Cooking at the end of the world
- Words by Andrea Petrini
- Photos by Araceli Paz
That was the beginning of Boragó, a place you may not have heard of yet. But, by the time you read this, I bet Rodolfo has already booked his Santiago-Lima ticket. Homo Ridens, with that fixed ex- pression on his face when he signs books and participates in television programs, is a creature I know well. I have met, since time immemorial, those who reluctantly move their con- siderable bulks away from the recep- tion area of a restaurant, an altar from where they can acknowledge clients as they leave. But, fortunately, I also meet people who pour their hearts into their work, who jump out of bed in the morning without knowing what will happen during the course of the day, who are not afraid to get their hands dirty and never forget to repre- sent the people who work with them.
It might seem strange, but the first thing that makes an impression on ar- rival in Santiago is Rodolfo Guzmán’s gaze. Two light-coloured eyes with a piercing intensity. A metallic gaze, full of curiosity. It’s as if his eyes are talk- ing while his mouth, undeterred, lets fly an uninterrupted string of words. Rodolfo is kindness personified: af- firming, debating, repeating, reiterat- ing concepts and excusing himself for reasons that are not altogether clear (having a stained t-shirt, because he didn’t have time to shower after ser- vice before coming to pick us up at the airport), picking up the thread of the conversation before digressing again and again. He stops in front of the restaurant, and almost before entering the front door the whole team is pre- sented in Indian file one by one.