk more about his charity work—Andrés has worked for
fifteen years with the D.C. Central Kitchen, an organization that
helps ex-prisoners learn cooking skills. I comment that it’s nice
that someone so successful uses his success to help others.
He’s quiet for a second, brooding. “I don’t see myself as