HUNGRY

The slogan was 'know through gastronomy a country ... in which you are not'. The suggested modality was to go to eat at an ethnic restaurant and try the local delicacies to travel through the flavors.

The first bite knew Beirut. The sweet sound of his speech and the fresh taste of mint tea. Beirut, so dear to the sun, the same sun that every day kisses the war wounds, very visible, of its buildings and the others, some scarred and others still invisible, of its inhabitants.

He had been happy in Beirut, smelling the jasmine from its streets, walking through Hamra, always guided by the song of the mournful and accompanied by the waves of the Mediterranean that bathe that crossing of meridian and parallel where east and west become one.

The third bite no longer tasted like humus. I knew fatteh, to tabulleh, to halloumi, to kofta, to baba ganuch, to manakish and to Lebanon.

I was still hungry. World hunger Almost moved by an invisible, invisible and greedy force, she headed for the white porcelain bowl that hid a piece of Peru.

The first thing he noticed was the sour lemon flavor, then the sweet touch of the red pepper and the aroma of the cilantro, he finally let himself be enchanted by that sole that could well have been caught by Luis in his red boat that defied the waves of Punta Hermosa .

That Ceviche It was delicious. Suddenly he transported it to the tables of that square in San Martín square, to the cobbled streets of Arequipa, to the tired but dignified gaze of Quechua women. 9 million inhabitants lived in Lima and 9 million thoughts lived in his head.

That Ceviche It was a reunion. It was a reunion with Lima. It was a reunion with the contrasts: the lemon and the pepper, the opportunities of the center and the challenges of the suburbs, colonial memories and future hopes, she today and she then.

That Ceviche was a present. It was to relive the bohemian nights of Barranco, the drinks of Pisco Sour laughing with strangers he seemed to know forever, his hands writing in a black and white newspaper sitting in the Plaza de Armas. And then it was to revive a trip with many suns in the sky and few suns in the wallet, it was to revive the 400 meters high of the San Cristóbal hill with Lima under the feet and inside the heart.

Forgotten the humus and savored the Ceviche He felt like Asia and so he let himself be possessed by that snack, as small as delicious, of nigiriAnd his tongue, mind and heart traveled to Tokyo, to Asakusa. Everything surrounded the majestic Senso-ji temple, with its huge lantern, with thousands of lucky charms, with boyfriends and Shinto rites, with girls in school uniform and others with traditional kimonos. Everything surrounded the majestic Senso-ji temple, also that little one izakaya run by Riuko. Riuko, a life of work, few smiles, many wrinkles and two concealed delicate hands with which he prepared the best ramen from the neighborhood From the capital. Of the entire world. When the steaming plate arrived at his hands, he seemed to enter into a trance, in another world, a world of spice flavor, of ancient flavor, of magic flavor.

The nigiri It was over but the memory was not, the memory ran faster than time, than space and memory. He remembered the takoyakis from Osaka, from okonomiaki of Hiroshima, of those yakitori devoured under the snow of Sapporo, of the hida veal Takayama, Kobe and Okinawa fish.

I was still hungry. World hunger Hunger of Beirut, of Lima, of Tokyo. Hungry to be hungry.

It was so, with a full belly and happiness at the tips of his fingers, he took the sweetest dessert he had eaten: he booked a one-way ticket to the next destination, which was not important, what mattered was that she followed hungry for life