Tasting Memories

THE BLOG

We all bring our stories and culture to the table. I write of the stories that threads the intersectionality of the environment and cultural traditions found in a plate of food. I seek to connect the ingredients that bridge our nostalgic memories to flavors by tasting memories.

El Rincón Cibaeño

The restaurant was my fathers dream in one place. He bore the scars that reflected years of cooking. The restaurant walls were made of wood that reflected when light touched its surface. It was a place my parents operated together and spent most of their time in. The tablecloths and flower bases on each table were the thoughtful touches of my mother who wanted to make the dining area feel like home. She would switch up the arrangements by seasons, inviting a new feel to the restaurant.

We celebrated many of our family birthdays at the restaurant. Big Dominican cakes were an indicator to the customers that they would be a part of the celebration. Many slices of guava or piña went around our customers, friends and family. 

I remember my father never missed having his notebook and phone close in case something came up at the restaurant.  He performed an endless list of tasks, one involving butchering the meat. He was very knowledgeable about the quality of meats and their particular cuts. Whenever the meat bandsaw would turn on, he would have me stand at a distance.  I remember he would slow down the speed of the blade for some cuts of meat and speed it up for the harder cuts. The fibers of meat and bone spraying from the blade made me both curious and scared of the power behind the meat bandsaw.

The restaurant was the first time I was in the kitchen helping with minor tasks come time to prep. I joined my father in his gathering of ingredients in the markets and purveyors. He had a built-in sense when it came to picking good produce.  It was the only time I got to spend time with him, a memory I look back to with so much joy. 

Our first stop was to the Jetro. My father would let me choose anything I wanted to bring to the house. I remember the isle of snacks, wide eyes taking in all the big boxes that most deli owners used to pile onto their carts.  On each trip we couldn’t leave behind two 3-gallon ice cream tubs with three flavors to choose from; vanilla, oreo cookies, and strawberry. One tub went to the restaurant and the other to our home.  I particularly remember the clinking sounds of the boxes of peach tea and kiwi strawberry Snapple bottles we would get for the restaurant. I was always drawn by the glass bottles, colors, flavors, and the snippets of facts inside each cap.

After el Jetro we would go to the different purveyors to source specific ingredients that had better market prices. This meant multiple tastings, sometimes my father would buy extra for us to snack on our way to the next stop. I would watch my father inspect each produce and hear the indicators of what was good, bad, ripe, and just right. I didn’t know then that my father cultivated various kinds of vegetables and fruits on my grandparents' land in La Vega, Dominican Republic. As a child visiting I remember the cacao tree that grew on the farm. I always thought it was filled with rich chocolate, many times I considered biting into one.

On the drive back to the restaurant, a roadside vendor sold a variety of peanuts; roasted without its shells /roasted in its shells/ raw without its shell / raw with its shell.  I always chose the roasted lime flavored peanuts, my father preferred the roasted shelled peanuts. We would get them packaged in black plastic bags to go. It was the most delicious peanuts I’ve had ‘till this day, perhaps because I was eating them next to my father.

El Rincon Cibaeño was my first home coming to America in 2005. I was happy to be with my father for the first time, as a family in a restaurant each one of us had part in. Seeing the customers and regulars enjoy a taste of home by the food my father cooked with so much care and love, made me really proud of the home my family made out of the restaurant. It is where my love for food was born. 

Sancocho in the Pot

My favorite kinds of meals are made in one pot. Un sancocho stew. Over un fogon de leña firepit using firewood, en el campo just before dusk. Mosquitos give space to the sancochos live fire. Crackles and sparks, wood fire warming the air. Stir el sancocho and you’ll find yuca cassava, yame blanca y amarilla white and yellow yam, yautia malanga, auyama squash, platanos y carne plantains and meats, in harmonious dance to the sounds of a bubbling rich broth. It feeds the sensations, giving color to formless essences of aromas traveling near and far.  Laughter and chatter surrounding the pot, the earth felt underneath my naked feet. One spoonful taste and various shades of colors inside glow, reaching the intimate parts of my soul. An orchestra of mouths chewing to the beat of el sancocho in the pot.

El Sancocho de Mis Abuelos 

On December 14,2024 my family grew bigger. My uncle and his family landed in the United States after 20  years in waiting for their residency. My grandparents, Reina and Domingo were ecstatic in having all of their children, my uncle, aunt and mom be under one roof after many years. The days leading up, “Tu escuchaste? mamá va hacér sancocho.” Did you hear? Grandma will be making sancocho.

It was a December morning like no other, cold. I was tasked by my mom, who was in Dominican Republic at the time, to clean her apartment early morning before they all arrived later that evening. In entering the kitchen on arrival, my eyes went to the bags of raw meat; hen, rib, and beef left in the sink. My grandparents sourced the ingredients earlier in the morning. My grandmother was still in the grocery store gathering tubers; yam, yellow malanga, cassava as well as corn, plantain, squash and spices. I made a good start in what I came to do, clean but in hearing the start of prep I gravitated to the kitchen. I found my grandfather bringing out the big pot, an instrument that signified a big family meal. I thought of the pots past use with stews like mondongo/tripe and habichuela con dulce, a sweet beans dessert made traditionally on easter day.

Sancocho is a stew that is rich in meats, tubers and vegetables. It is one of the national dishes of the country that when made, is meant to be shared because of its large quantity. Different regions in the Dominican Republic have adopted a different way of making sancocho by their selections of meats and vegetables. You’ll for instance find in the North East and South East of the country Sancocho de Chivo/goat. Growing up, I remember the occasions sancocho was cooked in my father’s village in La Vega, part of the Cibao region. I met many of my cousins when the cooking was happening. I was captivated by the action, the conversations that happened around the making of a family meal. My eyes always on the leña/ firewood stacked underneath the massive pot.

I mustered the courage to ask my grandmother if I could cook sancocho with them. Cleaning long forgotten, my first order of business was peeling the tubers. Cooking with my grandparents became an afternoon listening to the stories of their home growing up. My grandmothers influences of sancocho through her parents, my great grandparents. My great grandfather butchering pork, great grandmothers use of fresh vegetables sourced straight from their parcel of land. As I ate, I thought of the recipe and generational stories passed down by my grandparents in the making of our stew, our big family meal. El sancocho has never felt and tasted so complete.

Cocina, Sal y Mar, Kitchen, Salt and Sea

En la playa de Baní, República Dominicana acompaño a Henry Roa donde el nos muestra como cocina el pescado chillo con tostones y comparte sus conexiones a la cocina de su abuela.

La Cocina, Sal y Mar refleja la dedicación y amor Henry emite con su comida. Su orgullo mas grande son sus clientes quien los visitan desde la ciudad de Santo Domingo. Henry considera lo detalles del servicio completo, desde los tenedores y cuchillos envuletos en servilletas hasta emplatar con delicadeza el plato que cocinaba en el video, chillo y tostones fritos que tapa en una envolutura de plástico para evitar la evasión de la arena del mar entrar al plato .

On Baní Beach, Dominican Republic, I joined Henry Roa, who showed us how he cooked red snapper with fried plantains and shared his connection to his grandmother’s cooking.

Kitchen, Salt and Sea reflects the dedication and love Henry exudes with his food. His greatest pride are his customers, who visit all the way from Santo Domingo. Henry takes care of every detail of the entire service, from the forks and knives wrapped in napkins to the delicate plating of the dish he cooked in the video, including red snapper and fried plantains, which he covers in plastic wrap to prevent sea sand from entering the plate.

El Atelier cocktail bar, Santo Domingo

Harvesting Memories from My Aunts’ Gardens Cosechando Recuerdos en los Patios de mis Tías

I returned to the Dominican Republic to visit my aunts after many visits scattered across the years of my life. But this time felt different—like I was truly meeting them for the first time. My tías Fefa, Inéz, Lidia, and Marta—welcomed me with stories, laughter, and a warmth that opened a door to my family’s past.

Tía Inéz showed me how she pounds almonds shared by neighbors.
“When they’re dry, with one pound they crack open,” she said, smiling with pride.

Tía Marta’s voice was playful as she recalled working the fields.
“All the siblings had to work come harvest. The sun beamed down on all of us.”

And Tía Fefa, full of conviction, remembered everything her father—my grandfather—could grow:
“Recuerdo la yuca, maíz, tabaco, plátano, cacao y café.”

My cousin Sebastián listened with wonder to his grandmother - my aunt, Tia Fefa as she recounted stories of the growing up in the family farm. Sebastian recalled how coffee was once sun-dried on stone floors, then pounded tirelessly with a pilón.

That afternoon in my tías’ homes, something clicked. Through their voices, I understood the roots of my father’s love for food, for gathering, for family. I couldn’t help but recall the joy my father found in cutting fruit for our family—bowls of oranges, pineapple, papaya. He peeled at least three oranges, one for each of us: my brother Antony, my sister Soribel, and my mother Aracelis. Each visit became a story, a flavor that forged memories bonding generations through harvests and the food that has always lived at the heart of the Concepción family.

Tasting Memories in San Francisco - Atelier Crenn

It was my second visit to Atelier Crenn, and I found myself reflecting on the nostalgic chords woven throughout the tasting menu. Chef greets you with the quiet power held by the beautiful Kir Breton and in the middle of the meal will serve the exquisite brioche and the classic French Onion Soup —dishes that remain unchanged across the seasonality of her menu and serve as tender odes to the women who shaped Chef Crenn’s life.

Chef Dominique Crenn carries a sensibility like no other I’ve ever tasted. Her menus are composed like poems—anchored in memory, guided by love, and deeply reverent of the women who shaped her. Her style is delicate, evocative, and artistic. It’s a choreography of sea, forest, and taste memories, where the plate becomes a canvas and the ingredients become brushstrokes.

She welcomes guests into her world with a Kir Breton—an evocative embodiment to her mother. In her Winter 2025 menu poem— that typically follows the sequential order of the courses, begins with the line:

“The orchard’s kiss in cider bright.”

And in the Spring 2025 menu, the poem begins:

“Kiss of light begins the thread.”

If you’re offered the chance to take home her iconic brioche, a recipe passed down from her grandmother, Chef notes it should be warmed at 350°F for 6–8 minutes. 

It was a detail that carried much care. The brioche’s presence in the winter poem is echoed in these lines:

“A grandmother’s hands in golden light. Her voice, a warmth in the silent night.”

And in spring, it is reborn with the words:

“A golden murmur, a layered song, where memory and soul belong.”

The brioche becomes an ode to her grandmother shared by the chef, a layered song of belonging, identity, and intergenerational storytelling.

Another ode to her grandmother is Chef Crenn’s paired dish of the onion—humble yet exquisite—that showcases her playfulness and precision. This past winter, she served a French Onion Soup with drops of parmesan oil served alongside a rosette of savory onion ice cream with notes of caramelization that balanced delicately with the soup’s contrast of temperature. On my most recent visit this Spring, she plated a beautiful flower-shaped onion tart topped with a dollop of caviar and served tableside was the familiar French Onion Soup—that ends up embracing you in its hushed tones of nostalgia it holds on the menu.

I cannot miss writing about Chef Contreras winter tostada—an item found in the dessert menu this past winter. It is a composed layering of corn and potato wafers, guava (a fruit that ties Chef Crenn to childhood), tomatillo, avocado purée, and delicate slices of kiwi. Its seeds added texture; micro herbs and edible flowers crowned the dish. A few bites that have since marked my taste memories.

From sea to forest, Chef Crenn invites you to wander the textured coastlines of her memories. To savor the taste of the women and places that have shaped her. Through each bite, she offers a sensory encounter that celebrates femininity, craft, and the quiet force of nostalgia a dish can hold. She reminds us that food, at its most intimate, is a story—told in silence, in flavor, and memory, served in artful forms on a plate.

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