Familial hospitality

gabriela acero

I HAVE BEEN WORKING IN RESTAURANTS SINCE I WAS 15 YEARS OLD.

For a long time, restaurants were a way to make money while I was a student – a way to be independent while also doing something I found stimulating and exciting. From the get-go this industry just clicked with me – being a server was easy in my small town: it came naturally.  I had a good time connecting with people, and got to be around great food while doing it. There has been an ongoing family joke that my father and I would eventually open a restaurant together: he would handle the food (because he is a star in the kitchen) and I would manage the front of the house (well, because I like putting on a show!). Even though I dreamt about this plan and how engaging and amazing it would be, it was always a ‘retirement’ plan, something to do after I’d worked in a ‘real’ job for a while. I never seriously thought about working in restaurants as a career until after I’d graduated from college and had been in the workforce for a solid two years. 

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I GREW UP IN A HOUSEHOLD WHERE FOOD WAS ALWAYS CENTRAL AND YET ALSO THE CATALYST TO SOMETHING GREATER.

At various stages in their lives, my parents have lived in extremely rustic environments – in a teepee in the Northern California woods // in a tiny Somali Bantu village in the Jubba River Valley – and I think because of that, their understanding and relationship to food is one of reverence and purity. I never ate Lunchables or fast food, but rather fruit leather and homemade mac and cheese (started with a roux).

GROWING UP IN CENTRAL MAINE IT BECAME RITUAL TO PICK APPLES IN THE FALL, GATHER FRESH BLUEBERRIES FROM THE BARRENS IN AUGUST, LOBSTER IN SUMMER, AND TAP FOR MAPLE SYRUP ON MAINE MAPLE SUNDAY IN THE DEAD COLD OF WINTER.

THIS WAS LIFE.

My father came from a restaurant family in Cucuta, Colombia, and he and my mother found a mutual love for food that wove its way into our day-to-day family rhythm. Only in retrospect have I realized how lucky I was to grow up in a house where not only was there always enough food for me to eat, but it was good...really good. Any meal we shared was made with care and love and precision. Better yet, since leaving home, I realized that my parents cook restaurant quality food.  Both of them have full-time jobs that are not at all related to food, and yet they always took the time and energy to craft outstanding food for pleasure.  Having now tried to recreate some of my old favorites, I have faced a rude awakening when they continually fall short. It's only increased my reverence and awe for my parents  - I owe them my palate and fiendish love for everything delicious.

More than just quality of product, however, was the sense of ritual that accompanied food, and that our meals helped create. We always sat down to dinner together - every meal held meaning for us to join as a family, without distraction of TV or phones. Then, of course, there were the special occasions. My parents taught me how to host... how to really throw a party. Christmas, Thanksgiving, any holiday… or not even a holiday!

MY MOTHER STARTED HOSTING SOLSTICE PARTIES – I THINK SIMPLY BECAUSE SHE WANTED ANOTHER EXCUSE TO GET PEOPLE TOGETHER.

We would open our home to friends, family, neighbors, anyone who was willing to come. It was always an EVENT. From marinated pork tenderloin that had to be trussed and grilled, to homemade votive holders to line the driveway, to a lavender-infused martini because ‘I read about it and wanted to try it’, my parents crafted the most beautiful, warm, communal moments – whether it was 5 people or 50. From a young age I was part of the action. Whether it was making all the pies for Thanksgiving, helming the paella pan for Christmas Eve or taking a stab at throwing my own party (I’m a September baby so I held an annual birthday/end of summer reunion party in the backyard) I got bitten by the 'hosting' bug early. 

That being said, I remember various moments of imperfection. People never arrive when you wanted them to.  My cake didn’t quite set in the middle. Maybe no one noticed (or commented on) the hand-cut paper flowers we made, inspired by the most recent Martha Stewart Living catalogue. When these twists and turns started to accumulate, so did my frustrations and I never handled them well. As a perfectionist, it was extremely difficult for me to have a vision and be able to roll with the punches when the reality of the night veered off in another direction. I remember there was one party in particular that sent me into an emotional tailspin so much so that my mother had to pull me aside. She, in the most soothing but stern way possible, told me a story about a party she was throwing when I was first born and my parents were living in Arizona. It was a small affair, but being the perfectionist that she is (seems to run in the family), she had been working all day cooking and cleaning and setting. When her friends arrived she was still manically in the kitchen doing some task she felt had to be accomplished - although now she couldn't even remember what it was! After about half an hour of this, during which time she had barely greeted, let alone socialized with her friends, one guest cautiously approached her in the kitchen.

“We can just leave, you know. You seem really stressed out and maybe now isn’t a good time. We can always do dinner another day.”

Even though her manic behavior had been BECAUSE she wanted to host this dinner party and make everyone happy, all she was doing was sending major stress waves over everyone. It was like a light clicked on and ever since she has totally shifted her approach to hosting. Now, yeah the roast might need another half hour, but at least we've got martinis and a Celia Cruz album on. 

This story has become a guiding light for me when it comes to rag-tag NYE dinner/dance parties in my Bushwick living room or setting a table for someone about to order a $1,500 bottle of wine. Problems always arise out of left field (and right field too, when you're unlucky), and while attention to detail and an aim for perfection are always the goal, what my mom taught me is that flexibility is always more important. What I find so hilarious about this lesson is that she is still a perfectionist (more than I am!), and the type of person who spends most of her time worrying about EVERYTHING. And yet, somehow, with parties (which most people find to be one of the more stressful endeavors they could undertake) she breezes right along like it's old hat. Which, I suppose it is! Such a wondrous thing to behold - being able to roll with whatever may happen and greet it with a smile, while still making sure everything else is happening the way it is supposed to. This might be the central tenant to my industry, but, I got it from my momma!

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