Maria Nicolau: "It's much easier to make a spherification than a good sofrito"

At the beginning ofCream!(ColumnIn her memoirs, Maria Nicolau (La Garriga, 1982), a chef and writer, recalls that as a young woman, she understood cooking as a form of craftsmanship, a job done with the hands. Far from the catastrophists who predict the end of Catalan cuisine, and championing the complexity and sophistication of everyday cooking, Nicolau has established herself as one of the most important voices in contemporary gastronomic discourse. However, her life's journey also includes travels through several cities. In her memoirs, she explains that she chose La Rioja, not Segovia, to learn about wine.

— It didn't work very well. At least until very recently, the world of wine was a world that, for the uninitiated or those who weren't experts, was awe-inspiring, awe-inspiring. It was a kind of Olympus reserved for connoisseurs, and going from not understanding to being an expert was a colossal, abysmal leap. And it was embarrassing, or frightening, to be exposed. Conversations quickly became very convoluted and filled with technical jargon that left you lost. I would ask specific questions, and the answers would be so flowery they completely eluded me. There was almost a sense of showing off in the person telling you about wine, telling you about legacies and stories and very specific and precise perceptions of what you could find in that glass. And you'd be left looking clueless, thinking: "Just nod, say yes, say 'of course, so much,' because you must be the stupid one who doesn't understand."

Over time, have you had the feeling that these flourishes, in reality, to some extent concealed a lack of knowledge?

— Regarding wine, I always begin by declaring my incompetence. My knowledge is based on trusting that my senses are sharp and that, in the parallel realm of cooking, they tend to rarely fail me. And this isn't due to my own merit; it's a genetic thing. I'm a smoker, but I have a very good sense of smell, and I don't know why. I'm not just patting myself on the back: some people can climb a rope, and I don't have that skill. However, I do have the ability to notice things. My knowledge of wine is almost purely descriptive. I can explain what I feel, what I notice, what I perceive. But afterward, I won't remember if it's malolactic fermentation or something else. I won't know the technical name for it.

How did he finally manage to enter this world?

— Over the years—and especially thanks to trusted friends, rather than by engaging with industry experts or reading their work—I've been able to have conversations where I can be completely open, vulnerable, and say, "Listen, I don't understand this." What makes a wine that oxidizes at a certain point turn into vinegar, while the same wine, at another time, can become rancid to biblical proportions? Sometimes I've needed to rely on the patience of these friends to explain to me, step by step, what happens. By understanding very simple things, I've been able to grasp more complex concepts.

Do you think there is a lack of teaching methods?

— Over the years, I've had the feeling that some wine experts jump straight into complex explanations, sometimes without having understood the preceding steps themselves. And I find this very interesting. Teaching something means guiding the learner through the entire process, from point 0 to point X. Explaining only point X forces a leap of faith, because what's really happening isn't understood. For me, it was as if the world of wine were a kind of cult, a religion based on small acts of faith.

Do you think the same thing happens in the food world? That is, that experts don't talk about onions, but about the most sophisticated and, in a way, postmodern things?

— Exactly. That's precisely why. Cooking! Or barbarism [Ara Llibres, 2022] is written the way it is. There's a chapter dedicated to charring zucchini with just zucchini, butter, and water. Another is dedicated to sofrito, which discusses onions, water, and fat. The aim is to use plain language, similar to what you understood when you were completely ignorant, and to invite the reader to take the steps you took to understand something that, despite seeming banal or simple, contains great complexity and is a source of wonders. Few popularizers dare to explain the Maillard reaction that causes an onion to brown without caramelizing at the bottom of a pan. The physics and chemistry at work in an everyday kitchen or a sophisticated one are equally complex. It's much easier to make a spherification than a good sofrito, if you have the ingredients and the instruction booklet.

In the book he also explains that, while El Bulli was happening, he discovered three delicacies rice at home.

— I wanted to bring the issue of class into the conversation. While El Bulli was happening, very few people had direct access to that experience. I wanted to stay true to my perspective at the time, that of an ordinary person, like 90% of the people in the country, who saw the fireworks but couldn't afford to lick the rockets. Not because I didn't want to make a mess, but because I wanted to stay grounded socioeconomically. For me, it's an exercise in honesty. Like that scene in the David Beckham documentary where he asks Victoria what car she drove to school. Well, that's it: let's tell the truth. If I don't understand that wine, I don't understand it. And often, when you say that, it's the other person who starts to falter.

In her case, the issue of class is also filtered through the lens of territory. She had to rule out cooking schools due to the lack of a good network of…

— Whether or not trains are running affects the actual distribution of equal opportunities. This impacts every aspect of people's lives. It determines where you will and won't study, what kind of education you can access, how much free time you'll have each day, and how much time you can dedicate to professional development, cultivating your intellectual pursuits, or simply eating at home.

There's another wonderful experience he recounts: the climb to the Puiggraciós sanctuary with the hiking club to celebrate Midnight Mass, carrying bottles of cava. Why is this so important?

— It shows the extent to which there are many perspectives on the relationship of ordinary people with wine and cava, and on the significance of this drink at important moments in life, perspectives that haven't been sufficiently explored. That wine wasn't drunk from glasses or while seated at a table; it was drunk on the floor, from plastic cups. And it was the champagne in plastic cups that made it such a special occasion. If someone were to explore these aspects, it might be one way for the world of wine to truly connect with ordinary people, especially now, with the global decline in consumption.

Recently we were discussing the paradox that wine does not reign in the world of castles.

— We need someone to write the article "Wine in a Plastic Cup" and put it in its anthropological and sociological context. There's a point where you think: "If I talk about it, I'll come across as provincial, as one leg"And nobody wants to be portrayed like that. But why not embrace reality, which is that wine has been a celebration in every corner and in every format? It's not just about changing the packaging, putting tin stoppers on it, or selling it in tetra packs. It's about the tasting experience, which is fluid, which exudes from every corner."

Does the fear of provincialism affect gastronomic promotion?

— It's not fear of provincialism: it's snobbery. We're snobs. We need to actively work to tell the truth. We explain that at calçotadas, the wine is served in plastic jugs or buckets of water, alongside generic soda cans and water bottles, and that it's drunk from paper cups or porróns. Let's explain it without romanticizing it, letting it shine for what it is.

You are practically teetotal.

— Drinking has never interested me. It's not a conscious decision or a matter of principle. It stems from that first beer, that first shot of liquor: we all wrinkle our noses. I haven't gotten past that phase. I didn't make the effort that's often made due to social pressure to drink in order to fit in: I went out with peach juice and water. I've never bought into the idea that "to be cool you have to drink." The feeling of being slightly drunk is unpleasant to me. I hope it will pass when I start feeling like myself again.

And when does he go out to eat?

— I order just one glass that's worthwhile and that complements the whole meal. If I go to Can Roca, I order two or three glasses at most, and I might just taste the third. And that's how I instinctively discover wines I like.

What are those wines like?

— I'm a real purist: I like wines with structure, well-finished, rounded. I'm not a big fan of "natural" wines that try to be natural. I like simple things done well, from potatoes with green beans to a croissant or a Château Latour. With wine, it's like with croissants: a croissant can be well-made or poorly made. I'm punk about many things, but not with wine.