G. Harvest was a man who experienced more in one month than most men experience in one decade.  His adventures inspire the breads that we make.  This Fall we have Santa Fe Cornbread on the menu.  It's great as a sandwich bread, toasted as croutons in a Taco Salad, or served as a slice alongside soup.  Here’s the story behind it.

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I spent one summer on the Pacific coast of Mexico doing some long board surfing, spear fishing, and decompressing from the frenetic pace of American life in the town of Sayulita.  This was back when it was a sleepy little village before Gringo dollars corrupted it.  On days that I wasn’t in the ocean I took a job cooking Western dishes in a villa for the occasional High Dollar Tourists that made their way here for a vacation.  It was a great summer, with my long board riding Hurricane Fico’s massive swells and my spear slicing through more types of fish than I can name.  My food preparation in the villa was my most frustrating experience- the kitchen’s Western ingredients were limited in number.  While the guests loved my Mediterranean dishes, my French cuisine would get mixed reviews because I didn’t have access to key ingredients.

One afternoon, after riding a great set of waves in the morning, I walked into the villa’s kitchen and noticed that the atmosphere had changed.  Instead of men laughing and singing along to the AM radio, there was silence.  Everyone on staff walked quickly from post to post within the villa.  When I inquired as to why everyone was so nervous they just looked at me and said “El Magico”.  Because my Spanish was limited I thought they were saying “El Mexico” and assumed some dignitary from Mexico City was in the villa this week.  I set up my station and awaited the order, which soon came in: swordfish steaks, some South American dish I’d never heard of, a seasonal fruit salad and … bread.  Everyone gulped and looked at me.  They knew I was a baker but they also knew we didn’t have adequate ingredients to prepare a true bread… we didn’t even have enough wheat flour for a single loaf!

I set to work, walking around the kitchen and grabbing ingredients.  I immediately took all of the wheat flour in the storage room, as well as some cornmeal, and the little yeast we had on site.  I grabbed some Yucatan honey, sea salt, and from there just let the regional ingredients inspire me.  I shucked an ear of corn and removed the kernels from the cob.  I stewed tomatoes, minced an onion, and sliced local peppers.  It was a Southern-Cornbread-Meets-European-Bread-in-Mexico creation. 

By the time I threw the loaf in the oven the other dishes were already on the table.  Everyone was wringing their hands and worrying about what El Magico would say about my bread being late.  I told them –mostly through hand gestures and Cajun French- that anyone who could afford this villa must realize that great bread cannot be rushed.  My words did not comfort them.

When the bread came out of the oven I sliced it, plated it and handed it to the waiter to send out.  He refused out of fear.  I shook my head, washed my hands, and walked into the dining room to present the bread myself.  What surprised me was that there were two conversations happening in the dining room- one in Spanish and one in English.  The conversation in Spanish I automatically tuned out and the one in English I automatically honed in on… it was about getting Cocaine across the border and included airports, dates of arrival and what types of vehicle were available for pickup and delivery.  When I rounded the corner the conversation that was taking place in English stopped.  They could tell I was American and they knew that I heard them.  Thankfully I had spent many years in the bars of South Louisiana playing poker and had developed a good poker face.  I kept walking, acted oblivious to what I had just heard, and presented my loaves to the table.  That’s when I realized that “El Mexico” actually was “El Magico”, AKA Pablo Escobar, and I later learned that one of the Gringos at the table was George Jung.

I apologized for the tardiness of my bread and explained to them what a truly fantastic fusion cuisine they were about to enjoy.  As I left the dining room a conversation in whispered Spanish picked up.  I returned to the kitchen and cleaned my station, the whole time I realized that I was probably a dead man.  The waiter soon returned to the kitchen and motioned for me to come back out to the dining room… our guests wanted to speak with me.

I stood before the table of Who’s Who of Drug Trafficking and one of the men began to translate Pablo Escobar’s words for me.  He loved the bread and said it was worth the wait.  I told him it was an honor to cook for him and looked forward to doing so for the remainder of his stay with us.  The whole time he was sizing me up.  His mouth was smiling but his eyes were daggers.  I’d seen this look many times after I’d laid down a winning hand at the poker table.  El Magico told me he would send one of his workers to the closest large city for more flour and that he wished to have one of my European breads the following evening.  I bowed and returned to the kitchen.

That night I left Sayulita with the clothes on my back and that night’s pay which, thankfully, included a very generous tip from Senor Escobar.  Once I was away from the streetlights of the villa I left the roads and ran cross country towards the highway.  I hopped on the back of a truck headed for the American border and was seized by Border Patrol agents at the New Mexico border for not having proper paperwork.  When I told them my story they put me in a car and high-tailed it to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where I met with DEA agents.  When I told them everything I had heard at the dinner table the color left their faces… every employee in that villa went missing the morning after I left and was presumed dead.

Years later one of El Magico’s underlings testified about that week in Sayulita.  He said that my loaf of bread was the only reason we weren’t all killed on the spot in the evening.  Because it had satisfied Senor Escobar, he went to sleep in a great mood.  Once he woke, however, he realized that no matter how happy his stomach had been I had heard too much and couldn’t be spared.  Without that loaf of bread, I wouldn’t have had the time to get away.  That Cornbread saved my life.

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Santa Fe Cornbread will be available Wednesdays and Fridays this Fall.